#now if you are considering going to a protest that is likely to involve

[croquettish]

Sexuality, Acceptability, Risk, and Medieval Bohemia

Someone commented on my Hansry fic recently about how a good number of fics in this fandom apparently feature the sort of modern protestant homophobia emblematic of the United States. This was baffling to me.

More recently I've seen a bit of backlash against this rather normative, America-centric approach to the historical homophobia (deeply entrenched in Catholicism, mind you) that they would have been subject to back then. And, as is quite normal with the internet, naturally the pendulum has swung way too far in the other direction. Jokes were made and then taken seriously by others. I've now seen sentiments floating around like "oh they wouldn't have cared at all," (not on tumblr) which is wild to me.

My doctoral studies have to do with queerness in the High Middle Ages, so seeing as I've spent the last several years of my life living on archive.org, knee-deep in this research, I feel like it's my academic responsibility to correct the record some. As usual, the answer lies somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.

All my sources are listed in the text (in the case of art) or at the very end of the post. For those of you just interested in what all of this means for Hansry, feel free to jump down to the purple heading.

I will start by saying that the "queer medieval utopia" you're looking for didn't exist. The closest you're going to get to that is the late 11th century / early 12th century, and even then there were limits to this general social acceptability. Paris and Florence were commonly considered to be gay dens of iniquity by people outside of those places, but even that was a bit of an exaggeration.

So where does this misconception come from?

Within the Catholic landscape, the body was considered separate from the spirit. Only one's "mystic sensorium" was supposed to be involved in spiritual intercourse with Christ and each other, and the overlap of the real and the ideal was… problematic at times, a genuine threat to chastity. Physical affection was meant to not broach certain limits. Kissing was acceptable. Metaphors were acceptable. In ancient Christianity, it was normal for women to kiss other women and for men to kiss other men as part of mass in the name of exchanging the kiss of peace, the pax. The idea here was to meet with the Spirit of Christ. Ambrose likened it to "lovers who, unsatisfied with the mere enjoyment of the lips, kiss so deeply as to interchange their spirits with one another." Which is all well and good, but this leaves a lot of leeway. How much physical affection was considered acceptable?

Anselm, the closest thing we have to a gay man of this time, would write things like this, in this case a letter addressed to two biological brothers that he hoped to join him in the monastic life:

"My eyes long to see your faces most beloved; my arms stretch out to your embraces; my lips long for your kisses; whatever remains to me of life desires your company . . . . Oh, how my love burns in my marrow . . . . [In coming to Bec] you have fused my soul with yours. If you now leave me, our joint soul will be torn apart, it can never again become two."

He had never met them before, nor should this suggest that they were about to enter a sexual relationship. In fact, around this time we see quite a few such expressions of affection coming out of the monastic space. Alcuin, writing to Arno of Salzburg, felt entirely comfortable writing that his love could not be prevented, even in the face of death, from licking Arno's innermost parts, a reference here (most likely) to Christ's side wound. In another letter, Alcuin is even more overt:

"It is exquisitely sweet to remember your love and intimacy, holy father; I wish the dear moment would come when I might embrace the shoulders of your love with the arms of my longing for you. . . . with what speedy hands I would rush into your fatherly embrace, with what pressing lips I would kiss not only your eyes and ears and mouth, but each knuckle of each finger, of each toe, not once, but many, many times!"

It would be extremely easy to assume that these letters suggested more than meets the eye, but historically speaking, as far as we know, this was not the case. Because this level of affection was considered to be in line with the "Christian" thing to do between brothers (no, I'm not joking). And there were harsh punishments if you breached these limits. Bear in mind, these letters could easily be seen by others!

Moreover, it should be noted that we don't see this level of affection outside of the monastic space (though it does still come up, albeit to a much lesser extent). You can think of it as code switching, essentially. Verbiage that would be considered insanely sexual in one space would not be considered as such within a monastic context prior to the shift in the 12th century.

Some scholars suggested that the use of such language implies ignorance or naivety about how this physical affection could look to the outside world, but we do know that Anselm at one point became worried enough that he might be misunderstood that he censored himself after leaving Bec for Canterbury. Even if his inclinations were chaste, he knew they could be viewed through the lens of homosexuality.

The ideal sexual state for a person to be in at this time was rooted in asceticism: chastity in the face of desire. You'd think asexuality would be a quick workaround for that, but unfortunately the lack of desire would just mean a lack of necessary effort on that person's part. Bear in mind, suffering is what's rewarded here. A gay man plagued with homosexual desires is just being tested by God. By denying himself those desires, he's rising in the ranks of holiness. A great example of this is Brother Lucas from KCD1:

According to the Rule of Pachomius, kissing boys on the lips was forbidden and punished by whipping, imprisonment, fasting, shaving, and six months of humiliation. In Fructuosus of Braga's Rule, a monk kissing or even being "too attentive to young men or boys would result in a very similar six month sentence as well as six additional months of manual labor, separated from his brethren, always under watch of at least two spiritual brothers. Never again was he allowed to enjoy private conversation or companionship with those younger than him.

"But Tam!" you might say. "This is just about monks! What about real people?"

I'm so glad you asked! Because we know that as well!

Penitentials, which were quite in vogue until around the 11th century and then again after the passing of Lateran IV in the early 13th century, were very punishing of all manner of sexuality, but especially homosexual acts, and, among them, especially oral sex. (The mouth is considered, to a certain extent, sacred. Don't ask me why, that alone is like twenty pages in my dissertation, though I could be lowballing tbh.) The Penitential of Theodore punishes it with 7 years of harsh penance and 15 years if the practice is habitual. Sometimes, however, it was "until the end of life" and considered to be the "worst evil," worse than fornication with one's mother. Harsh!

Ye olde penitentials were used as guidelines for later confession as well as those from before the 12th century. Conveniently for us, the late, great James A. Brundage came up with a fantastic chart/guide on when and how it was acceptable to have sex at all:

Did people follow this? My god, absolutely not. We wouldn't have the confessional records if this wasn't a problem in the realm of ~sin. But the guidelines were there and expected to be adhered to.

Don't get me wrong, the late 11th / early 12th century was a watershed moment in history in terms of overall acceptability of queerness, a time when Ovid and other Ovidian literature flourished. Punishments were rarely enforced. But the come-down from that era led us to a very rough landing. Lateran III kicked off the official canon ratification of outlawing homosexuality explicitly, and this, together with the outlawing of clerical marriage and the sudden flourishing of courtly love as a genre, led to a very dramatic shift in society from homosocial to heterosexual (which is, incidentally, what my dissertation is about).

The long 12th century was a red letter event in terms of history, not least because some of history's most notorious homophobes spread their ideas like wildfire. I am, of course, talking about Alain de Lille, renowned author of De planctu Naturae ("The Complaint of Nature"), which reminded everyone that homosexuality was against nature, and Peter Damian, who doesn't even deserve being commented on. The idea of homosexuality being "against nature" was far from new. The early church fathers like Augustine and Jerome condemned it pretty outrightly, and in the 13th century St. Thomas Aquinas was more than happy to further entrench the idea. Here, sodomy disrupts nature so much as to dissolve the soul.

We saw this in literature as well. Dante's Divine Comedy (early 14th c) slapped sodomites into the 7th layer of hell, but a real standout here is the Debate Between Ganymede and Helen, where the two have a very lengthy argument wherein she convinces Ganymede (often associated with homosexuality) that heterosexuality is infinitely superior to the alternative. She throws in such lovely arguments as insisting that he at least respect Nature, that he's been deceived by well-disguised filth, that he's been squandering his love between the thighs of men, and that he's been treating himself like human garbage as a result. In the end, he suddenly sees his crime for what it is, and the gods agree with him, stating that they've now also come to their senses. Sodomy is thus left behind by the gods and the choir swells in cheer at this tremendous success.

Canon law more or less exclusively had its grubby little fingers in the pies of what was and wasn't deemed acceptable in terms of sex until about the early-14th c, while afterward the government was delighted to also get involved in your bedroom activities. Particularly in the late 14th century homosexuality was increasingly legislated against, and in increasingly brutal ways at that. This wonderful and not at all problematic marriage of church and state is how we ended up with the Trials of the Knights Templar.

