#like if I leave the hair out it feels like something is viscerally missing

[heyriel-art]

Activates critterifictaion beam (WIP)

[wonderlandwalker]

Fake It 'til You Break It

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve’s always been good at pretending. The problem? This doesn’t feel like pretend anymore. Now he’s stuck between two nightmares: watching you walk away when the act ends… or risking everything to make it real. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort mostly, my attempt at the fake dating trope, some spice of course, i've stared at this way too long so possibly continuity errors or too many synonyms

𝐚/𝐧: this might be a mess but it's a mess I made with love, might come back and edit it later, might redo the whole thing, but wanted to give you guys at least something after all this time, thanks for sticking around <3

There are plenty of things Steve regrets—a running list that gnaws at him in the quiet hours, the kind of thoughts that coil around his ribs and squeeze just enough to remind him they’re there.

He regrets his high school persona, with a shame so visceral it still makes his fucking skin crawl; God, the hair gel alone should’ve been classified as a war crime. He thinks about it when he passes the Hawkins High parking lot, when he catches a whiff of that godawful Axe body spray Dustin insists on dousing himself in, and when some old classmate gives him that look—the one that says,  I remember who you used to be.

But this?

This isn’t regret. No, that's too small, too flimsy a word for the way his chest caves in when he catches the scent of your perfume already clinging to his shirt. The vibration of your hum—low, amused, content—as you agree with something Robin says (fuck, what was Robin even talking about? Politics? Movies? That weird new video game?) travels straight through his chest like the most beautiful kind of devastation.  You’re right there, tucked against his side like you belong there, your warmth seeping into him like he’d hollowed out a space in his torso just for you. It’s not regret that winds around his throat like a noose he’d gladly tighten himself.

He regrets not visiting Aunt Cathy in Little Rock before she passed. She’d sent him those lumpy handmade sweaters every Christmas, each one uglier than the last, and he’d never even thanked her properly. Just a grumbled "Thanks, I guess" tossed into the receiver during some obligatory holiday phone call, already distracted by whatever party he was missing. Now, the last one she ever made—a pea-green monstrosity with lopsided orange reindeer, mustard-yellow accents that could blind a man, and sleeves so long they swallow his hands whole—sits neatly folded in his bottom drawer. He can’t bring himself to wear it. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it, either.

He regrets getting careless last summer, leaving that half-smoked joint on his nightstand like an idiot before his parents got back from Tokyo. His father’s lecture about "the dangers of marijuana" had been particularly rich coming from a man who kept Cuban cigars locked in a humidor like they were fucking crown jewels. (Not that Steve cared. Not that he ever cared what that man thought—except, well. Except.)

But those were warm-up acts.

Minor-league regrets.

The main event? 

The heavyweight champion of his fuck-ups?

The gold medal, hall of fame, once-in-a-lifetime screwup that’ll haunt him to his grave?

This.

This is one of those moments people invent time machines to undo. The kind of mistake that makes men swear off alcohol, religion, and women all at once. There’s a fire somewhere inside him, but it’s not the good kind—not the warm, crackling hearth of something real. It’s the sputtering, desperate flame of a match held too close to skin, the kind that leaves blisters if you’re not careful. His brain has rehearsed this moment so often that muscle memory takes over as his thoughts are stuck. He still interjects at the right moments, laughs at the right beats, and plays the perfect doting boyfriend with terrifying precision. The irony is a blade twisting inside him: after so long of pretending not to love you, now he’s being judged on his performance of pretending to.

God, Robin really has the uncanny ability to turn his world upside down without even meaning to. When she first brought it up, her words had been going a mile a minute, tripping over each other like a drunk gymnast, her mouth running faster than her brain, and he should’ve known right then:

Category Five Disaster.

Code Red.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

"—so… I suggested we could go on a double date to make it more, y’know, casual." Her grin hadn’t wavered, even as you blinked at her, slow and uncertain. "What does this have to do with us, Robs?" you finally asked, voice laced with the same wary suspicion that was crawling up Steve’s spine like a particularly persistent spider. 

"Because you're the ones we're going on a double date with, duh!" She had beamed, absurdly pleased with herself, looking for all the world like she’d just solved cold fusion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa."  He had cut in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. His pulse hammering—a wild, traitorous thing. He had shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged. "I don't know what delusional world you've been living in, Buckley, but we—" He jabbed a finger between you and himself with more force than necessary, "—are not dating."

The words tasted like acid on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Which was stupid.

Because it’s the truth. 

You’re not dating.

You’ve never dated.

Except in his head.

And it's fine.

Totally, completely, achingly fine.

Except—

Except for the way his breath stutters in his chest when morning light catches you just right, turning your features golden and ethereal like some Renaissance painting he’s not devout enough to worship.

Except for the way he’s painstakingly catalogued every variation of your laugh—the inelegant snort you immediately try to smother with your hand, the full-bodied one that makes you double over and clutch your stomach, the quiet, private chuckle you reserve exclusively for his dumbest jokes, and the one that somehow makes him feel like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

And now Robin wanted him to casually drape his arm over your shoulders like he had any right to touch you so familiarly?

To press a kiss to your temple and act like his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest like it’s making a prison break?

To call you "sweetheart" with all the easy affection he’s been choking back for months, the pet names piling up behind his teeth like an infatuated dragon hoarding woeful treasure?

That wouldn’t just be dangerous—that's downright suicidal.

It’s handing a loaded gun to his weakest impulses and praying he has the self-control not to pull the trigger.

But he’s backed into a corner with no exits, no clever quips, and no patented Steve Harrington Charm™ that can talk his way out of this.  If he refuses, Robin’s going to poke and prod like a determined archaeologist at a dig site until she uncovers the pathetic fossil of his crush, dusting it off for the whole world to see. If he agrees…

Christ.

He might as well just drop to one knee right here in the food court, ring made from a soda tab, and confess every embarrassing, lovesick thought that’s kept him awake at 3 a.m. for months. 

"—come onnnn, you two both owe me one!"  Robin had continued to whine, limbs flailing so dramatically she nearly sent her Diet Coke flying. Her foot connected with Steve’s shin under the table—a sharp kick that would’ve hurt if his entire nervous system wasn’t already short-circuiting. He shoved her away with a grumble that did nothing to hide the panic clawing up his throat. So he fixed her with his best withering glare—but it looked more like a man facing the gallows. "This isn’t the same as eating the last of the takeout, Robs."

"Oh, but it is," she countered, stabbing a finger in his direction with enough force to displace air molecules. "You literally stole my last egg roll—which, by the way, was clearly marked with my initials—"  (Steve mouthed 'psycho' at you over his shoulder — because seriously, who the hell initials their egg rolls? His reward was that poorly suppressed grin of yours, the one that makes his stomach perform acrobatics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. The way your lips quirk unevenly, one side rising higher than the other in that lopsided smile he's come to crave, eyes crinkling at the corners like you're trying to contain sunlight — he could write sonnets about that expression if he knew anything about poetry beyond what he'd skimmed in senior English) "—you said, and I quote," Robin went on as she adopted a terrible impression of his voice, all lowered pitch and exaggerated bravado," 'I'll pay you back someday.' Well, guess what, Harrington? Today is someday."

And yeah, okay, maybe he had said that. In his defence, he was running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, and Robin had been mid-panic spiral about never finding love. But this? This was way beyond their usual favour economy of borrowed five-dollar bills and shitty closing shifts — this was playing Russian roulette with his heart as the bullet.

"And you," Robin whirled on you next with the terrifying focus of a bloodhound catching a scent, accusation dripping from her pointed finger. "Promised to help me 'get the girl' after the whole Dallas Cowboys cheerleader fiasco. This," she declared, slapping both hands on the sticky food court table with finality, "is me collecting."

Your mouth fell open in protest—tongue darting out to wet your lips in that unconscious gesture that's starred in approximately seven hundred of his late-night fantasies—before snapping shut again as you came up empty. He watched the debate play out across your features: the furrow between your brows, the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip. Every expression was a language he'd become fluent in without meaning to. Steve could practically hear the gears turning in your head, the same way they were grinding in his own skull.

His gaze flickers to you—always to you, like a compass finding true north even when he wishes it wouldn’t. God, what heinous acts did he commit in a past life to deserve this particular hell?  You and Robin are his best friends—his people. The ones who stayed up with him getting high and laughing at shitty B-movies, your thighs pressed together on the couch until the lines between friends and something more blurred in the haze of weed and sleep deprivation. He still remembers the way your head eventually lolled against his shoulder, how he’d sat there, paralysed by the possibilities. 

You’re the ones who were there for him when he shattered after his parents’ last nuclear fight, when the silence in that too-big house threatened to drown him. Your arms around his shaking shoulders, your voice soft in his“ ear—“You’re better than they’ll ever be, Steve.”

He’d almost kissed you that night.

Almost.

The memory still haunts him like a ghost he can’t exorcise: your face tilted toward his in the dim glow of the porch light, your breath hitching when his thumb brushed your cheek. For one reckless second, he’d let himself truly imagine it—closing the distance, swallowing your gasp, letting the dam break.

You've seen him at his worst—red-eyed and ugly with grief—and you stayed. Wrapped yourself around him like human armour against the world, your heartbeat steady against his back when his own couldn't find its rhythm. That alone should have been enough. Should have cauterised this stupid crush before it took root like some invasive weed cracking through concrete. Should have reminded him that what you have is too precious to risk for something as reckless, as temporary, as fleeting as romance. But then came that first perfidious flutter in his stomach months ago, that stupid, hopeful zing when your laughter curled around him like smoke from one of Robin's clove cigarettes—sweet and intoxicating and impossible to ignore. He'd written it off immediately as his brain's latest attempt to ruin something good (a speciality of his, really), except the feeling didn't fade. It grew, fed by every accidental touch and lingering glance until it became something monstrous and beautiful and utterly inescapable:

The way you'd bite your lip when concentrating, unaware of how his gaze snagged on the motion like fabric catching barbed wire, how his fingers twitched with the need to tug it free, to soothe the indentations with his tongue.

The way you'd stretch in the morning light after crashing at his place, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal that sliver of skin above your hipbone—a soft crescent that made his throat go dry, that made him ache with the knowledge that he could reach out, trace the dip of your waist with just one fingertip—but he won't, he can't, because you're trusting him to be better than that.

The way you'd sigh his name when tired, dragging out the last vowel like it was something precious, something yours, and he'd have to clench his jaw so hard his molars ached against the urge to beg you to say it again, again, just like that, maybe against his mouth this time, maybe with his hands on your—

Now he's trapped in this sick parody of everything he's ever wanted—your body warm against his on the couch, your smiles sweet and fake, your touches choreographed for an audience like some grotesque puppet show. Every time he whispers "babe" (a word that tastes like sacrilege in his mouth), every time he laces his fingers with yours and pretends not to notice how perfectly they fit together, every time he pulls you closer under the guise of selling this lie (just because he can, just because for these stolen moments, you let him)—it's all salt in the wound.

And he knows this is the closest he'll ever get to having you—playing pretend for Vickie's benefit, his heart drumming against his chest with every touch he's not allowed to mean. Because even if—if—there is some part of you that feels it too (that invisible magnetic pull, that quiet hum and deep vibration when his fingers brush yours like a struck tuning fork), there are just too many variables. Too many landmines are hidden in this no-man's land.

Maybe he'd get a few weeks of heaven before you realised he wanted way more than you ever could. Maybe he'd find a way to screw it up like he always does, condemning himself to a lifetime of awkward pauses and avoidant glances every time your paths crossed. Or worse—maybe, maybe, even if you fell for him as badly as he's fallen for you, this dream he's conjured up would still be an impossible standard. A fantasy no real person could live up to, least of all a washed-up king with nothing but a handful of half-kept promises to his name.

But his performance opposite you is working too well—the Romeo to your Juliet (star-crossed and bleeding out), the Heathcliff to your Cathy (ruined and howling on the moors). The world watches staged romance through rose-tinted glasses, seeing only what it wants to see. Stolen glances mistaken for tenderness rather than theft. Casual touches interpreted as affection instead of self-flagellation. Devotion is heard in the harmony of your laughter rather than the dissonance of his slow unravelling.

These have never been love stories.

This has always been a tragedy dressed up as romance—all the warning signs painted over in pretty pastels. There's no happy ending waiting in the wings, no last-minute reprieve where the audience learns it was all a bad dream. Just the whirlwind of maybes and the inevitable collapse, the credits rolling over two people who used to know how to look each other in the eye.

Steve knows doomed narratives like he knows the scars on his knuckles—intimately, painfully. Could chart their progression from meet-cute to catastrophe with his eyes closed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the script flips—in the arch of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a touch. He's lived this story before and knows all its variations by heart.

His fantasies might be vivid.

But the reality is crushing.

The effortless synchronicity you two normally share is already gone, replaced by something jagged and electric—every glance a live wire threatening to burn everything down, every touch a lit fuse that comes dangerously close to the gasoline running in his veins. It's like dancing on a knife's edge where every step could either cut him open or set him free. The hesitation terrifies him—the way his fingers twitch toward you instinctively before he remembers with a gut-punch of awareness: he's allowed to touch you now. 

Supposed to, even.

But God, it hurts.

Because it's not real.

And yet—

And yet he'll drink the poison willingly if it means he could stay in this play with you. Would let the curtain fall on him mid-scene if it meant pretending, just for one more night, that this might actually end well. He can tell you feel it too by the way your fingers linger a second too long on his wrist—just enough to feel his racing pulse. By the way, your breath hitches when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear (for the bit, he reminds himself, even as his skin burns where you touch like he's been graced by something holy). By the way, your eyes keep finding his in the dim light, dark with something he doesn't dare name.

And then, like fate itself is laughing at him, Vickie leans forward with margarita-slick lips, her eyes bright with tipsy curiosity. The question hangs between you all, innocent and devastating.

"How did you two first start dating?"

Perhaps it's the tequila loosening his tongue, or the way the overhead lights reflect in your eyes like distant stars, or he's just so goddamn tired of lying that the truth starts clawing its way up his throat. Whatever the reason, the story spills out before he can stop it.

"It was the night of Robin's last birthday."

His voice is rough, scraped raw by the memory as he looks at you—seeing the ghost of that night superimposed over your face now. The way your nose had scrunched when you laughed at something stupid Eddie said. How he'd counted every one of your smiles like a man keeping track of his last breaths.

"We were both drunk, but not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Happy." He doesn't say how beautiful you looked that night or how your laughter had turned into something he wanted to bottle and keep forever. Doesn't mention how he'd gone home and pressed his forehead to his bathroom mirror, begging his reflection to get it together as his hands shook.

"You kept leaning into me—shoulder against mine, knee bumping my thigh. Normal shit." His throat bobs like he's swallowing glass.

"But then—" God, he can still feel it—the weight of your palm on his chest through his thin shirt, the way his heart had leapt like a fucking dog on a chain, wild and desperate. The way you'd noticed.

"—You put your hand on my chest and said—" ‘Steve,’ you'd murmured, voice thick and slow with gin and something sweeter, ‘your heart's going crazy.’ Like it was a fascinating scientific discovery. Like you hadn't just signed his death warrant.

"—something stupid." He huffs a laugh, sharp and humourless.

"And I just... knew. Right then."

Knew he was fucked.

Knew he'd never recover.

Knew he'd rather live in this harrowing limbo of almosts and not-quites than risk losing you entirely.

Robin is staring at him now, her expression a mix of dawning horror and pity.

She knows. 

Knows this isn't part of the act.

Knows he's just handed you his still-beating heart on a silver platter.

And you—

You're looking at him like you've never seen him before. Like he's just peeled back his flesh and exposed every pathetic, yearning part of himself.

That's when you rip the script right out of his hands.

Within a second, your lips are on his—actually, wholeheartedly on his—warm and slightly sticky from margarita salt, tasting of lime and something sweeter. It’s slow and deliberate and agonising in its gentleness, the way your hand finds the nape of his neck like you’ve spent nights tracing the curve of his spine in the dark, memorising the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush just beneath his hairline. Time stretches, warps into an alternate reality where your sigh vibrates against his mouth like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers, This is a mistake. There’s no coming back from this.

And then, too soon, before he can even properly react, it’s over.

Steve is pretty sure he just died and went to heaven. Or hell. At this point, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Now that he knows what you taste like—now that he knows the reality is a hundred times better than any of his desperate daydreams could have conjured—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag you back in and ruin himself completely. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into his palms just to keep from reaching for you. There’s a heat crawling up your cheeks, lashes fluttering like you’re caught in a storm. There’s an uncertainty in your eyes he’s never seen before—which is rare, because Steve has every expression you’ve ever made meticulously catalogued in the neat file cabinets of his brain: the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh, the way your lips press together when you’re annoyed but pretending not to be, and the way your eyes soften when you think no one’s looking.

But this look—like you’re caught between absolution and damnation, like you’ve just stepped off a ledge and aren’t sure if you’re falling or flying—he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know how to read it.

Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of smooth exits and practiced charm, of knowing exactly when to lean in and when to pull away. But right now? With you?

After all this time of carefully rehearsing his lines, he’s been thrust into an improv scene in front of a live audience, and for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington has stage fright.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

His heart lurches, heavy with possibility, and he’s not sure he can survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

The rational part of his brain—the part that still remembers how to breathe—tells him this is just another layer of the performance. That you kissed him because it was easier than finding the right words, because the script demanded it, because, of course, you’d commit to the lie rather than let it crumble in front of Vickie. Of course you’d give him the one thing he’s always wanted without letting him know if he’s allowed to want more of it.

But the part of him that’s hopelessly, ruinously in love with you?

That part doesn’t care.

It will take whatever scraps you’re willing to give him—every staged endearment, any kiss that isn’t real but feels like it could be. And all those careful promises he made himself (don’t ruin this, don’t cross the line, don’t fucking dare fuck this all up) are gone, incinerated in the wake of your lips on his. The Library of Alexandria his heart has built for you is collapsing in flames, and you’re the one holding the torch. Every boundary he’s painstakingly written down in careful self-denial blackens at the edges like ancient parchment tossed into the wildfire.

But he’s just as much to blame.

He lit the match the moment he said yes  to this charade.

And God help him, he’ll let the fire turn him to ash if you’ll just stay this close a little longer—with those eyes that see straight through his constructed bullshit to the raw foundation beneath. Like his thoughts are a precious collection of first editions you’re desperate to read but are worried will fall apart in your hold before you get the chance to finish the preface. Like he’s something worth keeping close rather than the human equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign taped to the universe’s back.

Like maybe—maybe—you’ve noticed the way his breath hitches when you enter a room and finally decided you like the power more than you fear its implications. He’ll choke on the smoke of this fantasy and pretend it’s oxygen if it means breathing the same air as you for just a few more seconds. He’ll gladly let his lungs blacken with the residue of this exquisite cataclysm, swallow every burning ember of inevitability if you’d just let him.

He’s leaning in again before he realises it—drawn like a moth to the flame, knowing it will kill him but too starved to care. The barely-there hitch of your breath is all the encouragement he needs, his body moving on autopilot, already addicted to the way you—

"That’s so romantic!"

Vickie’s voice shatters the moment, fracturing the fragile illusion into a thousand glittering shards.

You jerk back, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream, and Steve’s stomach plummets.

Right.

Romantic.

Not devastating.

Not life-altering.

Not I’ve been in love with you, and that kiss just rewired my fucking DNA.

Just… romantic.

The Rosaline he never stood a chance with—except in this version, he doesn’t move on, doesn’t get over it. He’s stuck in the first act of hardship, perpetually wondering, perpetually trying, while the audience watches with pity. In this version, he burns as time slips by in a haze of forced laughter and brittle smiles, but Steve’s internal clock is jammed—stuck on that single, breathless minute when your lips were on his and the world stopped.

He catches you staring every so often, your lips slightly parted like you’re holding back words—or maybe waiting for his. And there’s Vickie, still chattering away, blissfully oblivious to the way the air between you two has gone thick with everything unsaid.

It’s dangerous, this hope. Because if it isn’t fake for you either, if that kiss meant something—

But before he can even begin to untangle that thought—before he can decide if he’s terrified or thrilled by the idea that you might feel it too—Robin grabs his wrist and yanks him up towards the kitchen under the flimsy guise of "helping refill the snacks". The second the door swings shut behind them, she whirls on him, her voice a hissed whisper.

"What the hell was that, Steve?"

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He can’t. Not when the memory of your mouth on his is seared into every synapse, not when his pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment you pulled away.  Robin’s eyes are wild, her hands gesturing erratically as she steps closer, backing him against the wall like she’s about to interrogate him. Steve opens his mouth—to argue, to deny, to something—

"I don’t know," he admits, running a hand through his hair—tugging at the roots like he’s trying to channel Munchausen, like he could physically pull the solution out of himself. "I can’t—fuck, Robin, I can’t keep doing this." Her expression flickers—sympathy warring with alarm. "What do you mean?"

"This." The word cracks between them, jagged and desperate. "Me and her. The—"the pretending." His throat burns, like the truth is acid on its way up. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. "It’s horrible."

And it is.

It’s horrible because it’s too good. Because every laugh between you two is a shared secret, something fragile and precious that he hoards like a thief in the night. Because the kiss—the short, fake, perfect kiss—felt like coming home to a place he’d never been allowed to live in.

It’s horrible because he’s spent months carefully constructing walls between what he feels and what he shows, and now you’ve reduced them all to rubble. But he doesn’t get to continue; the door creaks, and when he turns—

You’re there.

Your face is pale, eyes wide and hurt for one fractured second before they shutter into something distant, something closed off.

His insides turn to lead.

Fuck.

"I was just—" Your voice is too light, too careful—the kind of tone you’d use with a stranger, with someone you’d rather forget. " —grabbing some more drinks."

You don’t meet his gaze as you brush past him, your shoulder barely skimming his, and Christ, it’s worse than if you’d shoved him. Steve is frozen, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Because he meant it—every word—but not like this. Not where you could hear it and twist it into something else. Not where it could hurt you.

His hands flex at his sides, useless.

Go after her.

Explain.

Beg.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

And for the first time since this started—since he let himself believe he could do this and walk away with his dignity intact—there's a terrible certainty crystallising in his chest like ice forming over a lake: if he doesn't get himself together, his nightmares of losing you for good will become a reality before he ever gets the chance to tell you the truth.

Before he can say,  It was never fake for me.

Before he can beg: Please don't walk away.

Before he can drop to his knees and confess that every touch, every laugh, and that godforsaken kiss has been real for him in ways that terrify him to his core.

Robin spares him one last look, caught between annoyance and sorrow, a silent battle raging behind her eyes about which fire to put out first—his stupidity or your hurt. The decision comes quickly as she turns on her heel to follow you, but not before shooting him a final glare that screams, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' 

The rest of the night unfolds as the worst one of his life.

And that's saying something, considering the literal hellscape he's survived—but this slow unravelling of everything between you two? The way you’re pulling away? Retreating in that devastatingly subtle way of yours—carefully recalibrating every interaction like you're dismantling a bomb, trying to save yourself while simultaneously preventing the explosion of this lie. Every brush of your fingers against his—once electric, now agonising—feels like a choreographed step in a dance you no longer want to perform. He watches helplessly as you turn what used to be effortless connection into careful calculation, and it fucking destroys him.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

Doesn't even know where to start.

He'd watched from a distance as you talked to Robin, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from storming over and demanding to know what you were saying about him. His lungs had burnt with the effort of staying put, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears that drowned out all other sound.

He should have followed. Should have swallowed his pride, his fear, and just talked to you. But the moment passed, as moments do, and now the opportunity is gone.

When he finally cornered Robin, before he could even open his mouth, she gave him that look as she tilted her head in that particular Robin way, and he knew.

It's no use.

Robin Buckley would rather face certain execution than betray your trust, no matter how much he might beg.

And you?

You won't tell him anything at all.

Not anymore.

So he does what Steve Harrington does best when he's in over his head: he fakes a smile, cracks a joke no one laughs at, and pretends the way your avoidance feels like a thousand papercuts doesn't bother him at all.

By the time The Exterminator II ends, it’s past midnight, and the conversation turns to sleeping arrangements—because it’s dark, and you’ve all been drinking, and no one should be driving.

Robin, ever the martyr, offers to take the couch so Vickie can sleep in the guest room, already gathering spare pillows with a pointed glance in his direction.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even dare look at your expression.

Because the implication here is obvious.

You’ll sleep in his room.

Of course.

Of course he has to share a bed with you now, when everything is fractured and wrong, when every glance between you is a minefield.