Let's say you're King Philip IV. The people have been revolting, you're running low on funds, you owe the Templars as it is, and you have a penchant for pogroms. You want money and land. What do you do? Well, naturally you write a letter to the pope about how you have all these horrible suspicions about these people you employ and who have come to your aid quite often!

Boy, oh boy! Wasn't that a fun time for them. Before, they'd been well-respected and well-off, supported by the king, with zero doubt in their respectability. Naturally, it all came tumbling down with that letter. Because the investigation was ready to find them at fault for something no matter what, under pain of torture of course. There's a particularly striking letter from a father to his daughter, written during the Bamberg witch trials (much later), wherein he explained that, after a particularly rough torture session, the executioner pulled him aside and told him this: "Sir, I beg you, for God's sake confess something, whether it be true or not. Invent something, for you cannot endure the torture which you will be put to; and, even if you bear it all, yet you will not escape, not even if you were an earl, but one torture will follow after another until you say you are a witch. Not before that will they let you go, as you may see by all their trials, for one is just like another."

Were the Templars recreationally homosexual? Maybe. For their sake, I sure hope so, because then they might have at least had some fun before going out. But either way, they were arrested, their territory, funds, and belongings seized, were convicted of heresy, sodomy, and black magic, and eventually burned at the stake. Two men were later burned at the stake as relapsed heretics after saying that they'd only confessed under duress and were actually innocent.

It even led to fun art like this one in 1350:

De Longuyon, Jacques. Voeux du Paon Manuscript. 1350. Morgan Library and Museum, New York. G.24 fol. 70r.

It was also around this time also that homosexuality was increasingly associated not only with heresy, but also with bestiality, suggesting that this crime against nature was effectively also a crossing of special boundaries (species-based, not extraordinary). In line with this, while homage to one's liege used to be sworn with a kiss on the lips (!!), over the course of the 14th century that was summarily done away with as well in a change that quite frankly swept across Europe (and we all wept).

In 1327, Edward II, who had a few boyfriends, was supposedly murdered by having a red hot poker shoved up his rectum. Even if this didn't happen, the chroniclers wanted us to believe it, and knowing what we do about Edward's sexual proclivities, it seems like this was a Statement if nothing else.

Where Bologna used to punish homosexuality with a fine, after the late 13th century the punishment was death by burning. The Portuguese, meanwhile, castrated convicted homosexuals and then, three days later, had them hanged by the feet until dead. In Siena, death by hanging was also the answer, but in this case, it was hanging by the dick until dead (not kidding). A particularly horrifying case was this one, happening just six years after when KCD canon takes place:

Which reminds us that this was most likely an issue that very much associated the clergy (known to be corrupt, especially around this time!). You'll recall the little comments made about this in the game, like Godwin casually committing heresy in front of the whole crew. "Do you think you need a priest for God to hear you?" Well geez, Godwin, according to the Catholic Church, you sure as shit fucking do! What a fantastic and not at all risky thing to say!

(Sidenote, this one is particularly upsetting to me personally in a fandom context because, not only is Augsburg not far from Bohemia, it really reminds me of the many associations between Hans and a caged bird.)

All of which isn't to say that sodomy didn't take place. Boy did it fucking ever. A great example of this comes from out of Switzerland, where, in 1475, a priest reportedly told his lover that "if everybody who committed [the act of sodomy] was burnt at the stake, not even fifty men would survive in Basel." ("Vnd solt man alle die so das tuend verbrennen, es bliben nit funffzig mannen jn Basel.") So, 1% of Basel. This is almost certainly a massive fucking exaggeration that this man pulled out of his ass in order to convince his partner that sodomy is fine, actually, but it does tell us something about the perception, if not the actual prevalence of sodomy in urban centers. (So, you know, if anyone needs to justify that Jadder have fucked at least once, if not more… when in Kuttenberg...)

It should be noted that Basel was very lax in terms of punishing homosexuality, but that was by and large not the most common outcome, as homosexuality was generally associated with divine punishment (I'm sure you've heard that drivel yourself before even in the modern day). Hilariously, it was the generally held belief that if someone learned of "the vice against nature" they'd naturally want to do it, and so priests were advised never to talk about it, even to preach.

So then, what does this mean for Hansry and co?

It means that this was at worst very much a fucking crime that you could very much be convicted for, in brutal fucking fashion at times, and at best the quiet part that you don't say out loud. But even then, it was fucking risky. Riskier if you're a member of the clergy (do recall how worried Brother Lucas was about his secret getting out, despite having never committed the sin himself), but risky even if you're not. All you have to do to see this reflected in canon is to look at Barnaby, the herbalist/hermit. As he explained it, he turned down a girl, she complained to her brother, and "he put two and two together":

Remember how I said that homosexuality was increasingly associated with bestiality? I find Barnaby's word choice fascinating here. Animals like him.

Of course, he beat them up and thus... uh, was able to survive:

Not that it didn't massively affect his quality of life. There's a reason he's a hermit! After all, he was unwelcome no matter where he went, no doubt because the brother and his friends ensured that this knowledge spread:

You might say, oh, it's different among the nobility! And to a certain extent, you're correct. Talking to the scribe in Troskowitz, he at one point gets to a part in the story about George the Lion of Wartenberg where he says this:

And then later, at the banquet where Hans loses his mind from jealousy, it comes up quite a lot in the conversation with Black Bartosch. First, he brings up Florian of Lomnitz:

And then, of course, we get the legendary conversation that follows, where the comment about Florian's sexuality makes Henry question Bartosch about his own:

It's soooo subtle. So, so easy to turn to plausible deniability. If anyone questions it, you can easily argue that your intentions were entirely chaste. And Henry can ignore it or even outright respond with a claim of heterosexuality:

But he can't question it like he can with the scribe:

Where the scribe then brushes it off as nothing and refuses to elaborate:

Even here this is a case of IYKTYK, like homosexuality is a club and in order to enter you have to know what's up. Because if you don't know and have to be informed, that presents a risk, namely that of suspicion being cast on you. Why do you know this information? What were you doing at this sodomitical devil's sacrament?

Honestly, at least among the nobility I'd liken it a bit to prohibition, but on a much less... widespread level. Oh, and literally everyone and anyone could be a cop. You could get away with it until you were caught. The risk was just a lot more pronounced. Even with Edward II the consequence of the very accurate rumors surrounding his sex life was public denunciation and possibly a poker up his ass. And if you're a noble involved with a commoner, multiply the risk exponentially, which is unfortunately relevant for both Hansry and Jamuel. If it really was as casually acceptable as some people claim it to have been (again, not on tumblr, I'm not here to stir up drama), I think Henry wouldn't have necessarily pushed Hans away, nor do I think they would have been as careful in their end-game conversation about what they do and don't say.

If anyone has any questions on this, tangentially-related topics, my sources, or literally anything else, by all means feel free to ask. I have the resources at my fingertips and the research very much at the forefront of my mind and will for the foreseeable future. On request, I've also added a list of further reading after my list of sources if anyone is curious to learn more of this for themselves.

Sources used:

Abraham, Erin V. Anticipating Sin in Medieval Society: Childhood, Sexuality, and Violence in the Early Penitentials, Amsterdam University Press, 2021

Anselm. The Letters of Saint Anselm of Canterbury. Translated by Walter Fröhlich, Cistercian Publications, 1990.

Brundage, James A. Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe. University of Chicago Press, 1987.

Dronke, Peter. Medieval Latin and the Rise of the European Love-Lyric, Vol. 1, Oxford University Press, 1965.

Major, J. Russell. “‘Bastard Feudalism’ and the Kiss: Changing Social Mores in Late Medieval and Early Modern France.” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History, vol. 17, no. 3, 1987, pp. 509–35. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/204609. 

Mills, Robert. Seeing Sodomy in the Middle Ages. University of Chicago Press, 2015

Moore, R. I. The War on Heresy: Faith and Power in Medieval Europe. Profile Books, 2014.

Murray, Jacqueline, and Konrad Eisenbichler, editors. Desire and Discipline: Sex and Sexuality in the Premodern West. University of Toronto Press, 1996.

Perella, Nicolas J. The Kiss Sacred and Profane: An Interpretative History of Kiss Symbolism and Related Religio-Erotic Themes. University of California Press, 1969.

Puff, Helmut. “Localizing Sodomy: The ‘Priest and Sodomite’ in Pre-Reformation Germany and Switzerland.” Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 8, no. 2, 1997, pp. 165–95. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/3704215.

Puff, Helmut. Lust, Angst Und Provokation: Homosexualität in Der Gesellschaft. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993.

Southern, R.W., Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape, Cambridge University Press, 1990.

Stehling, Thomas. Medieval Latin Poems of Male Love and Friendship. Garland Pub, 1984.

Recommended further reading:

Bailey, Derrick Sherwin. Homosexuality and the Western Christian Tradition. Archon Books, 1975. Originally published by Longmans, Green & Co., 1955.

Barbezat, Michael D. “Bodies of Spirit and Bodies of Flesh: The Significance of the Sexual Practices Attributed to Heretics from the Eleventh to the Fourteenth Century.” Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 25, no. 3, 2016, pp. 387–419. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/44862359. 

Brundage, James A. "Playing by the Rules: Sexual Behaviour and Legal Norms in Medieval Europe". Desire and Discipline: Sex and Sexuality in the Premodern West, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler and Jacqueline Murray, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996. https://doi.org/10.3138/9781442673854-004

Bullough, Vern L. “Heresy, Witchcraft, and Sexuality.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 2, 3 Mar. 1976, pp. 183–199, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n02_03.

---. “The Sin against Nature and Homosexuality.” Sexual Practices & the Medieval Church, edited by Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage, Prometheus Books, Buffalo, NY, 1994, pp. 55–71.

Bullough, Vern L., and James A. Brundage, editors. Handbook of Medieval Sexuality. Garland Publishing, 1996.

---, editors. Sexual Practices & the Medieval Church. Prometheus Books, 1994.

Burger, Glenn, and Steven F. Kruger, editors. Queering the Middle Ages. NED-New edition, vol. 27, University of Minnesota Press, 2001. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttszw5.

Clark, David. Between Medieval Men: Male Friendship and Desire in Early Medieval English Literature . Oxford University Press, 2009.

Dinshaw, Carolyn. Getting Medieval: Sexualities and Communities, Pre- and Postmodern. Duke University Press, 1999.

Fradenburg Louise, et al., editors. Premodern Sexualities. Routledge, 1995.

Frassetto, Michael. Heresy and the Persecuting Society in the Middle Ages: Essays on the Work of R.I. Moore. Brill, 2006.

Gilbert, Arthur N. “Conceptions of Homosexuality and Sodomy in Western History.” The Gay Past: A Collection of Historical Essays, edited by Salvatore J. Licata and Robert P. Petersen, Harrington Press, New York, NY, 1985, pp. 57–68.

Goodich, Michael. “Sodomy in Ecclesiastical Law and Theory.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 4, 20 June 1976, pp. 427–434, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n04_06.

---. “Sodomy in Medieval Secular Law.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 3, 20 June 1976, pp. 295–302, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n03_04.

---. The Unmentionable Vice Homosexuality in the Later Medieval Period. Ross-Erikson, 1979.

Jordan, Mark D. The Invention of Sodomy in Christian Theology. University of Chicago Press, 1997.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. “Attitudes to Same-Sex Sexual Relations in the Latin World.” A Companion to Crime and Deviance in the Middle Ages, edited by Hannah Skoda, Arc Humanities Press, 2023, pp. 84–101. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/jj.3716022.9. 

---. From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003.

---. “The Regulation of ‘Sodomy’ in the Latin East and West.” Speculum, vol. 95, no. 4, 1 Oct. 2020, pp. 969–986, https://doi.org/10.1086/710639.

---. Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing unto Others. Routledge, 2012.

Kruger, Steven F. “Queer Middle Ages.” The Ashgate Research Companion to Queer Theory, 1st ed., Routledge, New York, NY, 2009, pp. 413–434.

Kuefler, Mathew, editor. The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality. University of Chicago Press, 2006.

Lees, Clare A., et al. Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages. University of Minnesota Press, 1994.

Pierce, Rosamond. “The ‘Frankish’ Penitentials.” Studies in Church History, vol. 11, 1975, pp. 31–39, https://doi.org/10.1017/s0424208400006276. 

***Please note: my omission of Boswell's CSTH here is entirely intentional. I know that if people here got a hold of him he'd be considered a tumblr darling, easy. If I could, I would wear merch with his name on it. And normally I would list him loudly and proudly. But I'm not, because the man loved reading into things that at times aren't there, and there are countless critiques that have been leveled against CSTH, many of which Boswell himself agreed with. So. If the general tumblr population wasn't constantly pissing on the poor I might trust it in their hands, but as it is, I know that nuance is lost on people!

(would you believe me if I said I tried to restrain myself in curating this list? no?? well I DID)

[lockandkeyblade]

First Rule of Ghost Fight Club

Hey look ma, there's a multichapter now!

Several months ago the GiW, flush off the success of having the Anti-Ecto Acts passed– even if they had to hide it beneath several hundred adjustments to agricultural and infrastructure legislation– made a mistake.

Their little campaign of hatred was going well, maybe too well– so why not make it public? Why not grasp for a little more power, incite some torch and pitchforks? There were a dozen roads the stupid bastards could've taken, but they wanted the shortcut. The highway.

They decided that their next campaign against the ghosts would be to release several videos highlighting the utter destruction left in the wake of their fights. Show America there was something worth fighting on their hometurf. Make them angry. Make them vicious.

Jason figures they’d expected some backlash for it. There would've been a PR guy, or ten, or twenty, paid the big bucks just to sit around and consider it all. He'd interrupted enough board room meetings in his youth past life that he's got a pretty damn good idea of what to visualize; a bunch of white guys, forty plus, sitting around and deciding how people they did not know, understand, or give two fucks about were likely to receive this kind of news.

Ghosts were real, and terrible. The slogans were equally as bad, of course. And that wasn't on the PR team- that was on whatever dead-eyed millennial got paid way too little to give a fuck. Grandma can't cook you pies like she used to- she's too busy eating your soul. Little Timmy who fell down the well has taken one too many pointers from Samara Morgan. That kinda shit.

Someone was still gonna care about 'em. Someone was gonna call this inhumane. Someone would look into that Act and realize ghosts; talking, once-living people (some of 'em), had less rights than the average lab rat. Someone would start a protest.

The GiW would've thought about that and prepared for it. They must've felt invincible enough to chance it anyway, because they started uploading their 'documentaries' on the barbarity of ghosts online. Probably stroking their cliché ass moustaches and puffing cheap cigars all the while.

The fuckers would've expected all that. What they didn't expect, when blasting the world with their little softcore snuff vids, was how into it the world became.

Ghost fights? Were fucking badass.

And now the whole world knows it.

Gotham, especially, knows it. Gotham loves it. This was the kind of thing that was made to take over the nightlife of an already unhinged city; sports bars replacing football with the newest renditions of that one robot dude smacking down a couple of buildings, taking bets on what was gonna get him first– Danger Twink, Little Red Flying Hood, Morally Ambiguous Scientists, or The Man.

Proper names for each entity- and every other painfully stereotypical character involved- were hard to come by, initially. Most of those founding videos had the sound swapped out for the screams of children, flat voiceovers of scientists reminding the people that ghosts don't feel, so don't feel for them.

The bars played 'em on mute and blasted their own tunes over the top. Others had their own live MCs to commentate on the action. Robot dude got the name Gadget Goatee, the sweetass punk rock girl was On Fleek. The ghost seemingly addicted to boxes was Box Ghost. Names like that. When camera crews of reputable (and not so reputable) sports channels started sneaking into Amity Park, some names got adjusted. Some didn't.