Just hours ago, the idea of you in his bed would’ve sent his pulse into overdrive, would’ve had him imagining the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath might hitch if he pulled you close.

Now?

Now the thought is agony.

Because you’ll be lying beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss again—but he won’t. He can’t. Not when you flinch at his accidental brushes, not when every word between you feels like walking on broken glass.

And he can’t refuse.

Not without making everything worse.

So he just nods, his jaw clenched tight, and tries not to think about how cruel it is—how close you’ll be tonight and yet how far you suddenly feel.

He tries to tell himself you’ve shared a bed before—you haven’t, not like this, never like this—not with the weight of everything pressing down between you. And yet here you are, in his bedroom, tugging one of his shirts from the drawer—his shirt, the fabric swallowing you whole, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder.

The silence is deafening.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter, sitting stiffly on the left side of the bed. Your fingers comb through your hair—a nervous habit he’s memorised by now.

“We’re adults; we can handle it.” you add.

Handle it.

As if trying to handle it isn’t the whole fucking issue.

As if he hasn’t spent every single second since that kiss handling the urge to drag you back in.

He hesitates, jaw set tight, but then you look at him—and fuck.

There it is: that same quiet worry he feels in every nerve ending, the same unspoken what now?  hanging between you.

So he lies down, careful to leave space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And he’s all out of excuses to tell himself.

There’s no audience left to play this off for, no flimsy justification for the way his fingers twitch toward you, and no lie left to hide behind.

Then—

“I’m sorry, I—”  Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the quiet between you. And Christ, he’d rather carve his own heart out with a dull spoon than let his stupid, self-sabotaging fear leave you like this—shoulders hunched, lips trembling, like you’re bracing for a blow.

What do you mean you’re sorry?

Your breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—and he realises, too late, that your eyes are glistening; the sight punches through him like a kick to the gut.

“I didn’t want to mess this up,” you whisper, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt like you’re clinging to an anchor. “I mean. I just thought—” Your voice wavers, and Steve watches, transfixed, as a single tear escapes, tracing a slow, damning path down your cheek.

He stares at you, stunned.

His hand lifts before he can stop it—before his brain can catch up with the chaos roaring in his chest—and his thumb brushes the tear from your cheek. Your skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through him, sharp and sweet.

“You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the words are being dragged out of him.  You freeze under his touch, eyes wide, lips parted, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you might pull away again—but then your lashes flutter shut, and you lean in, ever so slightly, your breath warm against his palm.

And finally—he’s done pretending.

His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you in, forehead resting against yours, his breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips—close enough to taste, but not close enough to consume. 

“I’ve always been yours,” he murmurs, and you search his face, eyes flickering over the curve of his mouth, the desperate crease between his brows, trying to find the lie—but you don’t find it. Another breath punches out of you, shaky and sharp, and your gaze shifts—unsure to decisive, hesitant to hungry—before you’re surging forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that mirrors his own.  Where the last time was slow—careful, testing—this is messy. Teeth and tongue and hands that can’t decide where to settle—his fingers dig into your hips, then skate up your sides, dragging your shirt along with them, exposing bare skin to the feverish heat between you. It’s violent in its desperation, a collision of pent-up want and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally, finally giving in. And, God, it’s even better than the first time.

No, wait—that’s not right.

It’s different.

The first kiss was discovery; this is destruction.

Like comparing the strike of a match to an entire forest burning, like the difference between dipping your toes in the ocean and being dragged under by the riptide.

He drags you closer, hands spanning your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise (and fuck, the thought of marks on your skin—his marks—sends a jolt of heat straight to his dick). He pulls you into him with all the force he’s been holding back finally unleashed. For a second, that nagging voice of hesitation flickers in the back of his head—too much, too fast—as your lips leave his. His grip loosens, just slightly, giving you space to pull away.

But then you make a sound.

The most beautiful sound in the universe, probably. Better than any symphony, any song on the radio, better than anything he’s ever fucking heard—a soft, breathy moan, spilling from your lips like you can’t help it, like it’s been ripped out of you as he tugs you into his lap.  Your thighs bracket his hips, and the contact is electric. The friction is maddening, the way you press against him, already seeking more. His breath hitches, fingers tightening possessively on your waist as he grinds up against you, just once—just to hear you make that sound again.

And you do.

Louder.

And fuck, if this is only the beginning—if the simple act of his hands roaming your body, skimming the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, tears noises from you that already have him aching—then he’s sure you’re going to be the end of him.

But, God, what a way to go.

He wants to cover every inch of your skin with his touch, to map the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver, and to learn exactly how to reduce you to the same desperate, unravelled mess he’s been for you all this time. He wants to find out how many times he can pull this kind of bliss from you before you’re writhing, before you’re begging—for more, for mercy, for him.

You find his pulse point, teeth grazing the frantic beat of his heart, and he’s ripped from his thoughts, reminded with dizzying clarity that this isn’t another fantasy. This is real. He anchors himself back to the moment, needing to show you his devotion, no longer hedonism, finally able to worship without fear. His fingers glide lower, flexing over every bit of skin—until they reach the wet heat already pooling between your thighs. A guttural groan tears from his throat—half at the sensation, half at the confirmation that you want this just as badly, that you’re just as far gone as he is.

Every fantasy, every what if  he’s ever tortured himself with—he’ll get to live them all.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over, your head landing against the pillow, your hair already sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat and the sheer tension coiling between you. You’ve never looked more beautiful—not in the soft morning light, not laughing at some stupid joke of his, not even in the hazy afterglow of his most desperate daydreams. This is the moment he’ll remember forever. The way your chest rises with each ragged breath, the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re already begging for his mouth on yours again. If he could freeze time, if he could live in one single second for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

He trails kisses down your body—slow, worshipful—mapping every dip and curve. The hollow of your throat. The valley between your breasts. The trembling plane of your stomach. He wants to take his time, wants to ruin you with patience, but you’re already tugging him back up, eyes heavy lidded but locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Your fingers tangle in his hair—tugging—and when he slips one finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he sees stars. Christ.  Like your body was made for him, to take him, to want him. He can't remember how he ever breathed before this moment, before the staggering heat of you surrounding him.

As he presses deeper, your hand finds his aching length, stroking him in time with his movements until he has to break the kiss just to groan your name. He feels the vibration of it travel through your joined bodies when you guide him to your entrance, and who is he to deny you when you're like this—when you're pleading with your entire body, hips canting up against his, nails biting into his shoulders like you'll die if he doesn't give you what you need?

He's only human.

He pushes inside in one slow, devastating glide, his thumb now tracing quick, insistent circles over your clit. He's already teetering on the edge—from the way you take him so perfectly, like you've been waiting your whole life for this; from the silent gasp that parts your lips when he bottoms out; and from the goddamn way you're still looking at him, like he holds your entire universe in his hands.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn’t let up—couldn’t if he tried. Every nerve in his body is alight, wired on the way you clench around him, the way your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. But Steve isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re like this—breathless, boneless, his—falling apart beneath him with every snap of his hips.

His pace turns punishing, each thrust carving your name into the space between your ribs, pulling another broken sound from your lips. And god, each one is sweeter than the last—he’s addicted. He wants to bottle them, wants to memorize the way you unravel for him, wants to live in this moment until it’s seared into his bones. The high whine when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed. The choked-off moan when his thumb presses harder on your clit, circling with just the right mix of cruelty and devotion. The way his name sounds when it’s wrung from your throat like a prayer, ragged and reverent, like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He’s close—so fucking close—but he’ll be damned if he lets go first. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, not when your thighs are shaking, not when every gasp and whimper is a siren song pulling him deeper.

Until Robin's voice cuts through the haze:

"JESUS CHRIST—”

Her shriek could wake the dead.

Steve barely has time to yank the sheets up over your bodies before Robin whirls around, slapping a hand over her eyes like she's just stared directly into the sun.

“I knocked. Oh my God—" She's already out of the room again, the door slams shut behind her with a force that rattles the frame, her dramatic exit punctuated by a muffled, "Ugh, gross!" from the hallway. You burst into laughter beneath Steve, the sound bright and startled. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She has the worst timing," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Robin’s chaos is, after all, the reason the two of you are tangled together like this in the first place. (He’ll thank her later. Maybe. If he remembers anything beyond the way your thighs tighten around his hips.)

For now, though, his focus narrows to the way your laughter fades into breathless anticipation, lips still parted, eyes darkening as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. He drops his forehead to yours, grinning like an idiot—the kind of smile that used to be reserved for winning fights and stealing hearts, now softened into something just for you.

"You done laughing at me?" he teases, voice low, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.

You bite your lip, but the mirth still dances in your eyes. "Depends. Are you done pouting?"

Steve scoffs, but his mouth finds yours before he can protest, swallowing your next laugh and turning it into a gasp. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove—like every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth is rewriting the script of who the two of you used to be. 

[100vern]

while he's gone | ksy & hvc

𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 // 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓.

★ pairing: vernon x f. reader; established hoshi x f. reader ★ genre: open relationship, fwb to lovers au; smut, fluff, lite angst ★ summary: your boyfriend's on tour, but vernon's still in town. ★ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ★ warnings: i am reiterating that this is an open relationship so there is NO CHEATING!! i don't wanna hear it!! soloist hoshi, producer vernon, i wax way too poetic about music and interior design, swearing, alcohol, use of pet names, one miscommunication, one tiny argument that gets resolved, discussions about polyamory. everyone being in love and down bad for one another. ★ smut warnings: mentions of threesomes, voyeurism (over the phone), dirty talk, oral sex, dry humping??, protected vaginal sex, marking/biting, multiple orgasms, sex toys, cuckolding, recording (photos/videos), masturbation, teasing, cum play/eating, lingerie. please tell me if i forgot anything! ★ wordcount: 12.6k ★ credits: cam (@highvern) for spreading the "hoshi holding vernon's head down" agenda far and wide. bee (@imnotshua) for telling me when my words don't make sense and fixing them. jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over. ★ author's note: more cursed thoughts thanks to a conversation about monsta x with @aeristudios. i've been wanting to write a fic based off "got my number" for ages, so here we are! a lil treat dedicated to @sailorsoons for girlbossing her ass off these last few weeks (and pulverizing her knee). i would also like to apologize to all the hansol truthers. i typed it out once and had a visceral reaction, much like i did using hoshi's government name, so he's just vernon.

Your boyfriend’s flight departed from Incheon just shy of four p.m., though he’d left the apartment long before that.

Needed time to make the hour and a half drive. Fix his hair and makeup before he hopped out and posed for Dispatch. Push his way through the horde of fans and to security, get his face scanned and passport checked. Needed time to make it to the privacy of his terminal lounge where he could catch his breath and lock himself in the bathroom. Needed time to send you a mirror selfie: hoodie unzipped to the middle of his bare sternum, hat pulled low to cover his eyes, tongue just barely peeking out from between his lips.

Made it 😘, it said.

Beneath that, even though the two of you have been through this exact scenario more times than you can count—even though it’s the same every time and he said all the same things as he was fucking you into the mattress last night and again this morning, as he was kissing you goodbye at the door hours ago:

Soonyoung: Love u babe. Gonna miss u sooo much~ I’ll text u every chance I can !! Soonyoung: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ㅋㅋㅋ just kidding don’t u dare behave Soonyoung: Send me pictures tho. What if I get lonely 😔

There was a thought: your boyfriend on tour, all alone between the cold, crisp sheets of his hotel bed, no one to occupy all that extra space. You’d snorted at that. Replied with the eye-roll emoji and wondered, privately, if he was going to meet up with the same old flames; if he was going to send you pictures with faces and bodies you recognized. Anticipation clawed its way up your spine and settled in your gut, left behind an insurmountable want.

Saying goodbye was always hard, but this part? It felt like Soonyoung held the forbidden fruit in his hand, sliced and fed to you on the point of a paring knife.

Delicious, in other words.

Whatever you and Vernon have fallen into can best be described as a foregone conclusion: Soonyoung leaves, Vernon arrives, and there’s no need for the discretion or the habit, but you can’t deny there’s a certain allure to it. It feels scandalous, dirty—something that only happens in a dark corner away from prying, garrulous eyes—even though it isn’t. Not really.

Soonyoung will be in Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand; he’ll be in Berlin, Paris and London; he’ll go across North and South America. In every one of those places, someone will keep him company until he comes home to you. And, after every single time, you’ll have something in your inbox to mark the occasion—a text, some pictures, a video—because your boyfriend is nothing if not a pervert.

So no, the discretion isn’t necessary. You and Soonyoung are free to do as you please, both separately and together, which is how all of this started, anyway: his album release party, prod. by VERNON in the credits, you safely sequestered on the other side of a velvet rope. Not a secret, just… not out in the open, either, which was both a little embarrassing and difficult to explain to Vernon over the deafening, teeth-shattering background noise as he unabashedly hit on you.

He’d known, of course, that Soonyoung had been writing love songs about someone, but he hadn’t known it was you he’d helped him write about.

Not that it mattered much in the end. Soonyoung had slunk over, drunk on the spotlight and the status it afforded him, the most important man in the room, and looked Vernon dead in the eye. Pushed his tongue into the fat of his cheek, looked like a real sleazy piece of shit, and said, “You wanna fuck my girl?”

He did, admittedly, and Soonyoung had rewarded him for his honesty. Took both of you home and held Vernon’s head down as he told him how to eat you out, wet and messy and filthy. You came in record time, and a man that made you come in record time was not one you were itching to get rid of.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions you don’t have answers to. Doesn’t mind your unconventional relationship and definitely doesn’t mind recording the way you suck his cock: the way spit pools in the corners of your mouth and glistens under the flash; the way you moan around him as he rasps out husky praise; the way he says shit—fuck, baby, just like that, cock’s so far down your fuckin’ throat, huh; how wet your eyelashes are and the tears tracking down your cheeks.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions and calls Soonyoung hyung even though they’re colleagues, but that’s the sort of relationship you naturally fall into after you have a threesome and fuck said colleague’s girlfriend, you suppose, and Soonyoung doesn’t mind it. Because he’ll go away for whatever it is he gets called away for and Vernon will come over and tell you to ride him as he pulls out his phone and says shit like, “God, hyung, she’s about to come all over my cock. I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. You aren’t, are you, baby? You’re not thinking about Soonyoung-hyung at all, are you? Only me,” between gasping, fractured moans.

And Soonyoung knows how that feels, is the thing. Knows the feeling of being suffocated in your tight, wet heat and how it can drive a man nearly to madness, and all he feels is pride. That’s his girl, bringing another man to his knees.

Hence the routine.

Normally you’d go out—a swanky new rooftop bar, a nightclub owned by a friend of a friend. Your drinks would glow neon blue under the blacklights, skinny red straw stuck in a plastic cup that matched the cherry at the bottom. Your skin would glisten with sweat as one of your friends twirled you around, kaleidoscope shapes behind your eyelids, both of you laughing breezy and sweet.

At some point throughout the night, Vernon would text you. You’d send him your location. He’d show up in an outfit contradicting the exclusivity of wherever you were, shower-soft, Sauvage on his wrists and neck, and he’d lean in close, ask if you wanted to stay or get out of there. Discarded on your bedroom floor, pooling at his feet in the club bathroom—it no longer mattered what he was wearing, because it never stayed on very long.

So here you are. While Soonyoung’s 800 kilometers away, undoubtedly trying to charm someone into his bed, you’re at home biding your time until the inevitable, no urge to go out. Instead, you indulge in yourself, work yourself up. Soonyoung, Vernon, both of them together—regardless of who you think about, the results are the same: you pinpoint the anticipation in your stomach and press, let your body sink beneath the weight of it.

Your boyfriend has only been in Osaka a handful of hours when the inevitable happens.

Vernon’s name lights up your screen. Transforms the slow simmer of expectation into full-blown wildfire. Has you squeezing your thighs together, bottom lip tugged between your teeth, when you open the text thread. Before tonight, the last time he’d texted you was three months ago: two o’clock in the morning, a video with a completely innocent thumbnail belying its content, already sent this to hyung but figured u might want it too written underneath.

Vernon: heard soonyoung hyung’s out of town for a while Vernon: what are u doing tonite

You exhale a soft laugh. As if Vernon just happened to stumble upon this information. As if he doesn’t already know what you’ll be getting up to tonight. As if he also isn’t falling victim to the desire. As if his lowercase letters and disregard for his ego with a double-text aren’t feigned nonchalance.

But just because you both know exactly where this is heading doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.

So you pull your shirt over your head and toss it aside. Open up your camera and angle your body the way you like: glossed lips parted, the bruise Soonyoung sucked into your skin this morning just beneath your collarbone, cleavage framed perfectly, curve of your ass center frame, both covered in cheeky forest green lace. You snap a photo and another one with a painted-on pout; snap a third as the tips of your fingers delve beneath the waistline of your panties.

You: [Attachment: 3 Images] You: Hopefully you?

At the receiving end, Vernon swears, drops his phone. Of course you’re bathed in his favorite color. Of course you’re wrapped in sheets he’s lucky enough to know the feel of. Dizzy, his breath catches in his throat; tries to stave off feeling like he’s in free-fall. He’s no stranger to this kind of insatiable hunger—becomes reacquainted with it every few months, in fact—but it always catches him unaware. Always comes back with such a vengeance, as if all the times before had simply been the prefix.

He grabs his jacket.

Vernon’s barely been at your place twenty minutes when your phone rings.

You groan as he rolls his cock against you, jeans undone but still sitting low on his hips, zipper biting into your skin every time he presses you further into the mattress. The next sound you make he swallows with his mouth. Moves his lips to the column of your throat, the underside of your jaw, the spot just beneath your ear. Takes your lobe between his teeth, asks, “Is it him?” and lets you feel the way he smirks.

Blindly, you reach toward the sound, that horrible scattering across your nightstand that makes your teeth ache. It must be Soonyoung because it’s relentless, another call just as the first one ends, and you’re trying, you really are, but Vernon’s relentless, too. Abandons your space, takes your common sense and all his heat with him as he sits back on his haunches and moves his hands beneath your ass; drags you closer until your cunt—still covered in that dark lace and growing darker the wetter you become—is back against his cock and ruts.

You’re speechless, head thrown back against the pillows, the synapses of your brain misfiring and coming up empty. Both of you are still clothed and Vernon’s still having his way with you; still smirking dirty and arrogant out of the side of his mouth. Almost looks like he’s sneering a little as he asks again, “What’s the matter, baby? Not gonna answer him?” At your continued silence, he amends, “Oh, or maybe you can’t?”

You want to roll your eyes, shut him up with some sharp retort, but he’s got you exactly where he wants you. It’s a place you don’t mind being, either, because whether it’s the way his thick cock feels rubbing against your clit or the result of months of waiting, it doesn’t matter, it all feels divine. Has your breathing labored and heavy, has sweat pricking at your skin, has Vernon staring down at you with a gaze so pointed it cuts through the haze.

So he makes the decision for you. Reaches over and grabs your phone, tucks it between his ear and his shoulder. Keeps his hands free so he can keep moving you against him and greets your boyfriend with a, “Sorry, hyung, she’s a little busy right now.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s bark of laughter from where you’re laying, and then more muted chattering. He must give Vernon instructions, because Vernon puts the phone on speaker and tosses it somewhere on the bed. “Hello, princess. Are you having fun?” All you can manage is an uh-huh that’s fractured in the middle, punctuated with another roll of Vernon’s hips. “Mm, you sound so good, baby. Miss hearing you like that already. Can I see you, too?”

Vernon catches your eye as he reaches for your phone again. Waits for your nod before he points the camera at you and switches it to FaceTime. You hear Soonyoung suck in a breath. Wonder what he looks like. If the low light of his hotel room casts amber shadows across his face that intensify his stare, sharpen it to a point. If he’s got his arm tucked behind his head, laissez-faire in that way that drives you crazy, sensual without having to try. You almost ask Vernon to see, but then Soonyoung clicks his tongue and says, “That set is your favorite, isn’t it?”

The man he’s addressing looks down at you, eyes full of stars. “Yeah, hyung,” Vernon says, and it’s breathy, barely counts as separate words. Through the camera, Soonyoung watches as Vernon runs his fingertips over the hickey he’d left, over the swell of your breast and the space between each rib. Watches as Vernon grips at the meat of your thigh; as his hands flex before he grabs at you again.

“You want to touch her, don’t you? Properly.” He watches as Vernon nods, the camera wobbling with the intensity of it. “Put your mouth on her, Vernon-ah—she loves that so much.”

You can hear the shit-eating lilt to his tone and you know he’s enjoying this. That he loves watching you. Loves that Vernon’s always so fucked up over you and that he gets to direct these scenes. Loves what he gets to experience with you: something enduring and impenetrable, something that grants him freedom and indulgence. Loves you, most of all, but there will be time for that later.

Right now, he wants to watch Vernon make a mess of you. Wants to watch him pull those little lace panties to the side and eat you out, fervent and messy. Wants to hear it when he starts sucking at your clit and you keen high in your throat. Wants to watch the way you grab at his hair and force him closer as you roll your hips and seek out your own undoing.

Right now, Vernon hands the phone to you. “There’s my pretty girl,” Soonyoung says, and your face grows hot—as hot as the hands that skim over your skin and move to take off your panties. Soonyoung loves this part—loves watching someone unwrap you like a present; loves the tension even when isn’t there for it—so you flip the camera so he can see. “Leave them on,” your boyfriend instructs. Vernon’s brows pinch together. “You know she wore that set just for you, so leave it on when you fuck her. Make a mess of it. Cum all over it and ruin it, and then maybe I’ll let you take my card to buy her a new one.”

Vernon’s eyes flutter closed, long lashes fanning across his ruddy cheeks, so fucking pretty.

Anticipation sinks its claws into you again. Feels like an eternity passes before Vernon’s hands start moving again. Before he presses the pads of his thumbs into your hips and the contact makes both of you gasp. Before he leans in closer and kisses all the places he’d left fingerprints. Kisses your stomach, hips, the tops of your thighs and down, down, down until he’s where you want him—until you can feel his breath against your cunt, goosebumps rising from the warmth.

You only tear your eyes away from him to look at Soonyoung. Even through the screen you can tell he’s growing restless: pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, breathing unsteady. You reach for Vernon, thread your fingers through his hair and tug, and at his resulting whine Soonyoung flips his own camera. What greets you is an expanse of familiar tan skin, his defined abs, legs spread wide, cock curved and hard.

There isn’t an ounce of shame to be found as he palms at himself. Just a ghost of a touch before he squeezes at the base and groans. All the times you’ve watched him do this… you can imagine the way his head rolls back, lips parted, muscles tensing.

“You look so good,” you murmur, and there’s no telling who it’s directed at—because Soonyoung looks good, just as he always does, but Vernon is a vision.

Especially when he’s between your legs.

There’s a glimpse of a half-cocked smile before he flattens his tongue and delves between your folds, stealing the breath from your lungs. One stripe and then another, all parallel lines as he works you over. Wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you closer to his mouth, doubles his efforts, doesn’t pay any mind to the mess he’s making, both of the sheets and of you.

You tug harder at Vernon’s hair. Roll your hips in time with his tongue, both of you endlessly noisy. Vernon groans as he sucks at your clit and you feel the sparks like lightning. Feels like he’s making a mockery of you. Feels like all he knows is your pleasure. Feels like an eternity has passed since he’s worked you over like this, and Soonyoung must agree because he almost sounds whiny as he says, “God, I missed this. Missed seeing you two together.”

You dare a look. Soonyoung jerks himself slowly with a loose fist, drags it out, savors every second and shiver that dances up his spine. Hisses through his teeth when he gathers the precum at the tip and spreads it along the length of his shaft. You want to see his face. Want to see the way his dark hair falls into his eyes when he shudders and curves into himself, the crease that forms between his brows, his eyes when they’re glassy and unfocused.

But then Vernon does something with his mouth that has you crying out—a strangled sound halfway between shock and gratification. Has you mirroring the exact image you expected to see on Soonyoung’s face. There’s poetry in that, you think, and that’s the last thought you have before Vernon drags your orgasm from you and your world tilts on its axis.

When you come to, vision still out of focus and fuzzy around the edges, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your phone is lost somewhere in the duvet, and Vernon’s still between your legs.

You choke. Feel around desperately for your phone and can barely hold onto it, weak and trembling, all your energy drained. Try to clamp your thighs around Vernon’s head for some reprieve but he knows you too well, knows you can take it, so he forces them back open.

Bliss spreads like wildfire. Starts in your toes and works its way into your bloodstream. Feels like you’ve been carved out of kerosene and matchsticks. It’ll be Vernon, you know—he’ll be the catalyst, light the spark that consumes and overwhelms you.