The day pre-fight interviews began to happen was the day Jason seriously started considering why the Justice League hadn't gotten involved yet, enough to ease that question into conversation with Dickiebird. To sate his curiosity, no other reason. Turns out, Danger Twink had asked them not to. And the Justice League, full of some of the most anal and controlling people Jason has ever had the misfortune to meet, had listened to him. The petition signed by almost the entirety of Amity Park's population had probably helped.

Apparently, the city didn't want or need help. On the fighting front, at least. Nightwing is as in the dark for what, precisely, had been shared about why that was, but it was enough for Batman to raise the requirements for permission to be obtained by any hero wanting to go into Amity Park’s space– and for the rest of the founding members to approve them. 

JL's continued efforts to flatten the GiW and their miserable Anti-Ecto Acts had been cheerfully encouraged. Everything else, though? That was Danger Twink's problem. Or Phantom's joy, if you asked Jason's opinion on the matter. Not that anyone did.

The reality these days was that the government agency, high off their own fumes- as they often were- managed to fuck themselves right out of existence. And the ghosts? The ghost fights?

They were there to stay. Impressively contained within Amity Park with a startling level of confidence and control, all thanks to one girl on a hoverboard and a dead guy.

Place was even considered a chill place to visit, contrary to the continually televised property damage. The fights continued to maintain a level of popularity that was almost feverish, stealing their way into primetime television, spawning a couple dozen streaming services that would inevitably cannibalise themselves.

Oh, Jason could see the appeal of those fights. Hell, if he thought he could get away with it, he’d join ‘em. Sure, most of Gotham was into it for the more obvious reasons. Vicious mauling and extensive infrastructure repair that wasn't their problem, for once. Something new to bet on, some cool people (dead, alive, or never alive in the first place) to throw merchandise around for. The phenomenal amount of simping, the utterly batshit rule 34 that could be found online. A few ghost themed cocktails. All that good shit.

Jason just liked the sound.

He hadn't gotten into the videos until he could hear 'em, the ghosts themselves. It was something he kept to himself, seeing as- hey, no one else was mentioning it. His family was likely to think him insane again, so that was another deterrent. Nah, let folks think Red Hood enjoyed having that shit on in the background for...inspiration. Of the this might happen to the next person who crosses me variety.

But nah. He just, liked the sound.

It was like a secret concert, just for him. Some of those fights might as well be fucking operas. Full on musicals with a bit more green blood to 'em. Every ghost sang in a way Jason couldn't describe. There was a vibrato to it all, otherworldly and entrancing. A resonance that seemed to sink past his skin, right down to his soul.

They sing about obsession. They talk about what matters most to them, the parts of their unlife that are their beating hearts, their drive, their love. Every fight is an illicit fantasy, an almost embarrassing revelation of the people beneath the caricatures– Gotham sees neat fights, and Jason hears souls. 

It was simultaneously off-putting and addictive.

And fuck him sideways, but sometimes? The songs were kind of cute.

Especially the ones for Danger Twink. Most of the songs were for Danger Twink. Phantom, as he kept trying to tell the media, over and over again. The kid barely looked legal, though it was hard to tell when he was, y'know, six feet under. Brat could be 

Bruce's great grandpa several times over, for all he knew.

But he wasn't, if the songs were anything to go by. As far as the ghosts were concerned, this implied to be twenty year-old was, in ghost terms, baby. He was baby.

All the other ghosts knew it. All the other ghosts adored it. A solid fifty percent of the songs Jason could hear, day in, day out, were basically gooshy renditions of look at our small king. Our light. He has grown so much.

That Phantom’s response is usually the equivalent of mom please, you’re embarrassing me, as he makes a crater out of the earth with his opponent? Classic.

In a way, this whole shebang the world was addicted to was just a community trying to rear their child. Their potentially important child, or just important to them. Jason really didn’t know which way it was leaning, and it’s not like he could ask.

Really, he was just content to witness, maybe fantasize, a little, about what kind of songs they’d sing under his fists. What kind of song Phantom might sing, if Jason pinned him into the dirt.

One video changes that.

It’s a new one. Gotham is terribly excited by it; wherever Jason goes, he sees advertisements and hears people talking because– new ghost. New ghost. A new challenger approaches. The bars and the television companies keep any hints of who or what this late entry to the game might be, and it’s smart. Everybody’s talking about it. Fuck, even Tim is talking about it, and that little idiot hates the whole thing. Thinks it’s sickening that any being’s pain could be turned into sport.

Not that he’s wrong, just, y’know. No one’s really being hurt. 

Jason thinks he might also be… a little anticipatory. He’s gotten awfully familiar with the usual roster, their songs something that rattles off in his head throughout the day. He knows– heh. He knows what Phantom sings back to them. Intimately. Has that part memorized, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

He wants to hear Phantom sing about something new. That’s what’s exciting.

It’s exciting right up until he’s slouched down at a bar, eyes fixed to the screen and the cheers of the crowd around him drowned out by a tune that turns his blood to ice, stirs up something that’s been quiet in him for years, until his eyes flash green.

Because the new ghost doesn’t want to play with Phantom. He wants to own him. Like a dog. With discordant notes that sound like laughter, high pitched and crazed, like a metal pipe slamming into his face, over and over again–

And Phantom is defiant, glorious, powerful.

Afraid.

Jason doesn’t remember getting onto his bike, but as he heads east, he knows exactly where he’s going. Fuck permission, fuck the Justice League, and fuck Phantom for trying to handle that sort of shit on his own.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna do it, but this Plasmius guy? Is about to learn what it’s like to die. For the second time.

[rosierin]

and that's on period | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; (y/n) is on day two of her period. her morning starts with atsumu asking the dumbest questions known to man and ends with a nap on the couch

requested by an anon!! <3

a/n; this is unfortunately based off a real conversation i've had with some friends

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

(Y/n) woke up in pain.

There was a special kind of betrayal that came from her own uterus.

Like, sure. Go ahead. Shed the lining or whatever. Do your thing. But did it really have to involve fainting? Back pain? The rage? She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t voted for this. She hadn’t even seen it coming. And now, here she was, curled up like a dead shrimp under two blankets, silently swearing vengeance upon Eve.

Day Two. The worst day. The bloodbath. The hunger. The irrational anger toward any minor inconvenience. She was fighting for her life.

One eye cracked open. The soft morning light streaming through her window mocked her. Birds chirped outside like they were in a Studio Ghibli film. Someone in the house was playing music. Probably Osamu—he was always the first one up. Freak.

The heating pad had gone lukewarm. Her lower back was staging a coup. The cramps felt like Satan himself was clawing out of her intestines with a pitchfork made of molten lava and rusty needles.

And yet… she had to rise.

Not out of strength. Not out of bravery. Out of one, tragic truth: she was so hungry.

With the grace of a tranquilized sloth, she rolled out of bed and groaned. Every step toward the door was a choice. A war. A scene. The hallway was too bright. The stairs? Fuck the stairs. By the time she dragged herself into the kitchen, she looked like a background character in a zombie apocalypse—half-dead, feet dragging, blank stare, no will to live.

And the audacity? The actual audacity?

They were all already there.

Osamu stood at the stove like some domestic anime dad, flipping something in a pan with way too much cheer for someone who willingly woke up 8:47 a.m. Atsumu was at the table, shovelling food into his mouth like he’d just discovered taste buds. And Suna. Suna. Somehow finished with breakfast and was scrolling on his phone like he hadn’t just committed the ultimate betrayal by being awake before her.

He took one look at her. Looked back down.

“You look awful.”

(Y/n) blinked at him. Considered violence. Narrowed her eyes.

“Watch your mouth, Rintarou,” she said flatly, voice still raspy from sleep. “I’m not in the mood.”

Suna blinked once. Tilted his head slightly. Raised a single eyebrow. Oh? it said.

Yeah—'oh'. Her face said back.

Atsumu snorted into his food.

Osamu looked up from the stove, genuinely concerned. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. “She used yer full name. Better watch it."

“I don’t mean to be that guy,” Suna said, chewing on the end of his spoon, “but… are you on your period?”

She didn’t even sit down—just collapsed into the nearest chair, dragging it out like a forklift with no brakes. The legs screeched against the tiles in protest. Her spine might have dislocated. She rested her forehead dramatically against the table.

“Yes,” she muttered like a curse.

“Damn,” Osamu said softly, pouring miso soup into a bowl and setting it in front of her with lowkey reverence, like he was offering a sacrifice to an ancient god. “Back pain?”

“Mhm.”

“Cramps?”

She let out the weakest “yeah” known to man.

“Faintin'?”

“Not yet. Don’t jinx it.”

Atsumu, completely lacking any kind of survival instincts, poked her side with the handle of his spoon. “C'mon, it can't be that bad."

(Y/n) lifted her head just enough to glare at him. “Try me, Miya.”

Suna didn’t even look up. “If I were you, I’d stop while I’m still breathing.”

There was a short silence after that. Not a tense one, but still a kind that could either end in forgiveness or a fork to the neck.

(Y/n) closed her eyes. Debated taking a nap right there on the kitchen table.

She actually felt somewhat at peace. In fact, she could already feel sleep trying to pull her into its warm embrace…

Only for Atsumu to open his mouth.

Classic.

“…Can't ya hold it in? You know, like pee?”

Her eyes opened. Slowly. Like they didn’t want to witness what was happening.

Suna’s spoon clinked softly against his bowl.

Osamu turned off the stove.

How he’d asked that—with the confidence of a man who had never once known humility—she had no bloody (hah, get it?) idea.

(Y/n) slowly lifted her head from the table to look at him. Her expression was that of a disappointed teacher who knew her student had failed without even opening the exam.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Atsumu frowned, genuinely offended. “What? ’M just askin’! God forbid a guy wants to learn about the female anatomy.”

“You’ve spent plenty of time learning about the female anatomy.”

Her voice was dry enough to peel paint.

Suna sniggered. Even Osamu huffed a laugh, turning back to his pan with the tiniest smirk.

Atsumu leaned back, draping one arm over the back of his chair, the other lifting in a lazy shrug. “Touché.”

(Y/n) almost growled.

First, because of Atsumu's sly little smirk. Second, because her cramps were flaring again, a sharp jab low in her abdomen, and she pressed her palm against the spot like she could will it into submission. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not while these three were talking like a panel of underqualified doctors.

Suna glanced up, judgement written all over his face. “Did you skip sex ed or something? Pretty sure they teach this stuff in high school.”

“Fuck sex ed,” Atsumu grumbled, sitting up straighter. “That didn’t teach us shit. They just—okay, they told us periods happened once a month and showed us how to put a condom on a banana. What was I supposed to learn from that?”

He was getting defensive now, which was rich coming from the guy who had just confused menstruation with bladder control.

Suna just stared at him and droned, “Pretty sure that’s not all they taught.”

“Might as well have been,” Atsumu groused. “Anyway. How long does it last? A week, right? Are ya bleedin’ that whole time?”

(Y/n) yawned into her sleeve. The movement made her wince. Her lower back felt like it had been kneaded by a truck.

“More or less,” she mumbled. “Some people less, some people more. Depends on each person, I guess.”

“That’s so long,” he said, genuinely horrified. “That’s like… seven days.”

“I know how long a week is, Atsumu.”

“Hey, I’m empathisin’ here!” he insisted, like he was somehow doing her a favour. “If yer gonna be all pale and crabby and fainty once a month, I wanna be informed.”

“Did you just say ‘fainty’?” she asked, snorting despite herself.

Suna also snorted. “He did. Stupid and illiterate."

(Y/n) bit back a grin. It tried to creep up anyway, tugging at the corner of her mouth despite her cramps and general state of doom.

Across the table, Atsumu looked one second away from dumping the rest of Suna’s miso soup in his lap. His eye twitched. His grip on his chopsticks tightened. But then—miraculously—he exhaled, rolled his eyes, and moved on like the bigger person. Or at least, a slightly less dramatic one.

He leaned in again, weirdly serious, resting his elbows on the table like this was a press conference.

“Okay, but is it true that chocolate helps? Or is that just a myth?”

“Not a myth,” Osamu said before she could even open her mouth. He was gathering their empty plates now, calm and competent, the only twin with functioning brain cells, apparently.

(Y/n) nodded faintly, her cheek pressed to the table again. “Mhmm. Chocolate has magnesium, and magnesium helps cramps or whatever.”

She sounded exhausted. She was exhausted. Just sitting upright was work, and she's pretty sure her soup had gone lukewarm.

Suna shook his head, grave. “Atsumu, I’m being dead serious. How have you managed to live this long?”

“Quit treatin’ me like I’m stupid!” Atsumu snapped. “Is it really that weird for a guy to not know every single detail about periods?”

Suna and Osamu responded in the flattest unison possible:

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

(Y/n) didn’t even lift her head. Just pinched the bridge of her nose with a quiet wince. “You asked me if I could hold it in like pee.”

“Alright, alright—I get it, ya can’t.” He clicked his tongue, shoved the rest of his omelette in his mouth and bit out, “remind me to never ask you guys a question again.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the resigned little laugh that slipped out. God, this was so dumb.

“Plus,” Atsumu added, gesturing toward Suna with his chopsticks like he was pointing out Exhibit A, “he has a sister! 'Course he knows about this stuff.”

Suna raised a brow. "So? You’ve had girlfriends before.”

Atsumu huffed, speaking between mouthfuls. “And? Believe it or not, periods are rarely a topic that come up over dinner.”

Osamu muttered under his breath, disbelieving, “You’ve taken girls to dinner?”

(Y/n) scoffed, practically sneered. “Yeah. If by ‘dinner’ he means treating them to a takeout. As aftercare, probably.”

Atsumu turned to glare at her. “First callin’ me dumb, and now yer slut shamin’? I can't catch a break around 'ere."

“If the shoe fits, pretty boy.”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “Y’know, usually I wouldn’t mind that insult, but now…”

(Y/n) arched a brow.

He wisely shut his mouth.

Osamu, mercifully, set a plate of tamagoyaki in front of her with a chuckle. “Eat first,” he said gently, like speaking to a wounded animal. “Murder him later.”

(Y/n) sighed and picked up her chopsticks, her body aching in about six different places.

It was stupid. It was ridiculous. They were idiots.

Well—Atsumu was an idiot.

And yet—somewhere under the cramps and the fog and the hormonal death wish—she felt a teensy bit better.

She didn’t say anything about it. Just ate in quiet, measured bites, letting the chatter around her hum like white noise.

Breakfast eventually fizzled out.

The conversation shifted—something about a failed group project Suna was in and Osamu’s new beef with the washing machine—but (y/n) stopped listening somewhere around her third bite of tamagoyaki. The fog in her brain was thick, and now that she was full and slightly less homicidal, the urge to melt into the couch was overwhelming.

Her body ached in quiet, pulsing waves. Her cramps had dulled into a background throb, and her limbs felt too heavy to carry around anymore. She sat there, cheek resting against her knuckles, listening to the boys bicker like background static.

And for once, she didn’t mind the noise.

There was something weirdly… safe about it all. The way none of them flinched. The way no one had made it weird. No awkward silences. No eye rolls or "TMI"s or other terms she’d grown used to from guy friends in the past. Just chit-chat. Sass. A little idiocy. And a lot of miso.

It was...comforting.

She didn’t say anything, just picked up her bowl, rinsed it quietly, and slipped out of the kitchen. She could still hear them talking behind her as she shuffled to the living room—the scrape of chairs, Osamu sighing about the state of the sink, and Suna muttering something about group chats and late assignments.

The couch greeted her like a long-lost lover. She curled up against the cushions and sighed—body sore, brain mushy, warmth spreading across her spine like syrup.

A few moments later, footsteps padded into the room. She didn’t look up. Just hummed in vague acknowledgment.

“Didn’t think you’d make it more than ten minutes before crashin’,” Atsumu said casually, plopping down beside her with a dramatic exhale like he was the one in agony.

(Y/n) said nothing. Just shifted slightly… and let her head fall into his lap.

She felt him flinch. Just a tiny, startled twitch beneath her ear. Not enough to move her, but enough to make her smirk.

“Well this is new,” he muttered.

She didn’t bother opening her eyes. “What is?”