Especially when he’s like this.

When you’re the only thing that exists to him. When he’d forego pleasure for the rest of his life if it meant drowning in your pussy and getting you off. When he pays no mind to your boyfriend’s obscene goading—“Can you taste me, Vernon-ah? Did she tell you I filled her up this morning? That it was so much it was leaking out of her?”—and stays focused on you. When he runs two fingers through your mess and presses them inside, right against the spot that nearly folds you in half, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, pressure mounting.

“Oh my god. Vernon, please, it’s too much, I’m gonna—”

You feel him smile against your cunt. Pulls back only far enough to bite at the juncture of your thigh and say, “I know you can take it,” in his hoarse voice. With lips that are covered in you. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you, baby? And you’re gonna be a good girl and soak through these fucking sheets while your boyfriend has to jerk himself off.”

That’s exactly what happens.

The cord inside you snaps. Soonyoung swears as he watches you come again, body pulling taut, Vernon’s name spilling from your lips like a mantra. Vernon’s on you immediately, setting the phone on your nightstand and kissing you senseless. Lets you taste yourself and the way you claimed him. Slots his body between your legs, careful as he presses against you because he knows how oversensitive you get. Waits until the tremors subside and he can feel you tracing shapes against his back before he murmurs a quiet okay? into your ear.

It takes a second for you to nod, but you do.

Vernon looks to his right at your phone. “Still want her fully dressed, hyung? She’s made a pretty big mess already.”

Soonyoung laughs, breathy and a little disbelieving. He loves this part, too, when Vernon dishes back as good as he gets. Both of them know it’s not a competition and would never treat it as one, but Soonyoung can’t help himself sometimes. Loves to stir shit just because he can—because Vernon is younger and looks up to him, but also because you like Vernon and he enjoys teasing you just as much.

So Soonyoung laughs. Asks, “How are you feeling, pretty girl? You want him to fuck you?” and continues stroking himself, pace leisurely, cock glistening with spit and precum, balls tight.

He’s always affected.

And so are you. You nod. Readjust your body beneath Vernon’s so he can press in tighter, so you can wrap your legs around his waist and delight in the sounds he makes—first like the breath’s been punched out of him, then more intentional as the electricity ebbs away and settles into his bones. His fingers grip at your thigh, movements fluid as he rocks his hips, unconcerned with the stickiness seeping through the fabric of his briefs.

Vernon wants you every second of every single day, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

You move your hands to his face. Let your thumbs rest on the high points of his cheekbones and settle into the contours there. Press your lips to his and lick into his mouth, all teeth and tongue and no savoir-faire. Vernon responds in kind. Starts moving frenetic and mindless, vehemence making up for his lack of composure, swallowing everything you give him.

Fucks you up a little that he still tastes like you—that you’re not all that easy to rinse out.

“Shit,” he swears, slurring the word against your mouth, lips bitten red and swollen. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your vision swims, the raw urgency in Vernon’s tone making everything look like television static. All you can do is nod, spread your legs wider, press your body into him and hope he knows what to do with it, but he needs you to say it. “Tell me,” he says, settling a hand around your throat. Not tight—just so he can feel your words, just so he knows they’re there. “Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me to give it to you.”

“Want you. Wanna ride you,” you answer. “Wanna be able to look at you. So pretty, Nonie—you look so pretty when you cum, I wanna see it.”

Vernon swears again. Sits back and has his jeans and underwear pulled off before you can process what’s happening, rolls on a condom, and that’s where you meet him, in the center of the bed. You move into the space between his spread legs, drape your arms over his shoulders as your knees bracket his hips, spit into your hand and work it over his cock, thumbing at the head just to make him whine.

“Babe—”

And then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down on it.

The stretch is overwhelming. Steals the air from your lungs. Has Vernon pressing his forehead to yours, sharing your breath, dimpling your hips with bruising fingerprints. ��Slow,” he pleads, and you’d give him anything, so you kiss the spot just beneath his eye, say okay, okay, and turn your attention to Soonyoung.

Not far off from how you’d left him: touching himself with reverence, not an ounce of shame to be found; sounds spilling from his lips that sound like home. He doesn’t notice you watching, but it doesn’t matter, he’s a performer in every aspect of his life. Thrives when he’s under the spotlight, demanding everyone’s attention, all eyes on him. Sex is no different. Always goes into it with eyes wide open, so you’re not surprised when he feels yours on him. When he says, “What’s the matter, princess?”

Beneath you, Vernon’s starting to gather his bearings. Thrusts slow and shallow and groans. “Did you bring it?” you ask Soonyoung, trying to keep your voice steady as Vernon fucks into you.

“The—”

“Yes,” you interject, already knowing what he was going to ask. Shit, Vernon feels so good. “Get it out. Use it. Wanna see you cum that way.”

Soonyoung swears. Says, “Fuck—god, yeah, I’ll get it,” and disappears from the screen. Vernon’s lips move to your chest, your neck, your mouth. He’s moving in earnest, now—doesn’t care what he sounds like, that he’s devolved into staccato whines and half-syllables. Doesn’t care about the mess between your legs.

Doesn’t care that when Soonyoung comes back onto the screen, you’re wholly focused on him, grinning pleased and wicked. If you want him to work for it, he will. If you want him to give it to you so good you’re not even thinking about your boyfriend, that’s what he’s going to do. If you want him to fuck you so hard you can’t even speak, well, that’s the goal.

So he doubles his efforts. Plants his feet on the bed and uses the leverage to bury himself as deep in you as he can. He’s done this enough to know his angles, know how to have you dripping and shaking, but he wants to savor this. Wants to drag it out for you. Some sick, selfish part of him wants this to be the fuck you’re thinking about later as you’re about to drift to sleep even though you aren’t his to claim. Not like that, anyway. He can still paint you in bruises that match Soonyoung’s, undecipherable from one another. No telling what’s his work and what’s Vernon’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vernon glances sideways. Watches as his hyung dribbles lube all over his cock, slicks himself up. Glances at you and sees you watching. Sees the way your jaw ticks, your eyes darken. Can feel how endless your love is for Soonyoung and he wants to burn up.

But then you say, “Fuck yourself the way Vernonie’s fucking me,” and the words soothe over him like a balm. Even more so when Soonyoung listens; when he grabs the pocket pussy and works it slowly down his shaft, moaning long and drawn out the entire way.

“God, I’m about to fucking bust.” Soonyoung laughs. “Tell me how he’s fucking you, pretty girl. Bet it feels even better than this, huh? Bet he’s making you feel so good.”

Everyone’s about to make an early exit at this rate. Vernon tells (begs) him to shut up in so many words. Tries to focus on himself, thinks about every terrible thing in the world to stave it off, but the way you’re nodding along with Soonyoung’s words are hurtling him towards the end at record speed. The way you look at Vernon with constellations in your eyes. The way you’re reduced to mindless babbling, all your words slurring together as you say, “It’s so good. So good, Soonyoungie, he’s so deep, fucks me so good, god I’m gonna come again—”

Vernon panics, bites at your collar bone, knows he wouldn’t survive feeling you clench around his cock. Tells you, “Not yet,” even though he’s barely able to choke out the words; even though he can barely endure you now, cunt spasming, walls fluttering around him. The unbelievable white-hot heat, the vice grip. Fuck, he wants to do this every day. Wants to do this for the rest of his life.

And you must be able to tell. Must see how spaced out he looks, because you move your hands to the center of his chest and dig your nails in, urge him backwards until he’s propped up on one elbow. This is what Vernon sees when he closes his eyes, when it’s been months since he’s seen you and he’s cumming all over his fist: the lines of his own body, the coarse strip of hair that leads from his stomach to where your bodies connect; you on top of him, hips sinuous and sinful as you circle them.

You put on a show of your own. Move your hands to his knees and spread your legs wider. Vernon’s cock looks obscene inside of you, trapped beneath your lace panties, so he grabs your phone, makes sure Soonyoung can see what he’s seeing. Makes sure Soonyoung can see the sheen your wetness leaves on his skin as you grind back and forth on him. Makes sure Soonyoung can hear the slapping of your and Vernon’s skin, the way your pussy squelches, how lewd everything sounds in the still air of the bedroom the two of you share.

“Jesus—fuck,” Soonyoung says down the line, voice metallic and fucked out. “You two are so goddamn hot together. Make her come, Vernon-ah, and then I wanna see her covered in you. Wanna see you ruin my pretty girl.”

Vernon shudders and nearly folds in on himself. Grabs your hip to slow your movements, refusing to get off before you, but you’re determined. Your grin is devilish as you move his hand to your clit and tell him to get to work. As you lean forward briefly to kiss him before you’re moving in earnest again, more intentional than before, and it’s all Vernon can do to stay conscious. All of it’s too much: the way you look above him, head thrown back, the marks he’d left on your throat; the way you’re able to handle both of them at once, riding Vernon into the mattress while you talk Soonyoung over the edge, the most filthy words spilling out of your mouth.

The way you gasp as Vernon thumbs circles against your clit and reach for his hand, trying to ground yourself as your pussy clenches, as you barely have time to stammer out the words before you’re coming on his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Vernon pulls out, almost cries at no longer being enveloped in your heat, pulls off the condom and fists his cock once, twice, and then watches, entranced, as he does what his hyung said and covers you in cum.

Your tits, your stomach, the fabric of your panties.

For a moment, everything is quiet, everyone still coming down and trying to catch their breath. You’re spent, exhausted and satiated in ways you haven’t been in months. Every muscle in your body feels overworked. Your throat feels raw. Every inch of skin that’s bruised feels like a branding iron, and it is, you suppose.  Soonyoung’s, Vernon’s, it doesn’t matter—you wear them both.

“Don’t wash those,” comes Soonyoung’s voice.

It takes you a second to realize what he means. “My panties?” you ask, shock apparent. You’d known he was a freak, of course, but the depths of his perversion continue to surprise you. “Soonyoung…”

“Don’t kink shame me, princess, I’m covered in my own jizz and I need another shower. I came so hard I think I had religious visions. How’re you feeling, Vernon-ah?”

The man in question doesn’t answer. You’d think he was asleep with his eyes open if you knew he was capable of it, but that’s not what’s going on. Vernon’s fixated on you. Can’t tear his eyes off of you and the cum that’s drying into your skin, and you know you shouldn’t, that you should give him a break, but there’s no fun in that, so you trail your fingers through the mess on your stomach and suck them into your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t need to ask after that. Goddamn. I’m gonna go shower before you get me hard again. Good luck with her.”

The call disconnects. In the aftermath, the silence is almost stifling, almost makes you feel a sense of guilt that’s entirely undeserved, but then Vernon’s sitting up and crowding your space, hands behind your back as he works at the knots he finds there. Pulls you in closer. Presses a spun-sugar kiss to your forehead that makes your heart skip a beat.

The thing is, though: he doesn’t stay.

It’s not a rule. It’s not something Soonyoung requested to keep some semblance of boundaries in your relationship. He doesn’t care, and neither do you, but Vernon does. Doesn’t want to overstep and muddy the lines. Doesn’t want to make it seem like more than it is, and you’ve always been fine with that, but something about this time feels different. Strikes you someplace deep, hidden away, tucked behind your ribs. Vernon runs you a bath and changes the sheets while you’re soaking your aching muscles and when you’re tucked into bed, he presses another kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Promises to text you later in the week.

And then he lets himself out.

You’re still awake an hour later when your phone lights up with a string of texts, and you force yourself not to think about what it means that you’re disappointed it isn’t Vernon.

Soonyoung: Going to sleep. The two of u wore me out ㅋㅋㅋ Soonyoung: I’ll text u in the morning. Got an early day tomorrow 😭 Soonyoung: Love u baby. Sleep tight ❤️

With Soonyoung in Paris, it’s hard to make the time difference work.

Seven hours usually isn’t a problem—it’s worse when he goes to the Americas, for example—but it’s been weeks since your technological ménage à trois and you aren’t feeling any less unsettled. All you want to do is talk to him. Ask him what the hell is going on with you, why you can’t seem to shake this, what it all means, but it just never works out.

Not the right time. Not enough time. Soonyoung often has his own plans that keep him occupied until the early hours of the morning wherever he is, and by then he’s too exhausted and you’ve been awake for hours, already well into the monotony of your day.

Still, it eats at you. Makes you feel guilty in ways you can’t rationalize. You know you haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything you haven’t done plenty of times before; haven’t done anything Soonyoung isn’t also doing when he’s not around to answer your calls. And that’s fine—even though it’s unconventional to most, you love the dynamic the two of you have. Wouldn’t change it for anything except Soonyoung himself, so you know he’s not the point of contention.

No, it’s you—you’re the problem here.

Something’s changed, but whatever it is isn’t all that keen to let you in on the secret yet.

So you do your best to push it down and swallow it. You go to work. You meet your friends for dinner and drinks. You suffer through your gym sessions just to give the anxiety and jitters someplace to go. You clean your and Soonyoung’s apartment top to bottom until there’s not a speck of dust to be found and all the countertops start to squeak. You go shopping and charge whatever you want to Soonyoung’s credit card because he’d want you to.

None of it works.

It’s no wonder, then, that you break by the time Soonyoung gets to Paris. That you’re sending up flares and paying little attention to the time difference. That you text him—

You: Can you make some time to call me today? You: I don’t care about the time. You: It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just need/want to talk to you.

—and expect something, anything, in return: the familiarity of his tone, his overuse of emojis, the way he always calls on FaceTime and always greets you barefaced and with a relieved smile, like you’re the only thing he wants to see at the end of a long day. You expect him to say anything for my girl—or, at the very least, can’t today baby 🙁 I’m so sorry, but I’ll have time tomorrow and I’ll call first thing, ok ??

You don’t get any of that.

What you get is silence.

Your texts go unanswered. He doesn’t call. You double-check your calendar just to confirm you hadn’t gotten the date confused, but he doesn’t have a show tonight. Rehearsal and a team dinner, maybe, but nothing that should make him so unavailable to you.

Well, except one very obvious thing.

There’s a flashbang of hurt you immediately try to tamper down. Soonyoung can’t read your mind. He’s never ignored you when you’ve needed him or given you reason to believe he’d do something like this intentionally and maliciously—not to mention that the arrangement the two of you have has never been an issue before, so it’s nothing to get upset over. You know it’s nothing to get upset over, but knowing doesn’t suck the poison out.

A temporary lapse in communication is all this is. You’ve survived worse.

It’s just—

This shapeless, undefinable thing that’s clawed its way inside of you isn’t going anywhere. And you can deal with the stopgap emotions until you’re able to put a name to it—the anger and confusion, the abstract betrayal—but it’s always easiest to carry burdens with two sets of hands, is all.

Hours tick by. What was two hours without a response turns into four; four turns into six turns into you readying yourself for bed and spending the night tossing and turning, checking your phone every time you awake in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off at eight o’clock and there’s still nothing, all those ugly feelings come swimming back to the surface.

Your first call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

So does the second.

Soonyoung answers the third out of breath, voice gravelly. A woman’s laughter greets you before he can, and for the first time ever, it makes you sick to your stomach. Makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Has your hands trembling, all your words stuck in your throat, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Another twinkling laugh that your boyfriend responds to with a husky one of his own. “Hello? Hi, baby, I’m a little—”

Busy, he’s going to say. You’ve gathered as much. Busy is laughing in your ear, probably has her hands all over him, and it’s always been like this, the sharing and the nonexistence of possessiveness, but you come first. That’s the rule. Both of you come first to one another, so busy isn’t acceptable. Busy has resentment biting at your heels. Has your blood pressure spiking, your skin flushing hot.

Has you cutting him off, saying, “So busy you couldn’t answer my fucking texts?” with so much animosity all noise at the other end of the line immediately ceases.

You hear footsteps and the shutting of a door, the turn of a lock. “Okay, I’m alone,” he murmurs softly; you wish it did anything to comfort you. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A laugh of your own, derisive and disbelieving. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

You’re not about to spill your guts when Busy is in the next room over touching herself so she’s primed and ready to go when your boyfriend ends the call, goes back into the bedroom and says, sorry about that, and climbs back on top of her. You’re not about to spill your guts and feel like an inconvenience.

So you scoff and shake your head, say, “You know what, Soonyoung? Don’t even worry about it. Go back to fucking whoever the fuck she is and forget I even called.”

“Baby, come on, wait—”

You’re not about to spill your guts, so you rewrite the script.

You end the call. You ignore the texts that follow.

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

Vernon gets done work a little after ten.

You get off the train a few stops early and decide to walk the rest of the way. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Since you’ve breathed in the smell of the samgyaetang and dakgalbi restaurants, the tteokbokki and bungeoppang from the street food vendors. Since you’ve thought the neon lights of Hongdae Street were going to blind you and shielded your eyes. Since you’ve walked by groups of friends posing for selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, apple cheeks from wide smiles pressed together; couples doubled over in laughter as they try to jump on one another’s backs. Since you’ve watched patrons stumble out of bars and clubs with queues to get in, faces flushed from the alcohol they’ve already consumed.

Vernon lives in Mapo, in an artsy high-rise in Seogyo-dong. New construction that’s meant to look much older, meant to resemble the industrial loft apartments found in older American cities, warehouses made irrelevant as the 21st century moved in and took hold. They’re all exposed brick, twenty-pane windows, concrete floors, neo-expressionist paintings hung in the lobby.

A block away, a bingsu restaurant is closed until the next afternoon, but it’s what lies beneath that piques your interest: a basement rock bar, show flyers plastered all over the door, live music pounding the pavement and spilling onto the sidewalk.

You’re in the lungs of the city, and it’s every bit as alive as you expected—and hoped—it would be.

You feel at home here, surrounded by people and nightlife and unrelenting noise. Where you and Soonyoung live isn’t dissimilar, just different—more refined and inhibited, more concerned with appearances than letting loose. You’ve gotten good at rubbing elbows with those types of people, as necessary and inevitable as it is, but sometimes you just miss the unpolished grime of ordinary people.

Vernon’s outside waiting for you when you reach his building.

Hat pulled low over his eyes. An oversized black hoodie that drowns his lithe frame, makes him look smaller than he is. Face lit up by the glow from his phone. A lollipop stuck in his mouth that he presses into the fat of his cheek when he looks up, sees you, and smiles.

“Hi,” he greets you, arms twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what’s okay, what isn’t. If he’s allowed to be affectionate with you in public. If anyone can know, even though you’re no one to these people and he’s as out of the spotlight as you are.

So you make the decision for him. Place a hand on his waist, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his cheeks are the same shade of cherry red as his lips and tongue. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but there might as well be a flashing sign above his head to signal his embarrassment. “Oh,” he says quietly, touching the spot where you’d kissed him.

You swallow. The Vernon standing in front of you is a stark contrast to the one you fall into bed with. This one is all soft, rounded edges: shy, chivalrous, almost self-conscious—the kind that wouldn’t bruise if you bumped into him. You try to ignore the way your heart is hammering away in your chest, but the duality is making your head spin.

“Do you want to grab a drink first, or should we just…” He trails off, coughing to cover himself when all you do is quirk an eyebrow just to see if you can get him to blush again. “There’s a pretty cool LP bar down that way, if you’d be into that sorta thing? But I also have vinyl at my place, so I guess it doesn’t—”

You know laughing will only mortify him more, but you can’t help it. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” comes his automatic response.

“Are you sure?” you tease, watching as his fingers—covered to the second knuckle by his sleeves—worry insistently at the fabric of his hoodie. He flushes again, mouth opening and closing around words that don’t materialize, and it’s almost painful how endeared you are by him. “Come on, then,” you say, deciding to put him out of his misery, “show me this pretty cool bar.”

It’s a short walk, only a few blocks, but Vernon sets a slow pace and holds your hand anyway. Neither of you acknowledge that his is sweat-slick, and you can tell he’s thankful for this bit of reprieve. Must help him settle, because it isn’t long before he starts yapping away, animated and buoyant. He talks about work, about the album he’s mastering and how he hasn’t yet gotten the sidechain compression on the bass where he wants it. Tells you about a group the company recently put together that he’s excited about and thinks could be really successful.

“I don’t see them much since they’re always at practice,” he explains, slowing further as you approach a convenience store, “but when they have free time some of ‘em like to sit in the studio and watch me work. This GS25 gave me a black eye once.”

“What?”

He sounds straight out of a nature documentary as he tells you the story. How he’d wanted convenience store ramen because they had a 1+1, and on the way decided he needed a Yonsei bread, too, except he was piss drunk and didn’t realize the doors weren’t automatic, so yeah—hence the black eye. And it’s not particularly funny, but you laugh until your stomach hurts anyway; laugh until both of you are off-kilter from it, shoulders knocking into one another, tears blurring your vision and making the city look crystalline.

You laugh all the way to the bar, and Vernon only lets go of you to open the door and help you inside, hand reassuring and warm when it moves to the small of your back.

A two-seater table is open in the far corner. You sit with your back to the wall and a Blondie poster above your head, content to take in the view. Vernon’s content to let you. Asks what you’d like to drink and doesn’t bat an eye when you request a midori sour. You throw him an exaggerated wink as you say, “If you ask them to put a cherry in it, I’ll show you a magic trick.”

Vernon nearly cums on the spot.

But he does as you say. Returns to the table with two drinks and a pencil and paper. “For your song requests,” he explains when he sees you eyeing it.

“Thank you,” you say, taking your midori sour from him. “What are you gonna request? And what are you drinking?”

“It’s a Coke and something,” he answers, “but I’m not telling you what.” You roll your lips to keep from laughing. As if you couldn’t smell the coconut from across the bar. As if you can’t smell it on him now, when all you can think about is if you’ll be able to taste it on him later when he’s licking into your mouth. “I think you promised me a magic trick.”

A group of American girls taught you this in university, back when you were a starry-eyed freshman completely out of your comfort zone, friendless, more wallflower than functioning human. You just need a party trick, one of them had said, something to break the ice, and that’s how you learned to tie a cherry stem with your tongue.

Just like all those impressionable, hormone-riddled college boys, Vernon is stunned when you stick out your tongue to present it to him. Gets that dazed, faraway look in his eyes; has to clear his throat to get his lungs working again. Turns the tables on you when he reaches out and grabs it, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, and then it’s you who feels like they’ve been punched in the chest.

It’s maddening, how oblivious he is to the effect he has on you.

“Did I ever tell you I was born in New York?” He drums the pencil against the table. Looks around the bar that’s grown steadily busier. “I moved here when I was five so I don’t really remember much, but it’s always felt like this huge part of me, so I went through this phase a few years ago—read a ton of books on the history of the music scene there, listened to all the albums they said were influential.”

You jot down some songs. “And? What was your verdict?”

He takes a sip of his drink. Laughs a little as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I got really into Tom Tom Club,” he answers. “You know Talking Heads, right? Tom Tom Club was the side project of the drummer and the bassist of that band. Husband and wife.”

Over the speakers, a bluesy folk song starts playing, soft and melodic. You’re not as musically inclined as your boyfriend or the man across from you, but you’re still able to be moved by it. Still able to appreciate in others when they love something so much it becomes tangible. When a bluesy folk song starts playing in a bar and it brings a smile to Vernon’s face. When he talks about artists and albums he’s discovered and speaks with all the reverence of an archaeologist digging up ancient riches thought to be long-forgotten. When you glance at the songs you’ve written down and don’t have to worry that they won’t be cool enough, because everyone here just loves music, no matter what form it takes; are able to find something to appreciate everywhere they look.

“Talking Heads had already put out, like, four or five albums I think by the time Tom Tom Club formed,” Vernon continues. His drink is almost gone. “But David Byrne had released some solo stuff by then with Brian Eno, so they wanted to do something, too, and what they made was this really funky, kind of unexpected new wave album.

“They did some really weird stuff production-wise—103 bpm when everyone else was doing 120, deliberately tuning Tina Weymouth’s bass to 150 hertz, using a really crunchy synth. I find myself going back to it every time I get stuck, mostly because it’s the sort of thing you can listen to and feel how much they loved making music.” He pauses. Almost looks horrified when he sees there’s nothing left in his glass but half-melted ice. “I—oh my god, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I’ve been talking your ear off about this.”

Head tilted to the side, you smile. “We’re in a music bar,” you deadpan. “I’d go so far as to say we’re in the perfect place for you to talk my ear off about this.”

“Yeah, but—” You give him a look that has him holding his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’ll go refill our drinks since it’s the least I can do. Do you have your…?”