“You,” he said. “One minute yer prickly and murderous. The next yer all cuddly.”

She yawned. “That also comes with being on your period. Make the most of it.”

He huffed a laugh, and she could hear the smirk in his voice when he replied, “don't hafta tell me twice."

She didn’t have the energy to sass him back. She was too warm. Too tired. Too settled.

Then—gently, almost cautiously—his fingers threaded through her hair.

Oh.

Oh.

Yes.

Hell to the yes.

The softest, most docile sigh slipped past her lips like a fully tamed animal. His hand moved again, slow and rhythmic, combing through her strands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She could feel sleep dragging her under, heavy and blissful and sweet.

“Don’t stop,” she mumbled.

“Bossy,” he said, a smile in his voice.

(Y/n) creaked one eye open and mustered the weakest glare known to man.

Atsumu chuckled. “Kiddin’. Go to sleep.”

He pushed her hair back from her forehead with an easy sweep of his fingers, and her eyes fluttered shut.

Yep. Fully domesticated.

Sleep took her quietly, tucked into the warmth of his lap, with his fingers still in her hair and the distant sound of dishes clinking somewhere behind her.

[mochacoda]

what is love? | chs

Pairing: Chwe Vernon x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It’s been 2 days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been 2 days since you’ve talked to him. Now you're hiding in the bridal suite of your friend's wedding, avoiding him.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Friends to Lovers

Tags: bridesmaid!reader, groomsman!vernon, insecure reader, jihyo appears, dino's getting married in this one lolz, intense pining, lots of internal spiraling, vernon's facial expressions get flamed, 2 kdrama fall moments, a little konglish w/ translations, a kiss, no "y/n"

Word Count: 6.4K

What is love? If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that it’s what you feel for Chwe Vernon. Unfortunately for you, though, you really didn’t know any better, and now you’re facing the consequences of your actions. 

It’s been two days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been two days since you’ve talked to the man. Honestly, you have no one to blame but yourself, but you’ve convinced yourself that it’s everyone else’s fault for encouraging you. Maybe, if they hadn’t kept pushing you to confess to him—insisting that he definitely was into you—then you wouldn’t be in this position. 

Said position involves taking turns hiding in the bridal suite and bathroom of this wedding venue. In fact, you’re so committed to your act that you’ve practically become one with the shadows.

If anything, Vernon should be grateful that you’re going out of your way to avoid him. That way, he wouldn’t get bombarded with the secondhand embarrassment from remembering that horrible day. 

The only reason you’re here right now is because both Chan and his bride are close friends of yours, and you wouldn’t want to miss their wedding for the world. Plus, you’re also a bridesmaid. 

It was on you for blurting a disastrous confession to Vernon a few hours after the wedding rehearsal. 

But the bride and groom don’t even know that things have changed between the two of you. Given the chaos of wedding preparations, you withheld the fact that you and Vernon are going through a rough patch right now—if not the end of the friendship entirely. You didn’t want to add to their stress, but now you feel like you’re on fire. 

After all, Vernon is one of the groomsmen. What’s worse is, the wedding plans involve bridesmaids and groomsmen walking down the aisle in pairs, and you’d been placed with Vernon without a second thought. 

In other words, you’re completely screwed. 

“T-minus 20,” your friend and fellow bridesmaid Jihyo says, nudging your side. “We should go now.”

You feel a faint pulsing at the forefront of your head, a headache creeping up on you. God, what if when he sees you, he shakes his head and makes an X or something with his hands, insisting that he won’t walk down with you? What if he finds you physically embarrassing to be around, and just walks away? You’ve been running away from him all day, so it might not be a stretch to consider that he might have been trying to get away from you, too. 

You groan, scrunching the root of your hair, somewhat messing up your carefully curled hair. No, he wouldn’t just leave, that would ruin the wedding. He has too much love for Chan to do that to him. If he protests, he’d either do it subtly right before or confront you after it’s all over. 

You shut your eyes and take a deep breath. No one knows about your falling out except for you. And, well, Vernon, of course, but that’s not who you have to keep this secret from. You have to do your best to act normal and not at all like your heart is on the verge of bursting. 

“Has anyone ever died of embarrassment?” you suddenly ask, fingers dancing to find something to channel your nervous energy into. You fist a bit of the dress you’re wearing, then release it when you realize you can’t wrinkle the pretty material. “Shit.” You smooth over the fabric with shaky, sweaty hands.

“What is going on with you?” Jihyo’s eyes narrow as she looks you over. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you manage, bouncing your leg up and down. 

“Later, as in when?” 

“After the wedding,” you grit. You want to bury your face in your hands, but the expensive makeup gives you pause. You settle for lowering your head, staring listlessly at the white tiles on the ground. 

“Is this about what happened with Vernon?” 

You whip your head up. “You know?”

Jihyo slowly blinks, then deadpans, “Uh, yeah? A, both of you have been weird. The last time I saw you two not together was like, five years ago. And B, you’re literally the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh,” you squeak, then quickly ask, “Wait, what do you think happened with Vernon?”

She stares blankly at you, as if the answer is obvious. “You confessed. He said nothing. You ran away.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes growing comically large. Then, a frown replaces your shock. You don’t need to ask her how she knows. If anything, it just adds to the notion that even your other friends knew that he would’ve rejected you.

Jihyo sighs, coming over to the loveseat to sit next to you. She gives you a warm side hug, rubbing your back. “He’s a massive idiot. It’s gonna be okay. Let’s just get it together for the wedding, hmm?”

You swallow roughly, then nod. 

She continues, “Seriously, though. I’ve known Vernon for almost as long as you have. He’s not great at talking when he’s caught off guard—you know that, too.”

You blink at her words, the tiniest spark of hope igniting in your chest. But you quickly stamp it out, remembering the face he had made when you blurted out that you loved him.

Brows furrowed, open-mouthed, eyes wide, dead silent—he had to have been looking at you with disgust. That was the only way any sane person could decipher that look, really! There was no way that that face was the look of a man who was in love with you, as your friends have claimed.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, wrinkling your mouth into a smile that anyone could tell was faked. “I’ll get through it.”

“Yeah, it’s not that deep. Just walk down the aisle with him. It’ll take 10 seconds, tops.”

You’re very sure she’s exaggerating, but you wave it off. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she says dryly.

You glare at her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good, that’s the right mentality,” she says, clasping your shoulders, shaking your upper body. “파이팅! [Fighting!]”

“해야지, [gotta do it,]” you mutter. 

Jihyo’s right. You’ll have to see Vernon anyway, so you might as well do it with as much dignity as you can scrap together. 

Except, the little dignity you have left demands some more time to procrastinate and linger in your regret.

Jihyo stands up from the couch, but you don’t. Your limbs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’ve been held down by a massive boulder.

You groan, “Just go without me, I’ll leave soon. I wanna go as late as possible.” 

Jihyo looks at you with what you can only describe as immense pity. “Okay. I’ll see you in five?” 

You nod numbly, watching her walk away to open the doors of the bridal suite. 

Vaguely, you can hear some absentminded chatter across the room from the hair and makeup artists, mother of the bride, and maid of honor, all crowded over the bride. It’s all but a buzz in the back of your mind, though, since you’re preoccupied with trying to convince yourself that you have it in you to face Vernon. Knowing you only have five minutes before needing to walk down the aisle with him, your mouth feels dry—too dry. 

At that realization, you force your heavy limbs to get up, then walk over the fancy rug to the table where a myriad of miscellaneous objects have been strewn about. You reach for your bag to take out your water bottle, but your hands falter when you look at the little keychain attached to the bag. 

It’s a silver charm bracelet you’ve repurposed as a bag charm. It has a turtle and retriever puppy on it, representing the animals you’ve viewed each other as being. Seeing the charms causes a pang of longing to cut deep into you, reminding you of how much you’ve missed him in the last two days. 

Could you ever forgive yourself for ruining your precious friendship? For getting too greedy, for asking for too much? 

Your hands grip the edge of the table roughly, searching for something to stabilize your body, which is dangerously teetering in the high heels you had convinced yourself you’d be able to walk properly in. You’d bought it because the color of the shoe perfectly matches your dress, but the razor thin heel is proving to be an issue. 

Subconsciously, your hand reaches out from the table corner to your bag, gently rubbing the golden retriever charm Vernon always said looked like you, and you’re hit with a sudden intense wave of sadness—but not for the confession. 

No, instead, you turn your regret to the insecure internal ramblings that have ravaged you lately. 

The earnest, bright eyes of the little puppy charm makes you conscious of the hollow ache spreading throughout your body. How could you have been so mean to your poor, fragile heart? 

Alright, maybe you and Vernon wouldn’t be friends anymore. Maybe you would have to live without seeing him ever again. 

But you’d have to live with yourself, and it wasn’t right to treat yourself like this. 

Technically, Vernon didn’t even say anything to you. He didn’t outright reject you just yet, and he certainly didn’t say you weren’t someone worthy of love. So it was completely unfair for you to jump to those conclusions yourself, putting words in his mouth. 

And most of all, it would be even more unfair to you, represented by this adorable puppy charm, to lose yourself to heartbreak. 

Straightening your back, your other hand reaches into your bag for your water bottle. Upon chugging the remainder of the water, you close your eyes, concentrating on making your pulse slow down. It works, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

You might have to live with the fallout of this confession, but you could also live with the truth. Loving Vernon wasn't a mistake, and it wouldn't feel like one, no matter how he responded. He deserved honesty, and you deserved to stand by it. Even if this was the end, you wanted to leave this part of your story knowing you'd done right by both of you. 

You nod to no one in particular, having made your mind up. After the wedding, you’ll go to him and be upfront about it all, bearing your soul to his response. 

For now, though, you’ll help him enjoy the wedding by continuing to stay out of his sight. If he can’t see you, he can’t get reminded of his need to reject you—which is important, of course, because you don’t want his memories of this wedding to be of you crying after he lets you down. 

With this renewed clarity, you steady yourself. Vernon doesn’t love you, and that’s okay. You’d do enough loving for the both of you.

────୨ৎ────

Vernon steps into the bridal suite, a thrum of nerves coursing through his veins. He’s spent the past half-hour searching for you in every nook and cranny of the venue, dodging curious glances and knowing jokes from the other groomsmen about his obvious distraction. Jihyo’s the one who finally pointed him in the right direction, murmuring something about how it’s been over five minutes, and how he’s the only one who can get you to show up.

When he sees you standing by the table, shoulders tense, your hands gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, his breath catches. There you are, beautiful and strong and fragile all at once, lost in your thoughts. His chest constricts. How did it come to this? How did the best thing in his life become the one thing he feels he’s on the verge of losing?

“Hey,” he says softly, taking a step forward, calling your name softly.

Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and the sudden movement sends you teetering in your high heels. Eyes wide, you twist toward him, your balance faltering. “Vernon?”

It happens in a split second. One of your heels trips on the edge of the rug, and you stumble forward. Vernon darts forward instinctively, grabbing you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you tightly, steadying you.

For a moment, everything stops. Leaning against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat, a frantic rhythm that matches your own. God, your near face plant must have scared him a lot?

But just as you start to regain your footing, your heel accidentally digs into his foot, and he lets out a yelp of pain. 

The abrupt shift in weight sends him off balance, and the two of you tumble onto the floor in a tangled heap.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Vernon’s crazy seagull call of a laugh cuts through the tension. 

It’s infectious, and before you know it, you’re both laughing, the sound filling the room. It’s ridiculous, it’s messy, and it’s the most alive you’ve felt in days.

When your body relaxes all of its tension, you realize that you’ve missed him with every fiber of your being. That something in you has been waiting for him, like you’ve been in withdrawal without hearing his laughter in the last two days. 

You’d planned on continuing to avoid him until the end of the wedding, so that he could enjoy his night without you, but that idea is crumbling right before your eyes. You might not be able to bring yourself to stay away from him any longer. 

And then, oh, then—the laughter fades, and you realize how close you are. 

Vernon’s face is inches from yours, his warm breath fanning across your skin. His eyes, dark and soft, hold a depth of emotion that makes your stomach twist. And for a fleeting moment, you think you see something raw and unguarded in his gaze—something you’ve seen before. 

It’s how he looked when you confessed to him.

Your chest tightens, and your thoughts spiral. Is he mad, reminded of your confession? 

You scramble to put distance between you, pushing yourself off him and stepping back hastily. Too hastily, really.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as if that will somehow restore your composure. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—”

“It’s okay,” Vernon says gently, sitting up. 

He reaches an arm out for you, but you’ve already retreated several steps, an apologetic smile plastered on your face.

“We should get going,” you say, your tone overly formal. “It’s almost time.” Without waiting for his response, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door, your movements stiff and hurried.

Vernon watches you go, his hand dropping to his side. He flexes it, then exhales sharply, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior. 

You’re running again, and he’s running out of time to fix this. 

Pushing himself to his feet, he follows you out of the suite, his long strides easily catching up to you.

The two of you arrive at the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen just as the coordinator starts organizing everyone into pairs. You avoid Vernon’s gaze, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. 

But when it’s your turn to step forward, he’s there, holding out his hand to you. 

It shakes a little, and your breath hitches when you notice a flash of silver on his wrist. It’s a charm bracelet, and it’s unmistakably the same one you’ve kept on your bag for years, the little turtle and retriever puppy charms glinting under the soft light. 

Surely not? 

Surely, he doesn’t?

Tentatively, you place your hand in his, your fingers trembling. His grip is familiar, warm, and steady, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm you. 

As you walk toward the aisle together, you don't look at whoever you're supposed to be looking at, whether it's the officiant or the people clapping in the crowd. Instead, your eyes are trained on the jewelry peeking out of his sleeve, and how his hand feels so soft and warm and dependable against yours. 

Then, it suddenly occurs to you that maybe, just maybe, you saw it wrong that day. Maybe he wasn’t looking at you like he was appalled by your audacity to tell him your feelings. He might have actually really been confused, allowing for you to misinterpret his surprise for rejection. 

But as soon as the thought enters your mind, you dismiss it. False hope definitely wouldn’t do anything for your precious feelings. Especially when the hope was that Vernon, of all people, would love you as much as you love him.

Desperately avoiding eye contact with the man in question, you stare straight at the bridesmaid-groomsman pair in front of you. 

If Vernon loved you back, then he’d say it. He’d show it somehow, some day. Today wasn’t that day, and that’s okay. 

You’d be alright without him, eventually. Probably. Hopefully?

With that rationale, you do your best to ignore your trembling legs, burning ears, and constricting chest. The bride and groom deserve a perfect procession, and you would play your role well. 

────୨ৎ────

It was a beautiful ceremony. And, three hours into the reception, you’re proud to say that you’ve survived. Promptly after the procession, you separated from Vernon, finding refuge within the bridesmaid group. Ever since, you’ve flitted around different tables, dancing with random people, all in the name of protecting him from seeing you. 

You’re actually incredible at avoiding people, if you do say so yourself. Every time you’ve seen Vernon within 50 feet of your vicinity, you’ve grabbed someone new to dance with or talk to. And for especially close calls, you’ve dragged Jihyo into the bathroom. 

This time, though, you’re hiding in the bathroom without her. She’d finally refused to go with you for the nth time. The brat had thrown you to the wolves, essentially. No girl code—the nerve of her!

Patting down the roots and length of your hair, which had gotten a bit frizzy, you stare at yourself blankly in the mirror, watching a shiver run down your spine from the cold air-conditioning blasting in the small space. 

Despite your efforts to calm down, a sigh escapes your mouth, your shoulders feeling far too heavy. What are you doing, hiding?

God, you love him so much. So much that you’re willing to dance around him so he doesn’t get reminded of you, so that he doesn’t worry about how to reject you all night, so that he can just enjoy the wedding. 

What even is love? 

You’ve heard that love is sacrifice, and if what you feel is really love, then, well. You’ll have to try not to love anyone but yourself from now on, because unrequited love is somewhat horrible. 

You’ll get over him someday, right? 

Right?