That aforementioned smile morphs into something more mischievous when you hand him your slip of paper. You watch as he looks it over, nods at the picks he thinks were in good taste: “Dreams” by The Cranberries, “Don’t Push It Don’t Force It” by Leon Haywood, “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat, “When I Come Around” by Green Day just to take the piss out of Vernon, who seems to have an endless collection of faded, worn Green Day t-shirts with loose necklines. Then, you watch as he gets to the last song on your list and his brows furrow.

He looks up at you. Even against the dark backdrop of the bar, against the red green blue lights casting technicolor shapes across his forehead, his cheeks, you can tell Vernon is stunned. Can see how wide his pupils have blown.

There, at the bottom of your list, is “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey.

Arguably the most well-known song to sample “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club.

Vernon’s apartment has three bedrooms.

One is used as a home studio, with a massive L-shaped desk that nearly takes up the entire room. In the middle, a laptop hooked up to a massive curved monitor with immaculate resolution, flanked on each side by monitor speakers. Stereo receiver. Preamps and input patch bays. A midi controller and a drum machine.

The rest of the room is taken up by instruments. An upright piano against one wall, clearly purchased secondhand; beside it, a two-tiered stand containing a keyboard and analog synthesizer. Two electric guitars, one acoustic, one bass. More microphones and over-ear headphones than you’ve ever seen in a single room.

Another resembles the LP bar: two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-ins that house his extensive vinyl collection, sorted first by genre then alphabetically. More records sit in milk crates on the floor, waiting to be catalogued and put away. To the right, on the only remaining wall that isn’t fully windows, sits a vintage credenza, most likely Japanese mid-century. You don’t have to ask—just by looking at it, you can tell Vernon’s hi-fi setup is top of the line, each item carefully chosen after hours of research and trial and error. Two plush armchairs, angled toward one another. Colorful shag rug.

His actual bedroom contains none of those things, but there are still touches of him everywhere.

Framed prints from his favorite artists and films. A concerning number of plain white t-shirts hung on a chrome clothing rack. On his nightstand, a well-used Replica candle (Jazz Club; smells like him) sits atop a stack of books with neon spines: Virgil Abloh. Nike. ICONS, Sofia Coppola Archive, Yoshitomo Nara. There’s a lamp on his dresser meant to look like entrance beacons of the New York City subway. Above his bed hangs a neon sign of Basquiat’s Beat Bop album cover, and on the floor, a black and white checkered rug.

As for the rest—well, you hadn’t been given much time to admire it before Vernon was laying you in the middle of the bed and kissing you breathless.

(It does taste like coconut when he licks into your mouth.)

And it isn’t like you needed a reminder—you never do with Vernon—but it serves as one anyway. That the two of you spent the last few hours of a Friday night drinking together in a bar, laughing at one another’s song requests, laughing at Vernon’s drinks mixed with coconut rum, laughing in general. That it’d taken a few rounds, but after the laughter faded and he plucked up the courage, he asked about your and Soonyoung’s relationship: how you met, how it started, how it works. That you answered all his questions because there was only curiosity beneath them.

That he paid your tab and held your hand as you left, giddy and eager to get back to his place. That when the two of you reached an intersection, no walking sign lit up, he pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

That when you passed the GS25, you cracked a joke and asked Vernon if he wanted to stop and get ramen and Yonsei bread.

That he’d clenched his jaw and sent you a look that was pure heat; grabbed you by the waist and leaned in close, whispered in your ear, “I’ve been ready to bust in my fucking pants since you decided to torture me with that cherry, so I’m not doing a fucking thing that isn’t taking you back to my place and making you come over and over.”

Now here you are.

Vernon’s pace is bruising. It’s frenzied and unpredictable, like he’s trying to prove a point. What it is, you don’t know, but you find it hard to care when he’s like this. When he sheds his shyness like a second skin and is brazen in the way he wants you. When you’ve crossed the threshold of his bedroom and he makes it clear selfishness doesn’t exist here—that all you have to do is lay claim to what he’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s the thing: you can’t put a name to what you want. “Everything” feels too heavy, too much. When it’s exactly what’s on offer, it feels like the weight of the world. I couldn’t possibly ask for that, you think, and Vernon is right behind you asking, Why can’t you?

So you’ll take it, for now. You’ll let Vernon’s deft fingers undress you with reverence and you’ll claw at his back and help him pull his hoodie over his head. You’ll revel in his proximity; how it never, ever feels like he’s close enough. You’ll steal the breath from his lungs and wrap your legs around his waist to keep him draped over you like chiffon. And the first time your phone vibrates you’ll ignore it. The second and third times, too.

When it doesn’t let up, Vernon pulls back. Asks, “Is that…? Should I grab it?”

You only have a split-second to decide how things are going to play out—not only this, right here, but everything that comes after. You and Soonyoung come first to one another, but you still feel scorned. A bit petty. Hi, baby, I’m a little busy, still feels like a bruise; has hurt coursing you like it came from a blood bag.

So you thread your fingers through his hair—impossibly soft; the color of molten chocolate—until they’re resting at the back of his neck. Bring his mouth back to yours and let the taste of him transport you someplace else. Vernon groans as he fits his hands to the curve of your waist.

Your phone is still ringing. Vernon opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No,” you answer, voice unwavering, “this one’s just for us.” He stares down at you. Everything he’s feeling shows clearly on his face, but it’s still undecipherable: the push and pull of the tide, always changing. “Kiss me.”

He does. Whatever fire had consumed him earlier has cooled off considerably, replaced only with the need for closeness. Every press of his mouth against your body is delicate. Every brush of his fingertips and knuckles against your skin is tender. When he kisses down your body and makes you come with his tongue, it isn’t booming fireworks but a quiet gasp into the crook of your elbow.

When he rolls on a condom and presses into you, he twines your fingers together again, and they aren’t sweaty. When he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the words he speaks against you are full of velvet praise. When he moves his hips, the sound of his skin against yours reminds you of a symphony: adagios bookended by scherzos, culminating in a shared finale that leaves you both glowing and euphoric.

Four a.m. looks different from Vernon’s apartment.

More down to earth, not as deep into the clouds. You’ve called Seoul home for the entirety of your adult life, but you’re still learning its secrets. Here, on Vernon’s side of the city, it’s more lively. Sleeps less. You watch as dot-sized people duck in and out of 24/7 shops; as groups of friends converge and separate like starling murmuration. You watch through bleary eyes as the city lights start to blur together.

This is where Vernon finds you, sitting on his living room floor, knees tucked against your chest.

Wordlessly, he sits beside you. Stretches his legs out, hands planted on the rug behind him. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth still stuck to his skin, see every breath he takes from the corner of your eye. And you think you should say something—maybe apologize if you woke him—but four a.m. is built for silence.

Minutes pass. The traffic signals go through their sequence, green yellow red green yellow. The stream of dot-sized people remains steady. The man beside you is steady, too, but he’s also perceptive, and usually it’s a perception that lets you initiate, come closer once you’re ready, doesn’t push. Not this time. This time, he turns to face you and studies your profile. Must notice something, because his eyes narrow, perfect brows pinching in the middle. “You okay?” You nod. Give him a smile you hope is convincing. Four a.m. is a lot of things, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Because you like him.

Something of this magnitude should feel world-altering, you think, but it doesn’t. Even if it was subconscious, you’ve known this, so it feels the same as when you look at the sky and see it’s blue, when you look at the grass and it’s green—the universe as advertised and in perfect working order. The way things are meant to be.

But you aren’t sure where the lines are drawn anymore, or if there’s anything left of them at all. Both you and Soonyoung have been here before: feelings that came out of nowhere, hookups that left a more lasting impression than others, the occasional short-term fling. All of it was within the boundaries of your relationship, but something about this—about Vernon—feels different. Feels like something you don’t want to lose.

You suck in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you confirm, “I just… there are things I need to talk to Soonyoung about, I think.”

Vernon nods. “I figured as much with all the phone calls.”

And because it feels like something you don’t want to lose, you need to be honest. “We got into an argument yesterday morning, before I texted you. It wasn’t—I don’t even know if I’d actually call it an argument, really, because I just got pissed and hung up, but.” You sigh. Place your chin on top of your knees. “I needed to tell you that, because I don’t want it to seem like I used you. It’s not like that for me with you, but I also can’t lie and say I’m not still stung about it.”

Vernon hums. Asks, “Did you want to hurt him?”

“No,” you answer immediately, because it’s true. You never want to hurt him. “I know the relationship me and him have doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Most people, probably. It works for us, though, and because it’s always worked, I’m not always sure what to do when it doesn’t.” A sigh. “I’m not jealous, you know? I love him, and I love that other people love him. I don’t want someone else’s normal.”

A half-smile ghosts across Vernon’s face. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No but.” You laugh. “Well, maybe a but—ever since you left a few weeks ago, I’ve just felt… off? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling I’d done something wrong, and I tried talking to Soonyoung about it but we couldn’t make the time difference work, so I texted him and asked him to make time, but he never responded, so I called him yesterday morning. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.”

“Mm, yeah,” comes his simple reply.

“I overreacted, and I need to apologize for it, but I wasn’t ready to have the conversation until I figured out what was weighing on me.”

“And?” His fingers inch closer to yours. “Did you figure it out?”

You place yours over them. “Yeah, I did.”

Vernon had gotten called into the studio just after eleven.

Both of you had tried holding onto the last dregs of excitement of waking up together for the first time. Tried blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and showing some semblance of life as you danced around one another, brushing your teeth and getting dressed. Vernon paid for your ride home and kissed you goodbye at the door, but not before promising it’d all get figured out.

The drive takes you down streets lined with cherry blossoms in full bloom, petals covering the asphalt, blowing in the breeze. Morning doesn’t often find you philosophical, but there’s something comforting about the changing of the seasons. Winter will always give way to spring in the same way everything will always work out, just like Vernon had promised, and it makes you feel light, finally unburdened, so you dig your phone from your bag.

You: I’ll be home soon You: I know it’s early where you are, but I’m around if you’re up and want to talk

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise you—the message just sits there, undelivered.

So you thank the driver when he drops you outside your apartment. Without much else to do, you stop into the grocery store to grab a few things, including a bundle of yellow and pink flowers, and the café next to your building after that, where you order something strong and not watered down. You soak up the sun on your skin, let it warm you from the inside out, and after half your coffee’s gone you start to feel human again.

This only lasts as long as it takes to get to your apartment and open the door.

Because there’s your boyfriend asleep on the couch. Soonyoung, whose mouth is hanging open and is snoring lightly. Soonyoung, who’s supposed to be in Europe. Soonyoung, whose phone is laying on the floor, halfway under the couch. Soonyoung, who startles awake when you call his name and punctuate it with a question mark.

Soonyoung, who realizes it’s you and crosses the living room in milliseconds. Who pulls you into his arms before you can breathe life into another question. Who peppers kisses all over your face and sighs when you thumb away the tears beneath his eyes simply because you’re touching him. Who presses his forehead to yours, content to hold you, and you, who fists your hand in the fabric of his shirt, content to let him.

Once the shock wears off, you realize you’re still holding the flowers. Say, “Let me just…” as you gesture at the bouquet. “Then we can talk?”

He’s reluctant to let you go, but he nods anyway. Doesn’t say a thing about the dozens of flowers already covering the kitchen island. When you spin around, his cheeks are dusted pink, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I ordered them to be delivered first thing this morning,” he explains. “Well, no—I ordered them yesterday, but they couldn’t deliver that many on such short notice. They also thought it was fake, since I was ordering them from France, so I had to call them, but—”

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, rubbing a rose petal between your fingers. “Thank you.”

“I panicked. I thought you were breaking up with me.” You don’t mean to laugh, but one tumbles out anyway. Soonyoung pouts around a smile he tries to tamper down, doesn’t take any offense because he, too, knows how absurd it sounds.

“Why would I ever do that?”

He nods his head in the direction of the couch—his favorite place to have these kinds of talks. Says having serious discussions standing up gives him heartburn. Really, you suspect it’s so he has pillows within grabbing distance for when he inevitably starts crying and needs to cover his face in embarrassment, but you’ll give him this. You’ll sit in your usual spot and wait as he sits in his, and then you’ll stretch out and place your feet in his lap like you always do. And he’ll try to apologize first like he always does because he can’t stand things being tense between you, even when it’s your fault.

Today, though, you don’t let him.

“I owe you an apology,” you say, and you want to laugh again at the shocked look on his face, that he can’t believe you beat him to the punch, but you don’t. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was out of line and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I did a little,” he snarks, all self-deprecation. “I am never, ever too busy for you, and I made you feel like I was.”

“I know.” He moves to protest; you hold up a hand to stop him. “Just let me try to explain this. After Vernon left a few weeks ago, everything felt really off. I had this overwhelming sense of guilt, like I’d done something horrible and I couldn’t figure out what it was, because it’s not like I’d crossed any boundaries, you know? Everything was above board. But I wanted to talk to you about it in case you knew something I didn’t, and then we couldn’t—”

“You like him.” Soonyoung says this as a declaration rather than a question. He says this with a shit-eating grin on his face. He says this as if he’s an old philosopher imparting ancient wisdom upon you, like he’s predicted historical events and has yet to be wrong. “You do, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, but how did you know that? How long have you known that?”

He laughs. “Baby, it’s been obvious to everyone except the two of you since that first night.” You sputter, ready to defend your own honor—Soonyoung’s album release party feels like ages ago now, so surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together before now if what he’s saying were true? “I know you,” he adds, tone far more serious and gentle. “I know what you’re like when you have feelings for someone, remember? I’ve watched you fall in and out of love; not only with me, but—”

You gasp and nudge him in the ribs with your foot. “First of all, I have never fallen out of love with you. Don’t even joke about that—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soonyoung salutes you sarcastically. Captures your foot and acts like he’s going to tickle you just to get a rise.

“Soonyoung, don’t—you know how ticklish I am! I won’t be able to control my body and I’ll kick you in the ribs or the dick or whatever and hurt you and you’ll get all upset! Also, we are in the middle of a serious conversation here! Stop derailing!”

“I’m not even doing anything,” he lies. “Please continue.”

With a groan (and a very deadly stare), you convince him to stop fucking around. He doesn’t release you entirely, but he forgoes the threats of tickling to press his thumbs into the arch of your foot instead. It works. In an instant, you’re calm, half-melted into the fabric of the couch.

“I went out with him last night.” You swallow, feeling the guilt creep in again. Soonyoung digs in deeper. “I texted him after I hung up on you. I didn’t intend for it to be one, but it very much turned into a date. I slept there.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Soonyoung pulls you closer, moves his hands to your calf and works at the muscle there. “I didn’t tell him.” You don’t know whose sake you’re saying this for—if it’s for Soonyoung or you or even Vernon—but it feels important to admit. To acknowledge that Soonyoung still comes first to you; that, as chaotic as things feel, one thing hasn’t changed. “Wanted to talk to you first.”

“Okay,” he replies breezily. “Let’s talk, then, pretty girl. Let’s figure it out.”

And you do.

The two of you talk for hours. Mostly apologies and promises to do better, but Soonyoung wants to hear all the perverse details of your night spent at Vernon’s apartment. Can’t help himself. Laughs when you scold him for getting hard, but you’re laughing, too. He asks if you want to date him—properly, not only when you’re feeling spiteful—and you ask if it’d be okay if you did. Briefly, you wonder if such a question is presumptuous. After all, you haven’t talked to Vernon, haven’t put your feelings into plaintext, but then you think back to the way he’d touched you last night and come to the conclusion it isn’t.

The two of you talk about the future. Soonyoung makes a point to revisit the original agreement; needs to make sure the two of you are on the same page. “It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he assures you. “I just want you to be happy.”

There’s something in his tone that has you eyeing him. “Do you still want this? You’ve never floated the idea of closing the relationship before.”

“I had a near-death experience,” he jokes. “You know how they say your entire life flashes before your eyes right before you die? That’s all I could think about on the flight home—that it’d be my fault if you left and I’d deserve it because I was selfish; that no one I’ve been with could ever come close to you and none of it would’ve been worth it.”

Everything’s starting to sound waterlogged again. Soonyoung takes you into his arms when you crowd his end of the couch and fit yourself against his side. “If you just want it to be the three of us, that’s more than enough for me.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Or we can decide later when I feel less like a deer about to get destroyed by a car.”

You snort. Say, “You can decide. Whatever you want is okay with me. I know it’d be a big adjustment for you.”

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” you affirm. “I’m really, truly, one-hundred-percent okay with whatever you want to do, even if, like, fifty-five-percent of that is because I’m way less enthusiastic about butt stuff than you—”

“Hey!”

With another shared laugh, the air is cleared. Together, the two of you erase the existing lines and draw new ones. Talk about what it would look like for two to become three. Has another moment of self-doubt and apologizes that he is who he is, that he can’t love you in public the way he desperately wants to, the way you deserve to be loved out in the open. “You love me in the ways you can,” you tell him, “and they’re more than enough because they come from you.”

You talk until the sky begins to darken and the conversation devolves into nonsense. Until Soonyoung realizes he never plugged his phone into the charger and his team’s probably in a panic. Until his stomach rumbles and he suggests ordering a ton of food for delivery, except he really does mean a ton, and when you ask him who’s possibly going to eat it all his cheeks redden and he says, sheepish and a little nervous, “I thought we could invite Vernonie over?”

Another playful groan. “You’re back home for—what, barely 48 hours?—and your main concern is having another threesome?”

“And if I say yes?”

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[bluukive]

ᯓ Down, boy!

content - mdni, caleb x gn!reader, submissive Caleb, clothed thigh riding, humping, degredation, hair pulling, muzzled and collared Caleb, belt used as a restraint, tears, canine imagery, all consensual !!

wc - 1076 words

an - this is either a hit or miss cus it's my first time writing something like this pfft. I feel like I need to clarify that Caleb is 100% human here

“Good boys don’t get to growl at me and expect not to get punished for it,” your voice came out in a low murmur, one hand tugging his muzzle into place. Caleb couldn't be trusted without one— he became too worked up, biting and growling at you with bared teeth grazing your skin. He hovered over one of your parted thighs, and a black collar sat snug and tight around his neck. It served as a reminder, a warning, for him not to step out of line again. 

“You want to act like a dumb mutt? Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Your degrading words elicit a visceral reaction within the man. A desperately wounded noise leaves him, muffled behind the heavy leather muzzle you had strapped tight to his jaw. Behind him, his wrists were restrained with his own belt, causing his pants to sag at his hips. White knuckles remained clenched in an attempt to hold himself back, like he was fighting the urge to tear something apart. 

Caleb glared down at you through furrowed brows, eyes swirling with an angry mix of orange and purple hues. The threat within them had long gone— the only thing left being shame, hunger and arousal. 

You could feel it all in the way Caleb’s muscles twitched and tensed, as if he was waiting for permission from you. His cock was hard, leaking and forming a damp patch on his boxers. The aching bulge strained against his clothing, hips wanting to rut against you through pure instinct. 

A coo left you, tone dripping with faux sympathy as you leaned close to his ear. “Look at you. Panting over my thigh like some pathetic, perverted stray. What would people think, hm? Seeing their big, baaad Colonel reduced to nothing but a begging mess…”

Another groan, muffled and broken left the trembling man. His head hung low, metal bars of his muzzle resting against the delicate slope of your shoulder. Despite the shame, Caleb’s hips rolled forward by just an inch. It provided him the slightest bit of friction, but it wasn’t enough. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you muttered under your breath, one hand reaching up to curl up meanly into Caleb’s hair. You gripped hard enough for him to feel the sting, to stay still. 

“You don’t get to fuck me at all, y’know. You don’t even deserve to touch me,” you drawled, followed by one tug to his dark hair. “You should be grateful I’m even letting you get yourself on my thigh like this. Hump my thigh, and maybe then I’ll let you cum. Maybe.”

His body jerked almost violently. Caleb didn’t like that. He was a greedy man, his love for you bordering on obsession— the sort that clawed his way out of his chest so that it burrowed itself into yours. He wanted to rip his muzzle off, sink his teeth into your neck and leave love bite after love bite on your willing body. Unfortunately for Caleb…

He couldn't. That wasn’t up to him. 

You watched him struggle, feeling the desperation ooze out of every pore— much like the way Caleb’s cock was oozing out precum as he humped your tense thigh in earnest. It was sloppy. It was frantic, and Caleb was nothing short of humiliatingly eager for you. You peered down through your lashes, noting the way your thigh was dampening the longer he fucked your thigh like it was the only thing keeping him together. 

Tears prickled at the corner of Caleb’s eyes as he continued to rock his hips back and forth, dragging the bulging swell of his erection over and over whilst you watched with a bored look on your face. Internally, you were anything but. It took all of your willpower not to give in to your lust and grind back with equal fervour. 

“Thaaat’s it. Grind that cock all over my leg. Fuck yourself like the pathetic mutt I know you are.” Your words were punctuated with a harsh tug at Caleb’s collar, reminding him exactly who was the one in charge. Your words were like silk to the man, but he could hear the duplicity, the venom in your voice. The way your eyes twinkled gave you away. You were enjoying this. 

An unrestrained, wanton whimper left Caleb, lips parting so shamelessly behind the tight muzzle. His voice broke, a bead of sweat forming on his temple. Again, you tugged on his hair and bared his throat to your eyes with a sneer. “What’s with the tears, Caleb? Am I being too mean?”

The man sniffled, shaking his head with another wet, clumsy thrust of his hips. “If I wanted to be mean, I would have made you sit there on the floor and hump my shoe.” To emphasise your point, you bounce the thigh Caleb was riding on, the red heel of your shoe clacking on the floor beneath you. 

The noise did something to him. The sound coupled with the sensation of your fingers stroking his hair was too much for the man. Caleb lost all rhythm in his hips. A feral, muffled sob left him. You felt it first before you saw it, your eyes flickering downwards to see a pool of white accumulate where your thigh met Caleb’s crotch. He jerked once, then twice, panting like a bitch in heat.

“Already cumming? You’ve only humped my thigh, baby,” you sighed in a condescending manner, relishing in the way you felt the warm, sticky mess beginning to gradually cool on your leg. It was messy, and the insides of Caleb’s boxers clung to his skin uncomfortably. He was flushed, mind empty—  filled only with the thoughts of the pleasure only you were able to give him.

A click. Some shuffling, paired with heavy breathing. Caleb’s muzzle hit the floor with a loud clang, your fingers gently rubbing at the red lines marring his jaw. Your touch was deceptively sweet, yet Caleb leaned into it anyway. He nuzzled his aching cheek into your palm, trying hard to ride out the aftershocks of his orgasm with bleary eyes. You gave him the fleetest ounce of comfort, but certainly not enough to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

“Pathetic. Truly pathetic, but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat if I asked you to. Wouldn’t you, Caleb?”

The ghost of a smile graced his lips. 

Then, he nodded, needy eyes meeting yours. 

[crescent003]

The First Kick

Squid Game Master list The sun was low in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the city. Jun Ho sat in his office, the files in front of him a stark contrast to the vibrant world outside. He was always buried in paperwork, and though it felt monotonous at times, it was his job—his responsibility. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he looked at his phone for the tenth time in an hour. There were a few messages from you, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to respond yet. His heart softened whenever he saw your name flash on the screen, but he knew that if he kept replying, he’d get caught up in the warmth of your words and not finish his work.

It wasn’t long before his phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Your name lit up the screen, and his heart skipped.

“Hey,” he answered, his voice tinged with a quiet warmth.

“Jun Ho,” your voice was soft, but there was an undeniable excitement there. “You’re not busy, right?”

“I’m never too busy for you,” he replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced at his colleagues, who were all focused on their own work.

“I think the baby just kicked,” you said, breathless with joy. “I swear I felt it. It was tiny, but it’s the first time I’ve felt it. It’s real, Jun Ho.”

His breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected this. He was used to being the one who did the protecting, the one who made things happen, but hearing your voice, filled with wonder and joy, made him realize that there was something bigger than anything he had ever faced.

“You felt it?” he asked, his voice suddenly tight. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you said, giggling a little. “I swear. I thought it was just gas at first, but it wasn’t. It’s like a little tap, right in the middle of my belly. Our baby. I can’t believe it.”

Jun Ho closed his eyes for a moment, trying to absorb the flood of emotions that overwhelmed him. The baby. Their baby. Their child was growing inside you, and it was real. More real than anything he had ever imagined.

“Hold on,” he said quickly, standing up from his desk and grabbing his jacket. His colleagues barely looked up as he walked briskly past them. “I’m coming home.”

“Wait, Jun Ho,” you said, your voice softer now, almost teasing. “Don’t rush. You’re at work—”

“I’m leaving,” he cut you off, his voice decisive. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just hold on.”

He didn’t wait for a response, ending the call and heading out the door. His heart was racing—not out of anxiety, but out of excitement. The baby had kicked. The baby. He had heard you talk about it before, but hearing you actually experience it was different. It was something visceral, something real. And now, he couldn’t wait to hold you, to touch your belly and feel the life inside you.

Jun Ho barely noticed the ride home. He was lost in thought, his mind replaying the moment you had described, imagining what it would have been like to be there. He could picture you—sitting in the living room, hand resting on your stomach, eyes wide with wonder as you experienced the first real sign of their child’s presence. The thought made his chest tighten. How had he gotten so lucky?

When he arrived home, he practically rushed to the door, fumbling with the keys before finally getting it open. The moment he stepped inside, he saw you sitting on the couch, looking up at him with an expectant smile.

“Jun Ho, you didn’t have to—”

“I had to,” he said, dropping his jacket on the chair and kneeling in front of you. His eyes softened as he reached for your hands, gently lifting them to his lips and pressing a kiss to each palm. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the first kick. But I’m here now. I’m not missing anything else.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with affection. “I was thinking about you. I wanted you to be here when it happened.”

He reached for your belly, his hands trembling just slightly. He had never thought of himself as the emotional type, but there was something about the life growing inside you that made him feel things he couldn’t put into words. He leaned his forehead against your stomach, his hands resting on either side, and he closed his eyes.

“What’s it like?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s… hard to explain,” you said, your voice full of wonder. “It’s like a flutter. Like someone’s poking you from the inside. But it’s not painful. It’s just… amazing.”

He nodded, as though he could feel it too. He wanted to experience that connection with the child—his child—just as deeply as you did. His hand moved gently over your belly, his touch tender and reverent.

You watched him with a fond smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sight of him. His eyes were closed, but he looked so peaceful, so focused. It was rare for Jun Ho to let his guard down like this, but you could tell that this moment meant everything to him.

Then, just as you were about to speak, you felt another small flutter beneath your skin. It was subtle, but unmistakable. You gasped, your eyes widening. “Jun Ho, it’s happening again!”

His eyes snapped open, his expression intense. He quickly placed his hand over the spot where he’d felt the first kick earlier, waiting. His heartbeat seemed to match the rhythm of yours, his hand tense with anticipation.

And then, it came. A tiny but unmistakable tap against his palm.

He froze. His hand pressed against you more firmly, and he leaned in closer, as if to reassure himself that it was real. His eyes were wide, filled with amazement. “I felt it. I felt it!”

You laughed softly, a tear escaping from the corner of your eye. “I told you.”

Jun Ho looked at you, his expression softening. There was a depth to his gaze, a rawness that made you feel like he saw right through you. He wasn’t just looking at you, but at the life you two had created together.

He gently kissed your belly, his lips brushing over the spot where their child had just kicked. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m proud of both of you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you gazed down at him, at the man who had always been your protector, your rock—and now, the father of your child. “We’re going to be a family, Jun Ho,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion. “A real family.”

He nodded, his eyes glistening as he stood up and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said quietly. “For you. For our family.”

And for the first time in what felt like a long time, Jun Ho allowed himself to truly feel. He wasn’t just a police officer or an investigator—he was a husband, soon-to-be father, and in this moment, that meant everything.

The baby kicked again, a gentle tap, as if to say, I'm here, too.

Jun Ho smiled, pressing his hand against your belly once more. This was just the beginning. And he couldn’t wait to experience it all with you by his side.

[untilwefind]

The Shirt Incident

Prompt credit @sleepy-hyperfixations: omega macklin who is so desensitized to his own smell he fingers himself on wills bed and uses one of wills shirts to dry himself afterwards only for it to trigger an immediate rut for will and he is crying out for „his omega“, and mack is like „who might that be?“ #stupidahh

Will has rules. Like, literal rules. Mental checklists. He’s had to, ever since Mack moved into his apartment temporarily “until his furniture ships.”

Rule 1: No touching Mack when he’s fresh out of the shower, because he smells like citrus shampoo and warm skin and Will’s brain melts.

Rule 2: No sitting on Mack’s discarded hoodies because scenting himself on Will’s stuff is “just a thing omegas do, shut up,” and Will nearly broke his own wrist jacking off after Mack napped in his hoodie last week.

Rule 3: Do not, under any circumstances, enter Will’s room when Mack’s in there alone. Nothing good ever comes of it.

---

It starts innocently enough.

Will comes home from morning skate, sweaty and vaguely irritated because Bordy kept chirping him for missing an empty-netter during practice. He kicks off his shoes, dumps his bag, and yells, “You alive in here?”

No response.

Weird. Mack had said he was staying in all day. Something about resting his legs before their next roadie, maybe napping. Will doesn’t overthink it.

He grabs a protein bar from the kitchen, downs half a bottle of water, then pads toward his room. He’s halfway through unzipping his jacket when he pushes the door open and—

Stops dead.

Because Mack is on his bed. On his sheets. On his side of the bed. Legs spread, pants shoved halfway down, fingers glistening between his thighs, and a flushed expression that looks more dazed than guilty.

And in his hand?

One of Will’s old Sharks shirts. The gray one. The favorite one. The one Mack always steals.

Will’s brain stutters.

His nose floods with scent. Not just his own, but Mack’s, thick and honey-slicked, curling through the air like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

Mack looks up, panting. His hair is damp. His cheeks are pink. There’s a smear of slick on the hem of Will’s shirt, now clutched lazily in Mack’s fist like a handkerchief.

“Oh,” Mack says, calm as anything. “Hey. You’re home early.”

Will’s body locks. It’s like a switch gets flipped in his bloodstream. An explosion of heat and scent recognition and claim so visceral he nearly keels over.

His scent pours out of him before he can stop it, sharp and grounding and hungry. Mack blinks at him, then tilts his head slightly, nostrils flaring like he only just now clocked the danger.

“You used my shirt?” Will croaks. “You— You came on my shirt?”

Mack shrugs, unbothered. “You weren’t using it. And it smells like you.”

Will’s rut hits him like a truck.

One moment he’s just stunned. The next, he’s feral. His fingers tremble where they grip the doorframe, trying not to lunge across the room.

Mack watches him with unsettling calm. His legs are still spread. The shirt is still rumpled under him.

And Will just folds.

Drops to his knees, head bowed, panting, trying not to howl.

“Mine,” he gasps. “Mine, fuck, omega, I can smell you— I can smell you everywhere—”

Mack grins, fucking grins, and wipes his hand on Will’s shirt one last time before tossing it aside.

Will lets out a noise that’s halfway between a moan and a sob. “Don’t— Don’t tease me—”

“Who says I’m teasing?” Mack murmurs, voice like silk.

Will blinks up at him.

Mack leans down, cups Will’s flushed, burning face in one slick-slick hand and says sweetly, “You gonna finally stop pretending you don’t want me?”

Will whimpers. His rut claws at his ribs. His body is so heavy with need he feels like he’s sinking into the floor.

“I dream about you,” he rasps. “Every time you wear my clothes. Every time you leave your heat scent in the couch cushions. I can’t breathe without you.”

Mack smiles, slow and gentle, and tugs him forward by the front of his shirt. “Then breathe me in, alpha.”

Will does. Like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He buries his face in Mack’s stomach, inhales him like he’s air, and groans so deep it shakes the floorboards.

Mack hums, stroking through his hair, thighs opening wider, eyes gone soft and satisfied.

“There he is,” he murmurs. “There’s my alpha.”

Will clutches at his hips like a lifeline. “Say it again.”

“My alpha.”

“Again.”

Mack leans down, nose brushing Will’s jaw, his neck, the scent gland pulsing hot under his skin.

“My stupid, patient, good alpha who took way too long to claim me,” he whispers, and this time Will growls.

He tackles him back into the bed, careful but desperate, mouth on Mack’s neck, nose buried in the shirt that still smells like both of them now.

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

a singer!reader where she writes a super sexy song and the fans are going crazy because she's never written a song like that. she goes to some talk shows bc she has to promote the album of the song, and they ask her about it and if its about her boyfriend tom blyth!!!!

Never be like you || Tom Blyth x singer!reader

A/n: lowkey need Gracie to do a cover for this song bc I feel like her voice would suit it sm and I wanna see her do this type of vibe!!

Warnings: fem!reader, swearing

Wc: 719

Tom Blyth x singer!reader au masterlist

“Our next guest, is a Grammy nominee for best new artist, performing her single never be like you for the first time, please welcome Y/n Abrams!” Jimmy Fallon announces as the crowd erupts in cheers. You take the stage, the crowd hushed in anticipation. The spotlight illuminates you, clad in a sultry ensemble that's a departure from your usual style

“What I would do, to take away, this fear of being loved, allegiance to the pain,” Your fingers wrap around the mic as you close your eyes. “Now I’m fucked up, and I’m missing you, He’ll never be like you,” The atmosphere shifted, and you began to sing the sultry lyrics in a way that surprised even your most dedicated fans. The audience was captivated, and whispers of amazement spread like wildfire.

“I’m only human, can’t you see? I made, I made a mistake, please just look me in my face, tell me everything’s okay,” Your hands, usually strumming a guitar, were instead in your hair as you tilt your head back almost in a sexual manner. The crowd, initially unsure how to react, soon becomes entranced by your unexpected venture into this new style.

The song's sensual undertones echoed through the venue, and you felt an electrifying connection with the audience. This style of song was something you’ve never done before. That’s why you really enjoyed producing it. It brought you out of your comfort zone; a deliberate choice to express a different side of yourself.

"How do I make you wanna stay? hate sleeping on my own, missing the way you taste," your voice, rich and alluring, wraps around the lyrics with a sensuality that catches everyone off guard.

"Stop looking at me with those eyes," a smile naturally played on your lips as you delivered that line, intentionally fixing your gaze on the camera, fully aware of Tom's watchful eyes. The lyrics, tailored to hit home with your boyfriend, spoke directly to his captivating deep blue eyes – the kind that always left you spellbound, and no amount of time together could diminish the flutter of nerves they induced.

"like I could disappear and you wouldn't care why, now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you, he'll never be like you," Backstage, Tom can't tear his eyes away. The way you command the stage, blending vulnerability with a newfound confidence, stirs something within him.

He had heard snippets of the song before its release, but experiencing it live brings a visceral intensity he hadn't anticipated. The lyrics, once a private exchange, now echo through the venue, leaving everyone captivated.

As the performance concludes, the audience erupts into applause, their astonishment turning into admiration. Tom approached with a grin, desire in his eyes, expressing his awe at your unexpected and alluring rendition. "That was incredible," he whispers, pulling you into a passionate embrace.

Word spreads like wildfire. Fans, accustomed to your previous style, can't believe the transformation. Social media buzzes with speculation, theories swirling that the song must be about someone special.

In a promotional interview, the host, with a sly grin, asks the question on everyone's mind. "Rumors are circulating that the inspiration behind your latest single is none other than your boyfriend, Tom Blyth. Care to shed some light on that?"

A coy smile played on your lips as you glance at the crowd, then back to the interviewer. "My supporters sure are smart, huh?" You giggle softly to yourself. "But, yes, it is about Tom."

"It's quite different to my usual style, but it was very fun to compose," You smile. The revelation sends shockwaves through your fanbase. Speculation turns into fervent curiosity, and they dissect the lyrics for clues about your relationship with Tom. Social media explodes, and you find yourself at the center of a newfound spotlight.

Tom, for his part, embraces the attention with good humor. During his interviews for "The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes," fans playfully tease him about being the muse behind your provocative song. He takes it all in stride, admitting with a smile that he's flattered by the attention.

"So, Tom, we've all heard your girlfriend's new song 'Never be like you' and everyone knows it's about you. What are your thoughts on it?" the interviewer inquired, a playful glint in their eyes.

Tom chuckled nervously, a light blush creeping up his cheeks. "Well, it's certainly an interesting experience," he replied with a sheepish smile. "I'm flattered, to be honest. My girl is incredibly talented, and she expresses herself very well through her music, something I admire,"

As he spoke, his castmates, Rachel and Hunter, couldn't help but interject with mischievous grins. "Oh, come on, Tom! 'Interesting experience'? That song is steamy!" Rachel teased, eliciting laughter from Hunter.

Tom rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. "Alright, alright. Maybe 'interesting' is an understatement. But seriously, I'm incredibly proud of her. She was worried her new style of music not being a hit, but she nailed it."

The banter continued, but beneath the teasing, there was a genuine camaraderie. Tom's supportive words reflected not only his admiration for his girlfriend's artistic expression but also his pride in you.

As your relationship becomes a public fascination, the dynamics of your performances shift. Fans attend your shows not just for your music but to catch glimpses of the chemistry they've read about online. The narrative surrounding your love story becomes intertwined with your artistic identity.

Tom's become a regular at your shows, grinning from ear to ear as he watches you own the stage. Your private affair has gone all public, and now it's like you and him are this dynamic duo everyone's rooting for. The crazy twist in your music style? It's like you cracked open a whole new world for yourself, and at the same time, it's made you and Tom this inseparable couple in the eyes of your fans.

[jordanstrophe]

More Walter and Gabriel? 👁👁 perchance?

Critical roll - I don't even know what timeline this is anymore

CW: Parental whumper, chained, captive

Gabriel shakily pulled his pant leg up. The thick cold chain had been left on his ankle far too long and was starting to bruise.

Sometimes the man felt kind enough to give him a break and take it off. With strict supervision, of course, but his mood had been sour lately.

He could ask, and would probably get it; but the thought of approaching the man and speaking to him willingly threw the pit of his stomach in a storm.

His ankle wasn't looking well, however.

He swallowed past the pit in his throat and stood behind Walter, who was on the couch reading the latest newspaper. It was the only news the man consumed, and Gabriel was forbidden from it.

Probably because his sudden disappearance was still being printed. He saw a glimpse of it once in the trash can. 'Search for Missing Man Intensifies: Vehicle Still Unfound, Whereabouts Unknown. Authorities Urge Public to Report Sightings.'

"Can I ask for something?" Gabriel softly spoke. Walter tilted his head back, his once scorn expression turning soft.

"My Dove," He smiled and extended his hand for Gabriel to take. He didn't want the man to grab him but didn't dare disobey. His hand was taken as Walter pulled him onto the couch beside him.

"Look at you speaking up. What is it I can do for you, my son?" Walter hummed and stroked his face. Gabriel huffed and blinked his eyes closed. He gritted his teeth hoping his voice won't come out in terror.

The man didn't seem to like that kind of voice. Said it made him feel like a "monster" to see Gabriel terrified of him.

"The chain," Gabriel half stuttered. "It's bruised and starting to hurt. Can you.... Do something?" He asked.

He watched the man's eyes dart to his ankle and stiffen. "Oh, Dove, I forgot about that. Why didn't you say something sooner?" Walter scolded. He reached to his belt and unhooked his dozen-keyed ring. It jingled as he fiddled for the right one, then waved his hand.

"Leg up, on my knee." He ushered. Gabriel sighed as he lifted his leg into Walter's lap. He winced as Walter firmly gripped his ankle and he felt eyes burning his soul.

"Do you remember the rule?" Walter asked lowley.

"Never to leave your sight." Gabriel quoted in a mimicking tone.

"That's my boy." Walter beamed up as he ruffled Gabriel's hair. There was a rusty click as the chain popped off his leg and was lowered to the floor. The lack of weight felt overwhelmingly freeing. Gabriel pulled his leg out of the man's lap and curled them to his chest, rubbing his ankle.

"Thanks." He flatly mumbled into his leg. He knew the rule; he was not to leave the man's presence. They watched a movie, he helped cook dinner and he played the piano with the man lingering over him the whole time.

He hated every second of it. But having the chain off was even better.

-------

I would have so much fun rewriting the entire story from scratch with my current writing style. My boys. My beautiful boys. I miss them

ALSO LOOK THEY GOT FANART FROM @nials-stuff

Look with your eyes, it is so in front of you 

[dxrlingluv]

Im so so sorry for this being so unhinged. But I NEED EURYMACHUS SO CARNALLY BAD. (Specifically MessyMoon's design of him) SO I'M ON MY HANDS AND KNEES SELLING MY SOUL TO YOU! PLEASE DO EURYMACHUS X READER..... (Maybe smut...... I don't wanna be pushy 🥺. I'm just a silly lil person fr fr.)

Weak on the knees

A/N : He is hard to portray and write, but I loved it! Eurymachus art is from MessyMoon.

WARNING : Extremely suggestive, slight smut(??), Fem!Reader (Sorry :P).

Word Count : 2.2k

The air in the tavern was thick enough to carve; a heady perfume of spilled wine, sweat, roasting meat, and something else – something electric and dangerous that seemed to emanate from him. Eurymachus. Not the sneering, entitled suitor of dusty legends, but a figure reimagined, a vision of dark allure that had somehow plucked from the ether of raw, untamed desire and given form. He was all sharp angles and knowing smirks, eyes that held the glint of a predator, and a presence that sucked the very air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and aching.

You'd been aware of him the moment he'd sauntered in, a ripple of hushed whispers and turned heads following in his wake like the tide drawn by a rogue moon. He moved with a languid grace that belied the coiled power beneath his dark, well-fitted tunic – a design that hinted at both old-world opulence and a modern, almost rebellious edge. His hair, perhaps darker than how artists typically painted it, fell in a way that seemed artfully disheveled, framing a face that was sinfully handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass and lips that curled with an almost permanent suggestion of something wicked.

Tonight, like many nights before since you'd first caught sight of this particular incarnation of Eurymachus, you found yourself a moth drawn to a searing, irresistible flame. You were, as the anonymous plea in your mind echoed, a "silly lil person," utterly, hopelessly, carnally consumed by the need for him. It wasn't just admiration; it was a visceral, clawing hunger that left you lightheaded and trembling.

He was holding court at a table across the room, a tankard of dark ale in one hand, the other gesturing with an easy confidence as he spoke to his companions. His laughter, low and rich, rumbled through the noise of the tavern, and each time it reached your ears, a shiver traced its way down your spine, coiling low in your belly. You imagined, with a desperate, almost painful clarity, what it would be like to be the focus of that attention, the object of that dark, knowing gaze.

Your friends chattered around you, their words a distant buzz. You offered token nods and mumbled replies, your entire being fixated on Eurymachus. It felt as though a physical cord connected you to him, tightening with every passing second, drawing you closer whether you willed it or not. You'd sell your soul, you thought with a reckless abandon that was both terrifying and exhilarating, just for a taste of what he promised.

Then, as if summoned by the sheer intensity of your longing, his eyes—dark, penetrating, and missing nothing—lifted and found yours across the crowded room. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The cacophony of the tavern faded to a dull hum. It was just you and him, suspended in a moment thick with unspoken things. His lips, those perfectly sculpted, sinful lips, curved into a slow, deliberate smirk. It wasn't a kind smile, not entirely. It was a smile that acknowledged your blatant staring, a smile that hinted he knew exactly what you were thinking, what you were feeling. And worse, it was a smile that seemed to welcome it, to revel in it.

He raised his tankard slightly in a silent toast, his gaze never leaving yours. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You felt a flush creep up your neck, staining your cheeks, but you couldn't look away. This was it, the point of no return.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few drawn-out seconds, he turned back to his companions, but the charge in the air remained, palpable and thrumming. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that something had shifted.

Later, as the crowd began to thin and the hour grew late, you found yourself stepping outside for a breath of cool night air, your senses still reeling from that silent exchange. The alley beside the tavern was dimly lit, smelling of damp stone and refuse, a stark contrast to the heady atmosphere within. You leaned against the rough wall, closing your eyes, trying to calm the frantic pulse that still raced through you.

"Lost, little lamb?"

The voice, a low, velvety rumble, was right beside your ear, sending a jolt through your entire system. Your eyes snapped open. Eurymachus. He was closer than you could have ever imagined, leaning against the wall beside you, effectively caging you in. He was even more overwhelming up close, the scent of him – something musky, masculine, and utterly intoxicating – filling your senses. The specific details of his design, the way the shadows caught the sharp planes of his face, the almost feral intensity in his eyes, were all the more potent.

"I... I just needed some air," you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

His smirk was back, wider this time, predatory and deeply unsettling, yet drawing you in like a whirlpool. "Did you now? Or were you perhaps hoping to find something else?" His gaze dropped, lingering for a heart-stopping moment on your lips, then lower, tracing the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts beneath your simple gown. Every inch of your skin burned where his eyes touched.

"I... I don't know what you mean," you lied, your breath catching in your throat. Oh, but you did. You knew exactly what you'd been hoping for, dreaming of, aching for.

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "Oh, I think you do." He pushed himself off the wall, stepping even closer, until the heat of his body was a tangible presence against yours. One hand came up to brace the wall beside your head, the other gently, almost reverently, touched your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. The contact was electric, sending a shower of sparks through your veins. "You've been watching me all night. With such... hunger in your eyes."

His voice dropped to a husky murmur, a sound designed for seduction, for unraveling inhibitions. "Tell me, what is it you hunger for?"

The directness of his question, the raw desire simmering in his dark eyes, shattered the last of your composure. The carefully constructed walls around your own fierce longing crumbled. "You," you breathed, the admission torn from the deepest, most desperate part of your soul. "It's you I hunger for, Eurymachus. So badly it... it consumes me."

A flicker of something – triumph? satisfaction? perhaps even a reciprocal desire – flashed in his eyes. "Good," he purred, his face lowering towards yours. "Because the way you look at me... it's been driving me to distraction all evening." His breath fanned across your lips, warm and smelling faintly of ale and something uniquely him. "And I find myself quite... keen... to sate that hunger."

His mouth claimed yours then, and it was everything you had fantasized about and more. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a carnal claiming, a raw expression of mutual need that had been simmering beneath the surface. His lips were firm yet pliant, moving against yours with a practiced skill that spoke of countless conquests, yet there was an urgency, a possessiveness in this kiss that felt entirely new, entirely for you.

You whimpered into his mouth, your hands coming up to fist in the fabric of his tunic, clinging to him as if he were your only anchor in a raging storm. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting, exploring, dueling with yours in a dance that was pure, unadulterated sensation. The alleyway, the world outside, ceased to exist. There was only the press of his body against yours, the intoxicating taste of him, the overwhelming, desperate need that had finally found its release.

His hand slid from your cheek, down your neck, over your shoulder, and then lower, tracing the curve of your spine, sending shivers of pure pleasure in its wake. He pressed you more firmly against the rough stone wall, his hips pinning yours, letting you feel the hard ridge of his arousal against your belly. A gasp escaped you, swallowed by his devouring mouth.

"You feel it too, don't you?" he growled against your lips, his voice thick with passion. "This... craving."

"Yes," you panted, your head spinning. "Gods, yes." You were on fire, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more. This was the "carnally bad" you'd craved, the raw, untamed connection of him had promised.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps that mirrored your own, but only to trail a searing path of open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, along the sensitive skin of your neck. You arched into him, your head falling back, exposing your throat in a gesture of complete surrender. His teeth grazed your skin, a playful, predatory nip that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.

"The things I want to do to you," he rasped, his voice a low, guttural promise against your heated skin. "The way I want to feel you... beneath me, around me..."

His hand, bold and possessive, slipped lower, cupping your buttock, squeezing gently before sliding around to the front, his fingers brushing against the apex of your thighs. You cried out, a small, broken sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and anticipation.

"Tell me you want it," he demanded, his dark eyes burning into yours, pupils dilated with a fierce, primal hunger. "Tell me you want all of it."

"I want it," you choked out, all pretense gone, all shame obliterated by the sheer force of your desire. "Eurymachus, please... I need you. I'll do anything." The words from the imagined plea echoed in your confession: I'm on my hands and knees selling my soul to you. And in that moment, you meant it.

A predatory smile, full of dark promise, spread across his face. "Anything?" he mused, his fingers teasing, creating a delicious friction against your core, even through the layers of your clothing. "We have all night to explore the possibilities of 'anything,' little lamb."

He pushed slightly, a silent command, and you understood. With trembling legs, you allowed him to guide you, deeper into the shadows of the alley, away from the faint spill of light from the tavern door. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the rasp of your breathing, the thudding of your heart, and the intoxicating, dangerous presence of Eurymachus.

What followed was a blur of sensation, a symphony of touch and taste and desperate, carnal need. He was an inventive and demanding lover, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of you, coaxing sounds from you that you didn't know you were capable of making. He took you there, against the cold stone wall of the alley, with a raw, possessive urgency that left you breathless and trembling, your body arching to meet his every thrust. He whispered wicked, wonderful things in your ear, words that fanned the flames of your desire until you thought you would incinerate from the inside out.

It was rough, it was passionate, it was everything the most unhinged, desperate part of your soul had cried out for. He moved with a rhythm that was both ancient and entirely new, a primal dance of give and take, of dominance and surrender. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, your voice crying out his name as pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, crested through you in wave after debilitating wave.

He followed you into that abyss of sensation, his own release a harsh groan against your neck, his body shuddering against yours.

Afterward, you sagged against him, boneless and sated, your skin slick with sweat, the cool night air a shocking contrast against your heated flesh. His arms were still around you, holding you steady, his breathing slowly returning to normal. The silence that descended was thick, charged, and surprisingly intimate.

He pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to your temple. "You were... quite something," he murmured, a hint of genuine surprise, and perhaps even admiration, in his voice.

You could only manage a shaky nod, your mind still reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. You had come here, to this alley, chasing a fantasy, a carnal need for a specific vision of a man. And somehow, against all odds, that fantasy had become a stark, vivid, incredibly satisfying reality.

He eased back slightly, his dark eyes searching yours in the dim light. The predatory glint was still there, but it was softer now, mingled with something else, something unreadable. "This doesn't have to be the end of it," he said, his voice a low caress. "Unless you want it to be."

The offer hung in the air, a tantalizing promise of more nights like this, more stolen moments, more of him. The "silly lil person" in you wanted to weep with joy, with relief, with the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all.

You looked up at him, at this Eurymachus who had answered a silent, desperate plea, and a slow smile spread across your face. "No," you whispered, your voice hoarse but firm. "This is definitely not the end."

His answering smirk was pure, wicked delight. And as he leaned down to capture your lips once more, you knew, with a thrilling certainty, that you had indeed sold a piece of your soul tonight, and you didn't regret it for a single, blissful second.

[ravenclaw-jojo]

What's in a Name?

First ever time participating in this and throwing myself headfirst into fanfiction writing after several years of hiatus. This is for the Blind Date Event hosted by @unintentionalseductress For @lazyjellyfish300 :3 I don't believe any warnings should be warranted since this is just light fluff <3 Hope you like! Summary: That one barista notices you.

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Geto finished the last of his tea before standing up, returning the cafe chair under the table while Gojo fixed him with an upset pout. “What? You said we were going to explore that haunted mill today. The elders have been-..” “The elders can deal with another cursed spirit walking around Earth one more day. It’s not like we won’t make quick work of them when we do.” Geto replied in an even tone. “There was a call off at the cafe, and I thought I’d pick up an extra shift.” 

Gojo scoffed and Geto could almost see the way he rolled his ice-blue eyes behind the blindfold. “I don’t even know why you’re there. It’s not like you don’t have an actual job with us.” “For a few hours, I like to feel normal. Not some guy defending the greater Tokyo district from spiritual disaster.” He responded, already walking away from the table. Gojo snorted, “Lucky for you, I’m the first one on speed dial.” Geto chuckled softly, knowing that Gojo’s clinginess was warranted – they were an unstoppable duo and it wasn’t that Geto didn’t enjoy spending time with his best friend, unintentionally growing stronger with each cursed spirit he devours. But in those blissful few hours, he enjoyed simply being Geto Suguru. Another soul amongst many. “Sure, I’ll catch you later.” 

✿————✦————✿

The scent of roasting beans had grown into something of a comfort for him, Geto falling into a quick routine once he clocked in. Tying his shoulder-length, raven hair in a bun at the nape of his neck, cinching the barista apron around his waist, he measured and poured beans in the grinder. Taking his time to learn the correct way to steam and even make latte art. He hadn’t lied to Gojo when he explained his need to be ‘normal’ for a few hours. It gave him that small amount of peace where he could turn off his chaotic thoughts…

Ding.

His eyes automatically drew to the glass door that led into the coffeeshop, visceral feeling time slow down, eyes lighting up like lightning behind thick grey clouds. You. This gorgeous woman with the warmest chocolate eyes he’d ever seen and a smile that made his heart stutter in his chest. It was gradual, how you seemed to embed yourself in his heart, building an entire room for yourself that he’d been completely unaware of. If he were being truly honest, he hadn’t noticed when you first ordered, eyes trained on the cash register while you recited your coffee order. It wasn’t until he was calling out an order for, “Gandalf”, that Geto looked into your eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Your fingers brushed for the briefest of seconds, enough to leave lingering warmth against his skin that had nothing to do with hot beverage. 

Over the last couple of months, he’d seen you in various forms: oversized, comfortable hoodies with long hair tied in a messy bun and glasses (you’d order straight black coffee then) to when you were dressed in cozy sweaters in a honey-gold color that complimented your olive skin, neckline dropping over one shoulder - on those days you would try something new, sometimes venturing with one of those crazy, fruity mocktails that their manager insists they sell each ‘season’.

This time around, you were in a green tank top with an unzipped hoodie and hair falling in gentle waves down your back. Your attention was on the holiday specials, missing how Geto practically shoved the other barista out of the way so he could wait on you. 

“The Valentine’s crunch latte please, hot, and light on the syrup.” You ordered at the counter. Geto picked up the marker, writing the order down on the side of the paper cup, raising an eyebrow, “Name?” He knew what was coming.

“Lady Featherington.” You answered.

The permanent marker remained poised in the air, “Lady Featherington is it now? And what was it last week, Mike Myers? Heh, sort of a jump from one genre to the other, isn’t it?” You tilted your head, a lock falling over one shoulder as you regarded him curiously. His questioning had clearly caught you off guard. 

“I-..I’m sorry?” You replied. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, realizing just how creepy this whole situation must’ve sounded from your point of view. 

“Horror movie to…period romance show?” Geto clarified, realizing the way you were looking at him – as if he’d grown an extra head – he cleared his throat and asked, “Can I have a name?” 

You narrowed your eyes. “I just gave you one.” You answered with a glimmer of a challenge behind your irises. The same glimmer only served to pique Geto’s interest more. He tapped the cup with his marker. “Maybe I’d like to write your real name for once. A guy gets curious, you know.” Geto needed to forcefully remind his body that knees were a thing when a genuine smile curved on your lips. 

“And a girl has to remain cautious, you know. Not quite a safe world out there. Lady Featherington.” You repeated a little sharper this time while tapping your phone to the card reader and stepping out of line, prompting the next customer to amble up to the counter before Geto could get another word in.

Trying to be suave about it (and pointedly ignoring the feeling of inadequacy, something he wasn’t familiar with) Geto took matters into his own hands, writing his cell number across the sleeve of the cup.. “One hot Valentine’s crunch latte for Lady Featherington.” Geto replied, flourishing on the name while he pressed the warm cup into your hands, his number proudly faced towards you. “Thanks.” You exited the cafe without looking back.

✿————✦————✿

'A watched pot never boils'.

Gojo noticed how distracted Geto was, how he kept checking his phone for that one text message from an unknown number that he was hoping would be you. 

"What's gotten into you?" Gojo asked, sensing a restless aura rolling from Geto.

"I’m fine." Geto murmured curtly, the scent of the mill starting to get to him. Dank and closed off as if the air had remained undisturbed for several years — untrue considering the number of disappearances that have been reported within the area. 

"You're not…just tell me what's going on in that big brain of yours, maybe I could help out. Nothing the strongest can't fix, right?" He smirked. Geto scoffed at the reply, "Fortunately, this is something you have no control over."

"C'moooooon man, I'm bored and-..." Gojo's sentence was cut off by the unfamiliar ding that came from Geto's pant pocket. "Oh? Is that what you were waiting for?" 

Ignoring the comment, Geto slid the device out and glanced at the screen. His heart did flutter lightly in his chest when he realized it was an unregistered phone number in his mobile. The message however, was something unexpected. 

Unknown Number [My friend doesn't know I'm doing this but I know she's not the type to reach out first. Here's her number instead ----] 

Geto's eyes narrowed, his fingers practically gliding over the glass screen.  [How do I know this is the same person and not just a prank to get me to text someone else?]

Unknown Number [Because I love my best friend to death and she's never going to take the initiative, even if it's for her own good. Please?] 

"Are you texting someone now? When we're in the middle of a mission?" Gojo’s impatience was more obvious now. Geto rolled his eyes, "You do it all the time. Don't even get me started."     "Well, I'm a different breed." He answered with a cocky smirk. Whatever sentence that came from his mouth next, Geto barely heard, his attention trained instead on the new text message to you hoping that you were indeed the other person on the phone and it wasn't just some elaborate prank. 

[I was told by your best friend that I'd be better off texting first, Lady Featherington? Or did you prefer to be saved in my phone as 'Gandalf'?] 

The rest of the night remained quiet, much to his disappointment and Gojo's mounting annoyance. It was only on his walk home did Geto finally get a response he'd been waiting for: [How'd you get this number?]

[You know for someone that is worried about serial killers, you should probably tell your friends not to give out your number. 😉 Your lack of a response is telling me that I should save you under Gandalf]

[I'm going to kill her.] ✿————✦————✿

It's been a week since he's gotten a reply from you. Every day that consisted of him checking his messages over and over again to Gojo's amusement ("You've never been this wound up over a girl before, what makes her different?" He teased.) 

And Geto didn't have an answer for it. It was a weird ache in his chest that just happened to know he would be 'missing out' if he didn't continue to send you text messages. And it's not like he wouldn't have gotten the hint, because surely if you had wanted him to stop you would have blocked his number by now. 

Yet the messages kept going through the 'received' and 'read' cycle which hopefully meant you were reading them at least.

"Who is Lady Gandalf?" Gojo asked peeking over his shoulder

"Will you stop being so nosy?" He asked, shoving the white-haired man back from him. 

Lady Gandalf [I need your help.]

The text message came unprompted and enough to cause surprise that the phone almost slipped from his fingers. 

[ 🧐And what pray tell, does the lady require?]

Lady Gandalf [You don’t happen to have the keys to the coffeeshop do you? I accidentally left my laptop charger in there and I’ve got a work presentation tomorrow that I absolutely need to prepare for.]

[So NOW you need me? Typical ;)]

Lady Gandalf [I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on for judging me. Who gives out their phone numbers to random strangers on coffee cups?]

Geto threw his head back in laughter. 

[Do you want your charger or not? I can meet you at the coffeeshop in 20 minutes.]

There was a pause and he almost wondered if he’d scared you away. Perhaps the idea of meeting a stranger at a coffee shop after hours – innocuous as it may seem – might’ve rang some sort of warning bell which wouldn’t offend him – one could never be too safe… Lady Gandalf [I’ll be there]

✿————✦————✿

Geto resisted all urge to keep looking at his watch. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t like this. Before you walked into the coffee shop his job had been a great distraction, some place where he used to turn his mind off. Now each shift came with expectation…needing you to show up… And what was he doing here at this time anyway? This was so obviously a prank, how did he even know if you’d visited the coffeeshop…

His heart thrummed in his chest when he recognized your silhouette approaching the building. Your bangs are mused, smooshed between the beanie you must’ve hastily thrown and cheeks flushed a peach that made him smile unconsciously. 

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He said before the filter kicked in, silently cursing himself for being so transparent with his thoughts. 

Your eyebrows scrunched above the frames of your glasses, “No? I told you I’ve got a presentation for work tomorrow, I need my laptop charger. Why would I joke about something like that?” You questioned. 

He shrugged, digging into his pocket for the keys to unlock the glass doors, “I wasn’t sure if you’d trust me.” 

“I wouldn’t go so far as trust,” You replied, following him into the darkened coffeeshop. Geto flipped the lights on, bathing the empty shop with yellowed lights. “-since I did tell my friend about where I am and who I’m with. You know, since you both are such great pals and all.” 

At that, Geto couldn’t help but chuckle, the way you narrowed your brown eyes behind your glasses only encouraged him further. “This the same friend that texted me your number, I assume?” 

“Sharp.”

“Got to be since you’re so intent on making me to be a serial killer.” Geto folded his arms, leaning against the counter. “So where is this magical charger of yours? I’m beginning to think this is an elaborate ruse of getting me all alone in the shop.” 

You spun on your heels, an annoyed scoff at the back of your throat. “Please.” You walked towards a corner of the store where the electrical outlets were located. Bending over, Geto attempted to avert his eyes from your back but it was hard to ignore the sliver of skin between your t-shirt and low-slung yoga pants that hinted at the beginnings of a tattoo… He did however immediately redirect his gaze when you stood up, hands on your hips. “It’s not here. Do you guys maybe have a ‘Lost and Found’ or something?” You asked.

“Yeah, I’ll go check, what color is it?” He asked.

“Black. It’s got a sticker on it. A racoon saying, ‘TrashCAN, not trashCANNOT.’” 

Geto’s eyes glittered with amusement, noting the way your cheeks deepen in that delightful peach. “I’ll see if it’s there.” 

A few minutes later, he returned from the office with a laptop charger in hand, an amused smirk on his lips. “Do you like racoons or-?” 

He chuckled, raising it higher in the air before you could snatch it from him, “Nuh-uh-...”

“It’s mine.”

“I know, and you’ll get it back.” He took his phone out, scrolling to your messages before handing it over to you. Geto kept his smile light, ignoring the way it seemed the sound of his blood rushing through his ears was amplified from seeing your own amusement flash through your eyes when you read the placeholder nickname he entered in his phone for you. 

“Lady Gandalf?” 

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.” He shrugged. You take the phone from his hand, your laughter causing him to warm something within. 

His fingers closed around your hand when you handed the phone back to him. 

“Alright, I’ll text you…” His eyes flitted down to his phone screen, reading your name for the first time.  Heh. Pretty.

You smirked. “Maybe this time, I’ll text back.”  

=+= ravenclaw-jojo™️2025 writing | No copying, plagiarizing or translations without expressed permission.

[authorautumnbanks]

A Thousand Days With You (18)

Series Master List

Suguru pauses. Something doesn't feel right. No, this energy is similar to the one from Jujutsu High. The person who took Kagome. But why would they be anywhere near this abandoned building? Unless they knew about Satoru's missions. Suguru frowns. Even so, the amount of missions Satoru has today alone is staggering.

And Nanami has missions too.

Another reason he does not miss working for Jujutsu High. They run sorcerers ragged like dogs.

"What's wrong?" Nanami asks. His normally neat hair is disorderly, as though he just woke up from a night filled with tossing and turning. The stress of the day is clearly getting to the uptight man.

"That person is close by," Satoru answers. His blindfold is still off, hanging from his neck like a fashion statement. "The one that took Kagome, but the energy is..."

"More visceral than cursed," Suguru says, picking up where Satoru leaves off. "I'll be your... I'll take the lead with my curses since we're stuck together. Satoru, you can be back up and Nanami, I don't know." Suguru shrugs one shoulder. It's not as though Nanami's technique allows for ranged attacks and with them all bound... yeah, Nanami is pretty useless right now.

Nanami stiffens. "I can help," he grounds out.

"You have nothing to offer," Satoru remarks. "Not with your mobility being limited."

"Are you insinuating that I am useless?"

Suguru watches the interaction. Watches how Nanami's cheeks flush pink. How his voice cracks ever so slightly. "You can watch our back," he says, not because he thinks they will need it and not because he thinks Nanami can be of help, but if they want to be free of this contraption, then they must work together.

Frustrating.

But more frustrating is how Nanami lusts for Satoru. Where the hell does he get off converting things that do not belong to him?

Nanami swallows and then clears his throat. "Very well."

"What's with you? Pissed about Kagome?"

Suguru raises a brow. "Naturally. According to her mother, this is a normal occurrence." His lips tilt down in a frown. "Why she thinks you and Kagome are together is a mystery."

Satoru scoffs. "And here I thought you were smart." He laughs to himself, but the sound is hollow. "Kagome and I have something special. She's just scared. That's the only reason she went on a date with you." Satoru walks, heading for where the energy is the thickest. "But I'm a patient man, and I don't mind waiting for her to see how right we are and how terrible you two are."

"Why am I in it?" Nanami questions. "We already talked about this. I do not want Kagome."

"But you fantasize about Satoru fucking her," Suguru says slowly.

"I—ahem." Nanami turns his head away as he coughs. "That is not. I mean, Shoko was just uh talking as she does." His ears are bright red. "I do not think about Satoru at all. And I certainly do not think about him sleeping with Kagome or how she takes it, or how hard he gives it to her because I do not."

Suguru blinks slowly, so Nanami can read the bullshit meter on his face. This is worse than he thought. How long has Nanami harbored these feelings for Satoru?

"Let's get going," Satoru says, ignoring Nanami.

Suguru keeps silent, instead he observes how the more Satoru ignores Nanami, the more flustered Nanami becomes. "Is it a cuckold kink?" he asks.

"What?" Satoru glances over his shoulder. "This mission isn't about some dude that wanted to watch his wife get fucked. This is an abandoned office. The employees rioted against the CEO." Satoru motions to broken down desks and dusty computers.

"Talking about Nanami," Suguru replies. "You're attracted to Kagome and get off on how Satoru fucks her. Is it a cuckold kink?" Surprisingly, the annoyance doesn't swell in his gut. This is the problem with being close to Satoru. He wants things he cannot have. Kagome will be his. That's a given. But having his best friend back is shooting for the stars.

Suguru isn't that lucky.

"I do not think about Satoru," Nanami grounds out, exasperated. "Kagome is attractive. She is very beautiful. There is no denying that, but she is my coworker. We're sorcerers," he says with a sigh. "We live dangerous lives. Getting married and having children is not in the works for me. I couldn't leave behind a widow or worse, have others target my family."

Suguru raises a brow. So that is more than what he asked for. Widow? Family? All he asked was if Nanami wanted to watch. Suguru rubs the back of his head and presses his lips together in concentration. "You could just not be a sorcerer."

"Tried that," Nanami says. "Being a salary man was even worse." He waves his free hand in the air. "Besides, Kagome has been taken. This job is dangerous."

"Time out." Satoru stops right before the door, where the energy is the most concentrated. "This has nothing to do with Kagome being a sorcerer." He frowns. "She's not really a sorcerer since she doesn't use cursed energy, but the point remains. We all heard what her mom said. This is normal."

"How is kidnapping normal?" Suguru questions.

"It's not? But it seems to be normal for Kagome. This isn't because of our line of work. If ya want to stay single, then fine, do that. But don't make excuses just because you're scared."

The hold loosens. Suguru stares at their connected hands, but neither Satoru nor Nanami seem to notice, too engrossed in their conversation. The more they work together and put aside their differences, the more mobility they'll have.

"If you two are done, I am ready to get this mission over with. I doubt we get to all your missions today, Satoru." Suguru summons a few curses grade-one curses. Whatever is on the other side is powerful, but a couple of curses and two special grades should be more than enough.

The hold tightens.

Okay, and a grade one sorcerer, Suguru adds. Lovely, it reacts to his—their thoughts. The chances of them breaking free today are slim.

Satoru lifts his foot and kicks the door in. "Alright, if you come out, I might take it easy on ya." They walk into the room and then energy is coming from a doll? "Yeah, I ain't touching that. Shit looks creepy as fuck."

Suguru directs a curse to pick up the doll. Nothing happens. The poison curse with red pimples over its green face holds the doll out and then shakes it. Upon further inspection, there is something fox-like about it. Maybe it is the slant of its eyes or maybe it's the wide smile with four fangs. Or maybe it is the red strands of hair.

"Maybe we should take a step back and have your curse destroy it," Nanami says as he takes a step back. "This reeks of a trap."

"Yah, it does," Satoru agrees. "Are all my missions like this or just this one?"

Satoru has far too many missions today alone for every one of them to be rigged. "Perhaps they are watching us. If they were able to set up a trap for every mission, then... that would be impressive and suggest they are not working alone."

"We should do my mission next," Nanami says after a while. "It may be Satoru they want to get rid of."

"Hey!"

Nanami clears his throat. "You are the most dangerous of the three of us," he says slowly. "And if this concerns Kagome, then you are the only one that has slept with her?"

Satoru snaps his head at Suguru.

"We went on one date," Suguru admits. "I wanted to press for more, but I didn't want Kagome to think that's all I want from her."

Satoru frowns. "Kagome knows we're more than fuck buddies." He cracks his neck and motions to the doll. "Tell your curse to hold it out a little further, unless you want me to get rid of your curse, too." A small red ball appears above Satoru's finger.

Looks like he mastered that after all these years.

The doll explodes, leaving behind a cloud of gas. Shit. Suguru covers his nose as they rush out of the room. Poison? The gas stays in the room. It doesn't disperse out.

Weird.

"There's no curse here," Suguru says, lowering his arm. "What level was this mission supposed to be?"

"Grade one. Nothin' special."

"We should—hic—get—hic—going." Nanami slaps his hand over his mouth.

"You good?" Satoru asks, looking back into the room. The gas fades away as quickly as it appeared.

"I'm—hic—fine—hic. Just need—hic—some wa—hic—ter."

"Boo!" Satoru yells.

"Did—hic—n't help." Nanami grimaces. "Just need—hic—some—hic—water and—hic—I'll be—hic—fine."

"Satoru, give him some candy. Something to suck on so he can stop." Suguru resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Ain't got no candy on me."

"I could—hic—suck your—hic—cock."

"WHAT?"

Nanami slaps his hand over his mouth. His eyes widen. "I—hic—meant what—hic—I—hic— said," he mumbles behind his hand.

Suguru stares at Nanami and then looks back at the room. "You didn't cover your nose, did you?"

"I—hic—was smelling—hic—Satoru's—hic—cologne." Nanami squeezes his eyes shut and a small sob escapes.

"Satoru, take us to your apartment." Suguru runs his tongue over the top of his teeth to stop from saying something he shouldn't. How dare Nanami lust over Satoru. It's bad enough he wants Kagome, but he wants Satoru too? How greedy can Nanami be? "Then he can have some water and stop with the damn hiccups."

"Uhh... sure," Satoru gives Nanami a look right before warping them outside of his apartment. Suguru grits his teeth. Warping is not for him. It does not agree with his stomach. Riding on a curse that can fly is more agreeable. "For the record, Nanami, you are a pervert. Wanting me to fuck you." Satoru fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

"Thank—hic—you."

Satoru throws a disgusted look over his shoulder. Suguru clucks his tongue along the roof of his mouth. So cuckold and degradation kink?

"How long? Since we were teenagers?" Suguru asks.

"Since—hic—I saw—hic—him and Kagome." Nanami blows out a breath. His lips wobble. "Since—hic—he started—hic—treating me—hic—as less than." Nanami whimpers. His shoulders shake. "And—hic—the bathroom. I was—hic—jealous—hic—of you two."

The binding loosens.

Suguru stares at their hands. Is he the only one noticing? Satoru looks exasperated and Nanami looks as though he wants to disappear. So, it is only him that notices. "Maybe you should let him suck your cock."

"Excuse me? Do I look like—"

"The binding is looser."

Satoru pauses in the middle of the living room. The apartment is pretty barren, and it is clear he does not spend a lot of time here. But it is better than going back to Jujutsu High. Nanami swallows.

"I don't think this is what Kagome had in mind when she said we need to get along."

"She thinks—hic—we—hic—are—hic—together."

"Yeah, and whose fucking fault is that?" Satoru groans and threads his fingers through his hair. "Suguru, this is crazy. You want me to fuck Nanami, so the binding loosens some more? How the hell is that going to get us closer to finding Kagome? And what about my other missions? What if there are more clues? That doll was fucking with us."

"That doll," Suguru starts, "is causing Nanami to tell the truth. It would help if you two could put aside your differences," he chokes out. His mouth is full of tar. Frankly, he doesn't want Nanami anywhere near Satoru, but the binding seems to think this will help them. Or at least help Nanami.

Kami he hates this.

Satoru groans again. "This is bullshit, and I can't believe I'm going along with it. How the hell do I explain this to Kagome? Sorry babe, I let Nanami suck my cock so we could get out of this binding you did, so we can cover more ground to rescue you? Yeah, that's gonna go over well."

"You—hic—aren't—hic—with Kagome," Nanami says.

"We are together."

"She—hic—didn't even—hic-know you two—hic—were—hic—on a date. You—hic—aren't—hic—together. She wouldn't—hic—have gone out with—hic—Suguru—hic."

Suguru tilts his head to the side. "Satoru."

"Oh, fuck that. Come on, Suguru. Ya can't be serious."

"Drop your pants and let's get this over with. If it doesn't work, then it doesn't work. But if it does, then..." Suguru trails off, not wanting to voice or give weight to what that means if this does work. His brows furrow together as he recalls what Kagome said earlier about not wanting to get in between their relationship.

Maybe they are going about this wrong.

Satoru blows out a breath and pulls out his phone. "On your knees, Nanami. You want my cock so bad, you can get it out yourself." He scrolls on his phone. Suguru leans over and blinks. How many pictures of Kagome does he have? Suguru glances down and exhales. His nostrils flare as his body jerks closer to Nanami.

Lovely. The binding may be loosening on Nanami and Satoru's end, but not for him. Suguru bites his tongue as Nanami uses one hand to undo Satoru's pants. Is he seriously going to watch this?

Nanami swallows as he palms Satoru's cock. His eyes make contact with Suguru before flitting over Satoru, who is more entertained with looking at pictures on his phone. Suguru inhales. His heart hammers away in his chest, pounding harder when Nanami moves his lips closer.

"Do it right, Nanami," Satoru says, offhandedly, as though this whole situation is one big inconvenience for him. "Or else Suguru will have to show you how it's done."

Nanami grunts.

Suguru presses his lips together. Perhaps Nanami should come with them. He sighs and looks over at Satoru. Convincing Satoru and Nanami is one thing. How the hell is he going to convince Kagome that three is better than two?

***

A/N: Suguru slowly realizing he's gonna have to let Nanami in. Still not 100% but feeling so much better. Clearly JJK ending is what caused me to get sick.

Probably have one more chapter of something happening to the boys. I think something should happen to Suguru next lol.

Take care of yourselves! Get plenty of rest and enjoy the nice weather. Take your vitamins and stay safe! Here's a sneak peek at probably chapter 20 (was supposed to be this chapter but I didn't think the boys were suffering enough).

Kagome blinks. "What are you three doing in my apartment? And why are you still stuck together?" She rolls her eyes skyward and huffs. Seriously? All they had to do was get along and they couldn't even do that?

"Worried about you," Suguru cuts in. "But who is that?"

Shippo chuckles and wraps his arms around Kagome. "The only man that matters."

"Are you the one that kidnapped Kagome?" Kento asks, pocketing his shades.

"Kidnap is such a strong word. I missed my mommy," Shippo coos. "On second thought, I want to stay with you tonight. There's no way I could go back knowing that these—these cult members are so deranged that they would break into your home!" Shippo sniffs. "You can't have her."

"…Mommy?" Satoru glares. "Step away from Kagome, and I won't make it hurt much."

"Satoru," Kagome says sharply. "Do not threaten Shippo."

"You know him?" Satoru swallows. "He took you?"

"He missed me. It's fine."

[interpolanticssuperfan]

nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 5 | 18+ only

hi everyone!! wow, i did not mean for this chapter to be so meaty!! i sort of had fun setting up the building blocks for ken's return, so i hope it makes sense and feels necessary. thanks for reading and supporting <3 <3 SMUT IS COMING!! DO NOT WORRY (:

tags: @heyareyoulistening @itsametaphorbriansblog @alyeria @chrispontiass

After Ken leaves you, the weekend passes by without notable interruption. Life goes on, and you have no choice but to keep going with it. If the blues of the sky pale, the whorls of white clouds disentangle themselves into nothing; if the pastels of colored buildings all seem duller afterwards, you don’t say anything about it to anyone. 

Not like you had anyone to tell.

Your supervisor ends up buying the flimsy lie you’d concocted as to why you were so behind on reports and emails. To compensate for the hindrance and cover your ass, you worked a handful of hours on Sunday, barely functioning after fighting sleep that night. Blinking blearily into your weak homemade coffee. 

The first night without Ken was impressively quiet. Hours of tossing and turning, counting stippled designs on the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut when the blue or white light of your television grew too intense, your mind repeating on a loop that you’d never see him again. Funnily enough, the obtrusive screen could have easily been turned off, but the idea of laying cocooned in silence was worse than any other punishment imaginable. 

You remembered how clean and aromatic Ken had smelled in your kitchen, as you observed the featherlight movement of his stomach, his breath tense under your catatonic stare. Like fresh linen, the initial wave of those pink tulips planted in tiny little rows in front of the library, the relief of a clean, spotless home. 

Ken had smelled like a long-awaited sigh, like comfort, like the warm tailend of a nap that you couldn’t be shaken out of. A home you’d never known. Each element of Ken’s ever having existed had blown out the front door and followed him back to a place that didn’t sound real. Maybe wasn’t real.

How could you miss someone you hadn’t even really known at all?

Perhaps you could traipse out of the bedroom, wait out there in silence to see if you could still pick up any lingering traces of him in the dark, if you could pick up any notes of the pure bleach of his hair, pungent like a drying ink stamp. 

Something told you even if you had nuzzled against Ken’s head, it wouldn’t smell like chlorine, wouldn’t smell like sodium hypochlorite or aluminum foil, because Ken didn’t need to seek out alterations to make himself beautiful, didn’t need to add to or take away from any part of his physicality to fit some type of standard. 

He was naturally impeccable. Easily unmarred.

(Astonishing, really, how little time it had taken for your every waking moment to be consumed with thoughts of Ken.)

But now your living space was stoic. Fragmented by a deficit of light and life and sparkling teeth that glowed like ethereal cave moss. 

(Teeth you desired to feel with your own tongue, battling for dominance in his sweet, pink mouth that curved like a marble bow. You wanted to memorize the dips and juts of his molars, his canines, wanted to know them each by shape alone.)

The cold right side of your bedsheets felt freezing to the touch once you’d spent three hours awake in the small of dawn imagining how wonderful it’d be to share it with someone. Picturing the rise and fall of thin fabric as Ken rested, let his body go lax next to yours. The way he wanted to. The way he’d been angling for.

You frowned to yourself, twisting a fraying thread on the empty pillow around your pinky, the silk too plump, too… devoid of blonde companionship.

How could you have pushed Ken away? Was it mere loneliness that had conjured this visceral reaction out of you? The feeling that deep down, you’d never really been seen for who you were and subsequently accepted? Let alone fawned over?

Your head bobbed as if underwater, tumbling out of wakefulness and into disappointment.

The second night without Ken had been fretful. Restless. Two bottles of pink wine sent you straight to sleep, and after brushing Willa’s hair and ordering in ten dollar pad thai, the only flashes of blonde you saw in your conscience were drifting through sleep, hazy through lackluster dreams.

You tried cleaning. Tried scrubbing the tiles of the kitchen for something to do. Anything to remind yourself that you had responsibilities, that life carried on outside of the compelling stranger you’d met at the library.

When Sunday rolled around your work bag felt about as heavy as the ones under your eyes, twin weights that refused to be alleviated.

You wished you understood why this was taking such a toll on you. Even Willa seemed to be raising her eyebrows at you from her tiny enclosure.

You’d been the one to suggest that Ken leave. That he pack it up and go right back the way he’d came.

You’d never really been one for accepting good things that rolled into your life. Whether they made sense or not, had been earned or not. Displays of paranoia at even the most throwaway compliment. 

It’s how you’d reacted to receiving a scholarship – awkward declinations that catapulted house parties or family dinners into palpable silence. “No, no. Really, it’s nothing, I don’t even deserve this. Don’t mention it. Can we please stop talking about this now?”

You didn’t even like celebrating your own birthday.

How ironic, that the pinpricks of attention from your loved ones made you shrink under the pressure, but the laser-tight surveillance Ken directed towards you had the opposite reaction. You came to life under his scrutiny. Felt your heart swell and twist with each moment he spent watching you.

The cashier at the corner store nearly dropped his jaw in horror when he caught a glimpse of how ragged you were looking. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, your fingers fumbling with your wallet as you paid for another pack of cigarettes.

“Been a minute, (Y/N). Everything going alright?” What he really wanted to say was, what the fuck happened to you?

You ignore the stilt of his worried voice. “Fine. Thanks.” The kid doesn’t push it, just adjusts his baseball cap and shrugs, watches you shoulder out the front door with a loaded sigh.

Setting up at the library reminded you too much of the sweet, breezy morning you’d met Ken, the sunshine that had wrapped itself around you. You just couldn’t anticipate how you’d react while trying to pay attention there, surrounded by so many reminders of the only interesting, worthwhile thing that had ever happened to you, so the most sensible course of action seemed to be the patio.

You lasted about an hour in the sunshine before the glare bothered you and all you wanted was darkness.

Monday proved to be worse.

Reluctant to leave the apartment, you work again for the day in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine at noon and logging off early at four when the carpet starts to spin, when email subjects blur into train tracks of nonsense that you can’t make sense of.

Your sister calls unexpectedly at dinner time while you’re dozing off at seven, drooling on the pillow. It goes straight to voicemail. How nice of her to find time away from her son to remember your existence.

Rubbing your temples, you chide yourself. Not nice to think things like that. Grow up.

Not calling her back, you throw your phone on the bed and follow suit, dropping down again and sipping a crushed can of beer from the night before, stale and tasteless.

Tuesday plagued you with the promise of nice weather, a drop in extreme temperature, but again, the second you got dressed to head down to the library, you felt laziness tug at your mind, felt depression sink into your chest.

Why even bother, you wondered? Why bother when I’ve a perfectly comfortable bed just around the corner where I won’t have to be looked at.

It should have concerned you. The drastic, melodramatic changes you’d been experiencing, the intense highs and lows of your emotional wellbeing all because of some guy you’d only met last week. 

Then again, you’d always been like this. Building up fantasy lives and scenarios in your head so fondly (stupidly) that when faced with reality, actual human beings tended to let you down, so this exercise always resulted in disappointment. Locking yourself in your childhood room, scrawling on the walls in pencil and then erasing what you’d written for hours. Your parents left clueless without any idea as to how to handle your outbursts.  

Wednesday seemed to tease you. A pointless company retreat at corporate meant your supervisors were all out of town until Friday, inviting you to slack off as much as you wanted – ergo, no one would notice your idling. 

So you slept diligently until noon, fed Willa her special pellets during a fleeting moment of salience, and then got ready to catch a taxi to your favorite bar. 

Who said you couldn’t work from a sticky countertop surrounded by shots of tequila and boisterous strangers?

Not like you’d be paying much mind to your laptop anyway. You showered out of habit and slipped into a skirt that fit your hips nicely, in your opinion, and shimmied into a tight fitting brown top. 

It occurred to you that calling your sister back would be a fruitful use of your afternoon, but shoving your phone into your bag, you decided to put that off for another time. 

Perhaps when your head wasn’t spinning with pathetic visions of being shoved into a wall and forcibly kissed breathless, strong hands glued to your side and tracking down the outside of your pelvis, repetitive circles rubbed into your skin with soft thumbprints until you could finally, finally undo the zipper, hurry the rest of his clothes off, shove him backward into your bed –

The taxi blares its horn out front in the road, shaking you from the vivid daydream. Leaving you with nothing but emptiness and a heat pooling in your abdomen that had grown difficult to suppress. Arid summer air filled your weary lungs, and you hid behind a chunky pair of sunglasses which successfully concealed how tired you looked from the driver, who looked to be as old as your father.

“Dropping you off right at Paulson’s? Or you going to the cafe right next door? Place is pretty popular from what I’ve heard.” His attempt at genial conversation was kind, but it wasn’t what you needed right now.

“Actually, Paulson’s is fine. I’m meeting a friend.” Pulse still racing in your throat from what you’d been imagining earlier, it takes mountains of effort to keep your voice even.

“No problem. Just making sure.”

 The bar is essentially empty save for you, two employees and a guy slouched into a newspaper near the television. Which is fair, seeing as it isn’t even two in the afternoon.

One tequila soda turns into two which turns into a blistering three which eventually turns into closing up your laptop in favor of chatting gregariously with the bartender, complaining about the weather and the price of gas (even though you don’t drive) and requesting ABBA on the ancient jukebox. Patrons start to trickle in as the sun sets and it’s just as well, you’d been feeling particularly lonely by yourself.

The pack of cigarettes you’d bought dwindles as you reach your fourth cocktail. You light another one, hold it to your lips just as a figure approaches from behind. 

A guy with long, stringy brown hair takes the stool next to you, his scrawny frame swimming in a button up shirt too big for him. He’d given you a once over before picking this spot, and you knew it. You swallow, your throat clicking, and think to yourself that were it not for Ken, he’d be exactly the type you usually go for. 

Quiet, unassuming guys who don’t have much going on in life besides perhaps their accounting job and a few friends they see in dingy bars. Maybe they play shitty music in shitty bands that you hate staying out to see.

You should hate how it reeks inside this smoking-allowed bar. You should hate that you’re capable of drinking so much in one sitting, that it hasn’t knocked you out, put you to sleep. You should hate the persistent way this skeleton-thin loser is eyeing you from behind his beer, but you don’t.

You should hate how easily you rip yourself open for men.

The guy tucks a strand of that hair behind his ear and it makes you squirm. Any music coming from the jukebox feels a hundred miles away.

“What are you drinking?” A beat of silence passes between you, and you flare your nostrils, unsure of how to proceed but honestly so sloppy from the liquor you aren’t giving it too much thought.

“Tequila.” You take another drag from the smoke, blow it away towards the propped open door, your mouth lazing in an “O”.

“How’s that going?”

“Pretty great.” It wasn’t a lie. If great consisted of your vision fuzzing at the edges and your mind falling blissfully quiet for the first time in days. 

“You have beautiful hair.” The offhand comment makes your cheeks flush. It could’ve also been combining with the sizable amount of liquor you’d imbibed. 

“Mind if I buy you another round?” You wonder if this a trap. If it’s a trick. The guy’s deep brown eyes swirl under the overhead lights, comfortably dim, and you can nearly smell the sweat circling the back of his neck. It’s like a starving lion fighting the urge to pounce at a wounded gazelle bleeding out profusely on a plain. Agony.

But the idea of Ken accepting a drink from a girl throwing herself all over him has bile crawling up your throat, and you pale at the thought. Absolutely not – no way. 

Not like you owned him. Not like you wanted to own him. 

“Sorry, I’m actually on my way out.” It’s a blatant lie, it feels thick on your tongue and it’s so obvious to the stranger too with his damp chest on display, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but it’s not smart for you to entertain him for another moment longer. You round the bar to a less occupied area, take another shot, and close your tab.

Your bag has never felt so heavy on your shoulder before.

The taxi heading back home is initially uneventful, but as soon as the driver peels onto the highway, something about your stomach doing cartwheels and the melting streetlights makes you emotional. You can hear Ken’s voice at your side, hear his words playing at your neck. 

“That’s one enormous building, (Y/N). People work way up there? Even right at the top? Oh, man. Did you see that fountain – it’s like a lake! I bet you can ice skate there when it’s cold enough. Would you go with me? When it’s cold?” 

You’re about to tell Ken yes, of course we can go skating, when you remember it’s not real. It’s so seamless to place him here, to envision how he’d react to the different sights and sounds of the city. Feels so correct, like it was preordained or something. He’d wrinkle his nose at the way you smell right now, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be next to you.

It’s impossible to hide the tears that flow from your eyes as you rest your forehead against the chilly window. Choking back an audible sob, you dig your nails into your palm, everything so small and futile and fucking lonely. The covered seats smell like patchouli and you just want to get home.

Thoughtfully, the driver clears his throat, turns the radio down a smidge.

“Is there… do you have anyone you can call?” He asks politely and clearly despite his noticeable stutter. For some reason he surmises that you’re in a state to have a conversation.

“Uh, I... do I look that bad?” You question.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, miss.” He seems offended.

“Well. My sister’s the only person I know within a fifty mile radius of the city, and she’s so busy with her kid I don’t think she’d give me the time of day. ‘Specially not when I’ve been drinking like this. Thanks for asking.”

He peers at the road like he’s ready to drop the subject, but he gives a light cough after a few seconds.

“A boyfriend, then?”

Oh, Jesus. Not this guy, too? Can you ever catch a break? His bizarre advances and body language were about to make you cry even harder.

“There was this guy. He was. He was everything. I pushed him away… I feel like I’m going crazy. Didn't even know him that well. He was so exciting. And he treated me like I was the interesting one, but I'm not. I'm not. And I told him to go home. I always do this.” Snot trickles from your nose in time for your bare wrist to catch some of it. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d apologize to the driver for being such a nuisance.

“I’m sure if he was feeling the same way you are, he won’t be upset to hear from you again. Distance can show a guy what he really cares about.”

Thumb scraping at the mascara clumps under your eyelashes, you nod, surprisingly agreeing with the driver. 

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just feels like I screwed things up with him. I have never met anyone like him before. Like if I lost him, I feel like I might die.”

“Sounds pretty serious.” He clucks his tongue, listening intently as the road whizzes by. 

“That, or I’m just an insane person. He relied on me for a lot of things.”

“Were you living together?” The driver wonders aloud, flipping to a local late night talk show. It occurs to you to check the time. Ten past nine. You’d been at the bar for that long?

“No, he was just… getting used to the world. He had been away for awhile. If that makes sense.”

The driver nods knowingly, a glint in his eye that you catch from the rearview mirror. “I see. He did some time and now you’re helping him get acclimated to life again?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on your shoulders. Doesn’t he have family who can help too? Unless he cut ties with his family. Getting tangled up with the law can put a lot of stress on everyone involved. I know from experience. My brother robbed an electronics store when he was nineteen, he’s still paying for it.” 

Normally, this sort of long winded back and forth would annoy you, moreso after you’d been crying. But the driver’s words lulled you back down to earth, reminded you that other humans and situations and problems existed outside of your own insulated world.

“Sorry to hear that. To answer your question, I’m kind of his only lifeline. The only one who can help with all the things he wants to know. Like I’m a mother sometimes. I know how that sounds, but it’s not a horrible thing, not really. I have no idea how he’s going to find a job. I don’t know how much I’m supposed to be involved, or if I should just let him be an individual and figure things out on his own. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” 

The driver shakes his head curtly, rolls the windows down a pinch for you. You’d been hoping he’d answer affirmatively as you’d already pulled another smoke out from your bag.

“Well, not that you asked my opinion. But I say just be realistic. If you see a need you can fill, I say there’s no harm in helping. Oh, I almost forgot. I volunteer at an animal shelter right outside of town. You know where the Lyons Bridge is?”

“Yeah, my dentist is over there on the corner of Orwell.”

“It’s right across, you can’t miss it. Point being, I can probably talk to my manager, see if we have any work to offer. Not sure how your hubby does with animals, but it’s a start, right? And for someone jumping in fresh, you can’t really beat it.”

The unprompted offer caught you off guard, and you barely had the sense of mind to give him a smile, or positive acknowledgment. You flicked your cigarette with your thumb, watched the ashes dance away. “Wow. I mean. Thank you so much, seriously. That’s so kind of you. If I see him again I will definitely tell him that.”

“You’re very welcome. It was hard for my brother too, getting back on his feet. For years I was the only one in his corner supporting him, so I know how you feel.”

When he pulls up to the half circle parking loop in front of your apartment building, the driver scrawls the name and number of the shelter on a business card. He cracks a lopsided grin, and you realize that this guy is probably way too old to have been hitting on you.

“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir.”

“Call me Mike.”

“Mike. Thank you.” You made to pop open the door handle, ready to face the nothingness of the rest of your night, visions of the wine coolers in your fridge calling to you sweetly, but Mike piped up again.

“Not so fast, little lady. I think you should dry your tears and give him a call. Put on a nice dress, you know? Put your best foot forward. Lord knows he missed you while he was behind bars!” Obviously it was meant to be a joke, but the heart behind it felt a little too real, though you’d lied about the nature of your relationship with Ken.

Ken. Even saying his name had your palms growing clammy, your eyes welling up again with stupid, childish tears. Mike noticed this falter in your face, and he shifted his body fully in his seat to face you.

“No more of that, okay? It’ll be alright. Just get yourself cleaned up and give him a call. Think positive.”

“You’re right. Sorry for making a fool of myself. I’ve just had an incredibly weird week.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It occurs to you that perhaps Mike is angling for a nice tip. He was your taxi driver, after all. You fish out a ten dollar bill from your bag and hand it to him, taking the business card and sniffling quietly.

“Thanks again. Have a safe rest of your night.” 

Wisps of the night air knocked at your ankles, the exposed skin of your arms, and you scolded yourself for not bringing a sweater. Your bag hung heavy at your shoulder, but you just stared down at the business card. Second Chances Animal Haven, the card read. Ask for Dominic – tell him Mike sent you!

As usual, the unexpected generosity of strangers is enough to make you weepy again, so instead you read the card aloud to yourself, digging absentmindedly for your keys as you head towards the back row of apartment units.

“Here at Second Chances, we believe animals and people deserve to be seen at their best. We’ve been proudly partnered with local rehab centers and addiction programs for twenty years to provide employment opportunities to convicted felons, or those reintegrating back into society. Are you or someone you know interested in volunteer or career information? Give us a call at three zero four…” 

You trailed off, flipping the card over to assess the cute graphic of a man petting the head of a labrador, absolutely beaming. The dog’s fuzzy snout brought tears to your eyes, and you wanted to scream at yourself, why does everything make me so goddamned emotional? It made you feel so puny and vulnerable, being affected like this.

“Stupid card. Stupid drawing. Stupid tequila, stupid fucking –”

Your embroiled utterances fell flat as if smashed into a wall, your eyes slamming shut instantaneously, registering that you’d just ran straight into something bigger than yourself, something moving – 

Something wearing long, chocolate brown corduroy sleeves, expert tailoring obvious even under the flickering sidewalk lamp; something waiting at the bottom of the steps leading up to your unit. 

The hard thud of your foot railing against a solid surface drowns out when you fumble backwards, nearly tripping onto your ass, your eyes widening at the speed of light when your vision focuses and drains of moisture. 

There was no mistaking it. Waiting at the stoop with what appeared to be… five or six baby blue suitcases (each embroidered delicately with swooping, elegant ‘K’ headings) of varying sizes all stacked up against one another, was Ken, who towered above you, clouded in the veiling mist of the summer evening air. 

Through the shadow his piercing blue eyes met yours, startled like a baby deer and even more innocent looking.

Were you hallucinating this? Was this really Ken, standing right in front of you, clad in brown and stunning, silky mustard orange pants that felt otherworldly in its softness, though your arm had only grazed it?

Etched into the face he gives you is instinctive surprise, as if the last thing he thought would wander around the corner was you. You drop the business card to the ground, don’t watch its descent as it flutters down to the sidewalk. Clutched under Ken’s left arm is a thick folder (maybe a book?) filled to the brim with papers stacked neat and horizontal. 

For a sickening pause that lasts thousands of centuries, you wonder if Ken’s here to tell you off. To tell you that he was only dropping by before his departure, that he was going far away and only wished to tell your guinea pig goodbye for posterity. 

You couldn’t have blamed him. In fact, you would have understood. I deserve that, you tell yourself, but Ken doesn’t say those awful things. He bends at the waist and plucks the business card you dropped, holds out his arm to return it. It’s then that you remember to breathe, remember to say something, and it’s then that you notice Ken’s gripping a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, pink and white thick petals wrapped in yellow that repel the light landing on them. 

Ken’s so tall above you, his legs so lean through his almost sheer pants, and you swear you can make out the swells of his kneecaps, the curve of his hip. The incline of muscle in his neck works as he cocks his head slightly, eyes persistent, dancing and twining with yours under the moon, the feeble crackle of the dying, cheap lamp.

Handfuls of silvering blonde hair tumble down across Ken’s tender eyes as he waits patiently for you to take the card. Blinking is an uphill battle. Moving your lips to form a sentence is some sort of sisyphean curse that you’re unsure of how to break.

“I – I’m. Ken. You’re.”

Unflappable, Ken elects to hold off on exchanging the card, and slips it into his pocket. Instead, he takes a brave step forward, and like he’s rehearsed this a thousand times on the sidewalk, puts on his most hopeful smile, extending his pristine hand that holds the flowers that you are starting to suspect might be plastic. Shrouds of crickets kick up their serenade around the both of you.

“(Y/N). These are for you. I tried relentlessly to keep them perfect on my way here, but you would not believe how difficult it is to stop objects from floating while you’re in a spacesuit, I will tell you that much right now.” You hear his heartfelt words but all you can stare at is his face, every inch of him that you can see, the imperceptible flat of his cheekbones, the angular jut of his chin, all of him so illuminated and real and right in front of you.

“You came back.” It’s all you can manage to say. Like as if a prank had been pulled on you. Could it be the case – all these days of torture and self hatred and drinking yourself to sleep had been completely in vain?

Ken’s smirk widens, crinkling the lines of his cheek, but it just makes him look even more like a timeless painting of someone who once had been real. Boyish charm bled from his every move, his honeyed words, every response he could give you.

“Told you I would, didn’t I? Do you like them?” Ken nudges the bouquet even closer to your line of sight, practically begging you to accept them. “Barbie told me – sorry. My friend Barbie who is a florist told me that these are quintessential spring colors. I wanted purple ones too but Barbie said that wasn’t staying on theme.” Ken enunciates every word, relishing in sharing his newfound knowledge of flowers. They appear to be roses, as if they were somehow handcrafted, each one made painstakingly, lovingly. 

Jolting at a realization, Ken raises his eyebrows hastily. “How could I forget? I also brought you a banana. From Barbieland! So that you can really understand what I’ve been working with my whole life.” 

Something in the lowest part of your heart snaps entirely in half, and with fingers trembling like a leaf, you finally take the flowers from Ken, cautiously placing your nose to the tips.

By some sort of miracle, though they’re obviously not real, they smell exactly like roses.

“Riveting, aren’t they?” Ken’s adding, watching through his curled eyelashes to see how you like them, but he doesn’t notice the stinging tears that rush down your cheeks until you’re crushing the bouquet between the both of your bodies, impatient to feel him for yourself, just to affirm this is real. 

The petals don’t budge or compress, they just twirl in different directions to accommodate the pressure, and the breath leaves Ken’s chest at once with the force of it. “(Y/N)? Tell me you’re not crying. The one thing I didn’t bring was a hanky with your name on it, which I was planning on having my friend Barbie who is a seamstress make for you, but my schedule was pretty tight. Here, let me just –”

There aren’t words for how you’re feeling, the relief, the overwhelming adoration, the incredulity that Ken had actually traveled all the way back for you, the sweetness of everything he’s telling you. It manifests as tears that race to escape your eyes and make you look even more disheveled than you already had been.

Ken carefully wipes at your cheeks with the edges of his jacket sleeves, folding the fabric over his thumbs like it’s brain surgery and he cannot afford to mess it up. Without asking permission, he sticks his hand out and tips your face up so it’s level with his. Gentle, so gentle, so endlessly attentive. 

“Why are you crying, (Y/N)?” Your brain should be throttling ahead, formulating a cogent response, but all you want is to hold his shoulderblades in your shaking hands and feel his body flush against yours, make him feel what his presence is doing to you, how it’s making you breathe and sway, unsteady on your feet.

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Ken quirks his eyebrows, dusted blonde and light brown, like he’s taken a punch to the gut. His hands don’t move from their spot on your chin, affixed. 

“You can’t be serious. When I accept an ultimatum, I never back down, and that’s a fact.” He seems to not mind the brazen tears and snot he’s wiped onto his (expensive looking) clothes, he just looks right down at you with a dizzying openness. Your fingers twitch around the stiff flowers where you’re still clamping them tight.

“I. I can’t. I didn’t know…”

“Look at me.” You don’t have the inner energy to fight him. Maybe it’s the liquor that’s rounded out the edges of your usually combative reflexes, or maybe it was the repressed emotional floodgates breaking, and suddenly you weren’t afraid for Ken to see what you’d really been feeling for him. The seeds you’d been sowing of your own destruction. “You really missed me that much? I thought you’d be working away like nothing ever happened.” 

It’s Ken’s turn to feel flummoxed now, analyzing what you’d said, but you can’t allow him the time to rethink. To backpedal.

His chest rises and falls in rabbit-fast motions. You swear he smells like aftershave, but you can’t pinpoint the precise scent, just that it’s minty and pleasant. Ken’s body is like a barricade of warmth and there’s roses in between you and desire gnawed at your stomach like a profanity.

“Please. Please don’t leave again. I need you, Ken.”

“You – what?”

“I need you. I n-need you to be here, with me. Don’t leave again. I. I made myself sick without you. I have a two bedroom place, I don’t h-have to use it for storage, you can have your own room and everything, I’ll be the cleanest, tidiest person in the world. Just. Please, just. Just promise. Can you promise me that? Ken?” It’s embarrassing. It’s humiliating. There's so many things you could've led with: I may be able to help you get a job, I turned into a complete and utter hermit without you here, I think you may be the best thing that's ever happened to me, I've had so much to drink tonight I shouldn't even be standing. But no, it was mushy garbage that decided to tumble out and settle in the cool air.

You know that you should have shut yourself up after the first sentence, but once the first syllable let loose, there was no taking it back.

Ken continues to wipe at your face where you continue to cry, and he rests his chin quietly on top of yours, somehow managing to hold onto everything he’d been grasping and still making just as much room for you as you needed. Your words move Ken to the point that his pulse has quickened, and – 

His pulse? Laying your browbone against his neck, just to see if you’d dreamt that forceful thrum of blood, Ken gives a submissive sigh for the contact. “I will never go anywhere ever again unless you want me to.”

“Your heart.” You mention, tucked against his frame but eyes wild with shock.

“I won’t even look out the window unless you think there’s something I should see.” Ken persists.

“Ken.”

“In fact, I think I’d be most comfortable just waiting for you to lay out what we’re doing every day, first thing, so I can get an adequate idea of –”

“Ken?” Your tone is sharp now, because he’s getting carried away – not that you weren’t receptive to his idea of what living together should look like.

“Yes, little firefly?” Ken muses, pulling you even closer to the front of his body.

“Your heart. It’s beating.”

[blackbeeno3569]

An attempt for @rotgsecretsanta

Prompt no.77 Jack understands what Pitch's center is. Fear can help save you or give a reason to save yourself.

THE CENTER

It was a wonderful snow day. The winter sun was bright, reflecting on the ice of a small lake and on myriads mirrors of snowflakes. The children were having fun - simply one of those days you could put on a postcard.

And Jack Frost was everywhere. Increasing the joy of the snow fight, letting the freeze shimmer in the air, letting the skaters glide over the lake just perfectly…Magic was dancing around his fingertips, crispy cold and  sparkling with power, when he let the snow swirl around the kids.

Then, as if ripping a page of a good story in half, a dull screeching cut through the fun. The ice skaters stilled, unsure what to do next.

Jack didn’t miss the false tone in the general cheer. “Hey, don’t worry, I’ve got this, guys,” he grinned, ready to strengthen the ice to be safe again.

But before he could do anything, a different voice from the forest shadows stopped him: “Step away.”

“You? What are you doing here?!” Jack turned sharply.

“Working,” Pitch Black answered in the most laconic way possible.

“Working? We are  having fun here!” Jack protested and the Boogeyman paused for a moment. Then he shot Jack a cold smile that was all teeth and no joy.

“Then by all means, go on,” he waved towards the lake and confused kids, “the stage is yours.”

Jack, partly because the situation was urgent, partly in defiance, raised his staff. Mending the ice would take barely a moment.

“For today,” Pitch Black added quietly and something in those two simple words made Jack second guess his decision.

Meanwhile the kids argued whether to stay or go back. The ice was almost silent, but only almost - Jack could hear the cracks spreading.

Seconds kept ticking. The Boogeyman was watching him, uncharacteristically silent. And Jack couldn’t make himself move, even though he knew what could happen next if he didn't act. A memory froze him on spot, dark, cold, suffocating. With a visceral intensity he felt it again - a desperate need to breath, to live, futile, because there was nothing else to do.

The kids were still standing there. 

One day they could stand on the cracking ice again.

One day he won’t be around.

Jack lowered his staff and Pitch quickly waved his hand. The time nearly ran out. The tendrils of shadows raced over the lake, crawling just below the surface of the ice, swiftly following every single hair thin crack before reaching the children. The darkness below their feet felt suddenly deeper and vile. What got them out of the ice wasn’t a coherent thought, but better a feeling, snapping, insistent and commanding.

Jack exhaled in relief as they got back to the safety of the bank. 

“Okay. This time you might have a point here,” he admitted grudgingly.

Back on the ground, kids argued whether the ice was really that thin. One of the boys threw a larger stone - “Look, you just panicked!” - and the boulder gave it a dramatic pause, only to crack the ice finally, falling into the cold water below with an accusatory splash.

Jack flinched at the sound and the dark spirit answered with a haughty smirk: “Of course I have.”

The winter sprite clenched his teeth. “Now what. The fun is over.”

“How should I know,” Pitch Black turned to leave, the shadows curling at his feet, “feel free to be useless somewhere else.”

Jack Frost watched him disappear with a frown, but he didn’t argue anymore. Pitch’s lessons always tended to be like this. Annoying and on point. He supposed that the Boogeyman, the spiteful bastard he was, simply couldn’t help himself. What Jack learnt today was uncomfortable, yet it lingered: what should a Guardian do with knowing the very center of Pitch Black might be… useful?

[julieverne]

Infinity goes both ways (and so do we)

Angela was exhausted and filthy when they got back to the cabin. Kirk was gone, but they'd saved Dani, somehow. Angela was all instinct and somehow she'd been right. Brennan couldn't explain it, couldn't account for it.

Booth said goodnight and went back to the hotel. Neither of them noticed, worn down by the long days of anxiety.

Angela hadn't cried. She sat on a chair, a boot still on one foot, as though she'd given up partway through removing them. Brennan removed hers and knelt by Angela, undoing the buckles and zips and laces. Her khaki pants were red with dirt, her white tank sweaty and dusty too.

She was gorgeous.

Brennan knew this intellectually but she'd never noticed it so viscerally before. Exhausted, grieving, filthy, her hand resting on Brennan's skull and digging in under her hair to rub her scalp, then the back of her head, her neck, where she held her tension.

Brennan closed her eyes and rested her head against Angela's knee for a moment, felling small and safe and loved. She knew that if she'd gone missing in the desert Angela would have fallen rather than leave the red dirt alone.

"What do you need?" Brennan asked finally, Angela's fingers gently stroking through her hair.

"A shower," Angela groaned. "No, a bubble bath, but I'll settle for a shower."

"You did good work today," Brennan told her. "You saved a life all on your own."

"I wasn't on my own," Angela said mysteriously, then discarded her filthy tank top. She stood and shucked off her pants; the cabin was close quarters, but even so.

Brennan looked away and stood.

"How much water is there?" Brennan asked practically.

"I'll be quick," Angela said, but it wasn't the answer Brennan had been looking for.

---

Angela was quick, and she dressed in the same kind of clothes when she came out - a white tank (clean) and soft exercise type pants, the stretchy kind that clung to her hips.

Brennan licked her lips and looked away.

---

Angela was curled on the folded out bed when Brendan came out. She watched Brennan dress with a blank face, and it scared her. Angela was always so expressive. Brennan sat next to her and reached out tentatively, resting her hand on Angela's back.

"What do you need?" Brennan asked softly. Angela rolled over to face her, and Brennan's hand ended up, somehow, on Angela's breast.

It was soft, beneath the thin cotton. Angela hadn't noticed so Brennan moved her hand down to Angela's ribs.

"What are you offering?" Angela asked, her voice low and serious.

"What do you need?" Brennan asked again, and Angela sat up slowly, considering Brennan like a piece of art. She traced the line of Brennan's jaw with her finger, then the curve of Brennan's lips, meeting Brennan's eyes.

There was desolation there, grief and regret. But there was also respect and love and something else, something intense.

"What are you offering?" Angela asked again, and this time Brennan understood.

She understood what Angela needed.

She closed the distance between them quickly, kissing Angela, who had soft lips and tasted nice.

"I want to forget," Angela mumbled against Brennan's throat. "I want to feel safe and loved."

"I don't know if I can manage that," Brennan said dubiously, but Angela chuckled.

"You already do," Angela told her, her eyes soft and gentle laughing at her. Not in mockery, but out of affection.

"Oh."

It was slow, slower than Brennan would have expected if she'd expected this. Angela was so impulsive and passionate, but she took her time with Brennan. Brennan wasn't used to so much attention; men typically sought one thing from her but Angela wanted everything, gave everything. Without cotton in the way, her breasts were even softer, even nicer.

Brennan had never considered herself as gay or even bisexual. She had trouble relating to or forming connections with women. With men, once she could prove she was mentally superior, she'd won. But with women there was an underlying unspoken code, something Brennan couldn't read or fit into.

Angela had never tried to make her fit. She'd taken Brennan at face value, but she'd always seen so far beneath too.

Brennan had liked other women's bodies, but not enough to engage in social niceties with them for long enough to get access to them.

Angela kissed her again, her teeth finding Brennan's lip and tugging it gently before her mouth dropped to Brennan's throat, making her moan, caressing Angela's breast.

"You don't..." Angela pulled back, flushed and breathless. Her temperature was slightly raised, and her nipples were hard, her breasts plump with bytracked blood. "You don't have to. I'll be okay. If you don't want to, I know you don't like women."

"I don't like women," Brennan admitted. "But I also don't like men. I like you."

"I like you too," Angela said shyly, half-naked in lamplight, her dark skin almost glowing. Brennan kissed her first this time, reached for Angela's pants, laughing as Angela struggled out of them. Angela huffed and reached for Brennan's track pants, pulling them off in one practiced move.

From there it was easy. Brennan found she had instincts of her own, and enough time to analyse Angela's body to find multiple ways to satisfy her. Skin against skin, and Angela's skin was so soft and luxurious, her hips and torso deliciously padded, nothing hard or harsh about her. Just soft kisses, soft bodies, soft touching. Angela ran her fingers through Brennan's hair as she lowered her mouth to the warmest part of her, and Angela made eye contact right as Brennan made contact too, the look in her eyes almost overwhelming with affection.

"You're crying," Angela accused her later. Brennan wanted to deny it but when she touched her cheeks they were wet.

"So are you," Brennan pointed out, and she kissed a tear away from Angela's cheek.

"I always cry when something beautiful happens," Angela said lowly, but she let herself be held against Brennan, let herself sob against Brennan's bare chest while she coddled her the way she wished she'd been held and loved as a child, always too afraid to ask. Angela had done the same for her, without asking what Brennan had needed, and Brennan wouldn't have expected to need this.

It had been welcome, and it had been beautiful, and she loved Angela with everything she had within that could love.

But she wasn't in love with her. She had no romantic feelings for her; she loved her exactly as she was, as a friend, as a lover she'd taken once.

"You're lovely. Thank you." Angela nuzzled into Brennan, her body warm and comforting where it lay over Brennan. Brennan never stayed the night, but this was different. It wasn't just sex, and it felt like there were no expectations for a relationship. It was just them, comforting each other after a very hard day.

Brennan dated infrequently and didn't get attached. She was attached to Angela in a different way. Angela was the same but opposite; she dated frequently but remained unattached. She let her fingers trail over Angela's skin - so soft and smooth, so dark against her own, so gorgeous in the lamplight. It was like they were at an impasse, at a crossroads. Brennan couldn't lose Angela. She needed her too much. She loved her too much.

But that was a problem for the morning.

---

When Brennan woke, Angela was propped on one elbow, looking down at her.

Angela stroked her cheek and leaned down to kiss her, none of the passion of last night, just a gentle tenderness and affection that made Brennan ache in ways she hadn't the night before. In her chest.

"Amazing as that was - and it was amazing -"

"I know," Brennan said shortly, because she knew all the reasons why they wouldn't work, and she'd only just realised some part of her wanted this to work. "We're friends."

"Sweetie..."

"I know. I agree."

"Okay," Angela said, but she kissed Brennan again, all soft and slow like she meant it, like she loved Brennan without reservation. "I don't think I've ever felt so safe as I did last night. I trust you completely."

Brennan brooded for a moment.

"I feel safe with you too," she said, not meeting Angela's eyes but still catching the heartbreaking compassion that lived there behind them. "I have to get back to DC, and it's not that I mind anyone knowing about this, or that I'd be against doing it again under less tragic circumstances, but Booth will be insufferable if he even suspects..."

"He's already insufferable," Angela laughed, but she retrieved their strewn clothes and tugged on her own. "Thank you," Angela said finally. "You were just what I needed."

[liminalpebble]

Eddie's Education, Chapter 33

Masterlist link

Still suspended in her limbo of dreams, Leia curled into that imaginary couch, in that imaginary room, snuggled into imaginary blankets. She sunk deeper, drifting farther away from her reality and memories. When she tried to recall any of it, when the notion would itch within her that there was somewhere she had to be and something crucial she had to do, an opaque wall of dread would shock her back like an electric fence. Whatever was on the other side of this, she was deeply, viscerally, afraid to go near it, like a dog zapped one too many times and conditioned into aversion.

What if I remember who I am, and wish I never had? What if I leave this place and something horrible happens? Or what if something terrible is on the other side?

She was about to doze off and fall a little further into oblivion when a small hand began caressing her arm. A kind young voice was calling her name.

Leia...

“Leia...”

Leia opened her eyes and sat up straight, surprised into wakefulness by the company of a teenage girl whom she was almost certain she'd never met.

The girl was very pretty in a stunning 'prom queen' sort of way. She had wide blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair pulled into a perfect ponytail with a green scrunchie. She wore a matching cheerleader uniform and sparkly blue eye shadow. When she smiled it was bright and beautiful but, somehow, bittersweet.

“Hi, Leia,” she said, stroking her arm, “how do you feel?”

The girl said it like this was casual and normal, like it was just two long-time school friends having a sleepover.

Then comprehension hit her like a bolt of lightning. Upon hearing her name she thought, Leia...of course...my name is Leia, though no other information was forthcoming.

“Hi...um...I'm so sorry, but I don't think I know you. Where am I? What's going on?” Leia mumbled. She gulped, afraid to ask, but compelled to speak the question. “Am I dead?”

The cheerleader shook her head and smiled faintly, head bowing ever so slightly. “No, honey, you're not dead. I am.”

Leia had always tended toward skepticism in her life, but the last few days had challenged that tenet pretty thoroughly.

Though she couldn't remember this about herself consciously, Leia still found herself about to scoff in disbelief. Then she considered that, right now, her grasp of what was and wasn't possible was tenuous at best.

“My name's Chrissy,” she chirped. “I'm here to help you find your way. I know you're tired, but you can't stay here. I'm gonna need you to be brave.”

Leia's sluggish mind began piecing it together. The name rung a bell. Something about old newspaper articles with her picture in them and tragic headlines. A tiny winking gleam caught the corner of Leia's vision and she noticed a delicate golden pendant around Chrissy's neck bearing the numbers '86.

86...1986...something horrendous happened in 1986 to someone I care about.

Leia's head began to ache as if an ice pick was being stabbed through her eye socket. The pain burned white-hot. Just as the ache receded, the urge to simply lay back down on the soft cushions and drift off again hit her with a nearly irresistible force.

As her vision blurred drowsily and her eyelids went heavy, the cheerleader began to fade into an impressionist painting of one instead of the real thing. Meanwhile, Chrissy held on even tighter. “No no no....Leia. You have to wake up. If you go any deeper, you won't be able to come back.

Leia almost asked “back where?”, but when she saw the bold letters on Chrissy's uniform spelling out “Hawkins” in green and gold she knew, somehow.

That was it. That was the “where”.

“I don't understand. I'm missing...something. Why do I have to go back? I don't remember. All I have is this feeling...this horrible overwhelming feeling...that awful things have happened wherever I was. Maybe even because of me. What if I go back and remember and something awful happens to me...or to..?”

To someone...to someone I love so much...

She tried to think past the ache. Chrissy touched her forehead and a warm glow fanned out from the point of contact, like when a child places their hand over a flashlight, illuminating the flesh into translucence.

Leia remembered a smell; cigarettes mingled with the clean warmth of cheap detergent.

A feeling...several; the feeling of warm skin, chapped in places, interrupted by cool metal. The silky sensation of her hand running through wild fleecy curls. The saline trickle of tears. The warm, wet, excited touch of kissing and sex and tender, careful, hands.

A feeling...several; grief, guilt and fear, but also sugary, honey-sweet arousal and infatuation, the rush of being alive; but beneath that shell, true, deep love. Selfless love; bravery exchanged at great cost to each other.

Chrissy took Leia's hand and reverently placed something small and rigid into it.

Leia opened her palm to see a worn out ball and chain necklace with a marbled plastic guitar pick; chipped to hell and attached with a paperclip. It had a trademark haphazard style...something so specific and familiar it made her heart ache.

When she saw it, her synapses lit up like Christmas lights, blinking away. In the medical facility, where her body lay motionless, her monitors lit up the same way, causing a flurry of activity around her.

“Eddie!,” Leia gasped out as if the word had been punched out of her lungs. Her eyes shot wide open where she was resting on the operating table. Although her eyes were open to the real world, they were still clouded over, unseeing.

While her awareness was still completely preoccupied with what was happening in her mind, small rivulets of bright blood trickled from her nose and tear ducts, painting the white hospital gown and steel table beneath her with sanguine blossoms.

She felt panic surge through her now, but Chrissy just held her cheek in her hand and nodded happily. “That's right! Eddie! You remember now? Yeah?”

Leia could only nod while the tears streamed down her face. “Oh god...how...how could I forget?”

“It's okay. This place can do that.”

Leia almost asked again where “this place” was...but she had the sense that words couldn't explain it anyway.

Leia looked around frantically for a moment as the room began to unravel and disintegrate around them. She held tighter to Chrissy's hand and blurted out, “What...what if I'm not supposed to go back? What if something terrible happens?”

Chrissy was silent for a long moment. She wasn't in a hurry, even as the furniture and walls dissolved and washed away like silt.

Finally, she sighed and said, “But what if something good...really good...happens? We can't know anything for sure. Most things we don't get to know or control in our lives, but that can't stop us from living them. I can tell you first-hand...life is unfair. But also, it's so short and so precious. There could be so many good years...good moments for you, for Eddie. Live them for me.”

Tears began to wet her mascara and eye shadow, drawing a little stream of glittery black and blue down the side of her perfect face. Leia wiped it away gently with her thumb, brows peaked in concern.

“I'm sorry...I'm so sorry you didn't get your time with him. You loved him, too. Didn't you?”

Chrissy smiled fondly, nostalgically, at that. She even blushed a little.

“Yeah...yeah, I did. He's hard not to love. But, do me a favor when you get back and love him as hard as you can. Love him for me too. Love him for all the people who weren't there or couldn't be there to love him like he deserved. Take care of him for me, okay?”

“I will. I promise.”

“And, Leia?”

“Take care of yourself. You deserve a good life.”

They embraced, eyes shut, and as their mutual dreamworld shimmered into nothingness around them, Leia found her courage and waited for the next great unknown to unfurl.

The cloudy cataracts cleared from her eyes and Leia finally woke up.

@sweetsigyn @veemoon @elegantkoalapaper @little-wormwood

[akamikazae]

Thanks for the tag @lemony-snickers ❤︎₊⊹ ahhh! I have too many wipsss nfjafk ~

His mother is still his emergency contact, she breaks down in tears when she sees him laid up in bed, she reaches out to grasp his feet beneath the blanket, full body sobs when she realizes he can’t feel it. Not at all, not one bit. 

She wants him to move back home as soon as he’s able. Jean doesn’t protest. 

“Where’s Solaris?” She asks,

He can’t bring himself to answer, feels Mustang’s eyes on him. 

“We broke up,” He says, looking away from them both out the window; his only solace. 

His mother practically gasps, “Oh no dear, what- what happened?” She says, “Does she know…about the accident.”  

Mustang scoffs, can’t help himself.   

Jean tears back to glare at his C.O. a gesture his mother doesn’t miss. He’s defensive still, of who, of what he’s not certain. But he is. 

“She’s was such a sweet girl,” his mother starts, “I’m sure you two can—”  Only to be cut off by the Colonel struggling to lift himself from his bed. He can’t sit here and keep his mouth shut, it’s better he just leave. 

“Did something happen with Roy?” Mrs. Havoc asks, once it’s just the two of them. Leaning closer to her son as he tries to bury himself in his pillow to get away from her line of questioning.  

She clicks her tongue when she sees the anguish on his face. She reads it wrong, “Oh Jean I’m sure whatever happened can be resolved,” 

Jean nods bitting the inside of his cheek, hoping if he agrees it’ll shut her up. It doesn’t, his mother unknowingly twists that spear through his back again.    

“She really loved you.” She says with whats supposed to be a hopeful smile.

Jean can’t hold back anymore, his tears burn white hot. Eyes screwed shut, throat aching from the sobs, the ones he’d stuffed down for days all come spewing out. Heartbeat pounding in his ears. He can still see Solaris writhing like an animal, swallowed by flames. He can still smell her hair burning. He can recall the look in her violet eyes when they meet his for a fraction of a second. He’d thought he’d imagined it at the time but now it feels so vivid, so visceral like the way she howled his name with her dying breath. He really loved her too.

tagging @qettleqorn @blackkatskauldron @xo-queenievee-xo @howdoesoneadult (no pressure <33) and anyone else that wants to share a wip! :)

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