Before you can psych yourself out of leaving the freezing but rather safe haven that is the restroom, you march over to the door with a new mantra. You shake your shoulders and roll your neck, cracking the joints in your fingers. 

“I’ll get over it,” you murmur. “I’m over it. I’m over it! Over, over, over.” 

Pushing the door open, you continue rambling to yourself. “I’ll get over it. Over, over, over, over...”

“Over what?” comes a familiar voice.

Oh, shit.

Wide-eyed, you look up to see Vernon blocking your way past the bathroom and back into the hallway leading to the reception. 

“Oh,” you gasp, limbs frozen. your eyes flit back to the door to the women’s restroom again, contemplating ditching him cheaply (again). 

Vernon steps closer, his gaze softening as he notices your hesitation. His voice is low and gentle—too gentle—when he speaks, almost as if he’s unsure how to break the silence.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand reaching out, fingers brushing against your arm. "You don't have to hide from me, y’know."

You glance up at him, your adrenaline flowing through your veins. You want to back away, to keep putting distance between you, but something about his insistent stare makes your legs freeze.

"I know it's been awkward," Vernon continues, his words more measured now. "But I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—I just want to talk." He brings his right hand up to his chest, like he’s swearing that he speaks the truth. 

You shake your head, your voice trembling. "You don’t have to. I don’t want to make things worse."

Vernon furrows his brows, stepping closer, as if he can’t bear to see you pull away from him again. "You think that running away will fix it? You think I want you to hide from me?"

You swallow hard, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know. This is all new to me."

"Then let me say it.” Vernon’s voice is strangled. "I don’t want to lose you, okay? I didn’t want it to happen like this, I…” His voice trails off as he clenches his fists, shutting his eyes tightly before opening them again. “Please don’t think I shut you down, I just—I needed some time to process everything. I care about you a lot—so much more than I know how to show, sometimes. Or,” he huffs with red-rimmed eyes, “a lot of the time."

A silence settles between you, thick and heavy, but Vernon doesn’t seem to notice. He looks at you with downturned, shining eyes, and you feel your defenses slowly start to crumble. 

You’ve never seen him so devastated. 

"Come here," Vernon says softly, his arm reaching out to tug you closer, now fully clinging to your side. "Please don’t keep running. Please?” He says the last word like it’s a prayer—and, oh, is it a powerful one.

Every part of your body stiffens, caught off guard by how warm he is, then immediately relaxes at how gently he’s holding you, as if you would break if he held on any tighter.

"Please don’t run from me anymore," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You think you could melt into his arms, and it takes everything within you to trust him, to not back away like you have for the past two days. With each passing second, you feel your spine relaxing and leaning into his touch. Then, in the midst of your relaxation, it occurs to you that he’s awaiting your reply.

But before you can answer his pleas, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the hallway. Jumping apart like fugitives before the law, you both turn to see Jihyo skidding around the corner, her face flushed with panic.

“There you are!” she exclaims, eyes wide. “The bouquet toss is about to happen! Get over here!” 

Before you can even blink, Jihyo grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the delicate warmth of Vernon’s embrace. 

“Now!” she shouts. 

You twist your back around to send him a helpless look, and all he gives you is an encouraging nod and the cutest, awkward little wave. You see the sincerity in his boyish smile, which makes your chest feel tight, as if all the air had been sucked from the room. It’s bad enough for your delicate heart. 

But then, most wickedly, you catch the adorable, anxious eagerness in his crinkled, watery eyes—and, oh. 

It really is all over for you, isn’t it?

You really won’t be able to love anyone else, will you? 

There is no “getting over” Chwe Vernon.

The last threads of your resolve crumble as you follow Jihyo. You barely register the steps that lead you back into the grand reception hall. She has a vice grip on your wrist, tugging you along with such urgency that your shoes almost trip you on the way inside. The room hums with energy, and you can’t help but feel out of place in the frenzy of people excitedly whispering and glancing toward the front.

Everyone has gathered in a semi-circle, eager faces all pointed at the bride, who is holding the bouquet high above her head. Your pulse is speeding up by the second, but it’s not for the reason the other single women are likely nervous for. All you can think about is how you’ve been dragged here with nothing but the love you have for Vernon—a deep, endless kind that threatens to burst out of you in a wildly embarrassing public display of affection.

"You're gonna be fine," Jihyo says with a grin, though it’s a little too wide, too bright. You’re not sure if she’s referring to the Vernon fiasco or the bouquet toss, but you force a smile back at her anyway.

"Sure I am," you mumble under your breath. 

She doesn’t hear you, or if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge that she heard it. She’s already turned her attention back to the bride, her arm brushing yours as she steps forward, positioning herself with the other women who are trying to catch the bouquet.

You stand awkwardly behind her at the edge of the crowd of single women, feet shuffling, heart still pounding from your conversation with Vernon.

Then, the live orchestral music shifts, and you feel a slight weight in your stomach, despite knowing the chances of the bouquet toss heading your way is slim to none. Still, it’s happening now, and you’re now on the single ladies floor, so there’s no backing out.

When you shift your back to brush away some of the hair obscuring your vision, you make eye contact with the very man who has been occupying your every thought this evening. Vernon had probably followed you and Jihyo as she pulled you away, since he’s now standing near you. And, oh, he’s close—only an arm’s distance or so away from you, standing at the front of the larger crowd. 

The closer the moment of the throw gets, the harder it is to ignore his burning presence. He’s standing with a group of other men who are watching the floor full of gorgeous, single women, but his attention is entirely on you. 

A subtle smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and the air between the two of you suddenly feels too thick. You have so much to say to him, and you don’t know how to get it all out in an eloquent way. 

But your deliberation of what to say to him is cut short by the screams announcing that the bouquet has launched into the air. 

You lift your chin up, squinting as the light of the chandeliers temporarily blinds you. By the time you blink away the flashing spots in your vision, you see the trajectory of the bouquet. 

It arcs high above the crowd of waiting women, catching the light as it spins toward the back—toward you! If you don’t move, the bouquet will crash into your face. 

Your arms instinctively reach for the flowers, reaching beyond what you’d thought was capable for yourself. But the second after your back stretches and feet jump to accommodate the move, your left heel completely gives out, sending your balance completely off-kilter.

Your arms flail uselessly as your ankle sharply twists, and the world tips sideways. The air rushes past your face, cold and sharp, and you brace yourself for impact—ready to collide utterly gracelessly with the hard floor. But before gravity can win, a pair of strong hands clamps around your waist, arresting your fall with a jarring yet steady pull.

The warmth of his touch spreads like wildfire through the thin fabric of your dress, grounding you in an instant. Vernon’s hands are firm, almost possessive, his grip both steady and urgent, like he’s afraid to let go.

Your chest presses against his, the faint thud of his heartbeat syncing with the chaotic rhythm of your own. His scent hits you next—a subtle mix of cedarwood and something distinctly him, crisp and comforting all at once. The tension in your body melts slightly as his arms secure you closer, your trembling legs finding balance in his hold.

“Hey,” he says shyly, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine, his words calming and electrifying in equal measure.

Your fingers instinctively clutch at the lapels of his jacket, the soft fabric brushing against your palms, anchoring you to reality. His thumb brushes lightly against your side, the touch barely noticeable yet searing, and the warmth from his body radiates into yours like a shield against the world.

Slowly, he adjusts his grip, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other ghosting against your shoulder as he steadies you on your feet. The gentleness of his movements is stark against the adrenaline roaring in your ears.

When you finally look up, your breath catches. His face is so close—closer than you were when you fell in the bridal suite, closer than you’ve ever been before. Close enough to see the individual strands of his long lashes, to see the beautiful shimmer in his brown eyes. His eyes, wide and searching, lock onto yours, the emotions swirling in their dark depths rendering you speechless.

“I’ve got you,” Vernon says, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the words reverberate through you like an earthquake. “다친 데 없어? [You’re not hurt, are you?]”

You shake your head without much thought, the back of your neck and your ears burning up at how tender his touch is. 

His fingers linger at your waist, the subtle pressure of his touch still burning against your skin. Even as he pulls away just enough to give you space, the absence of his warmth feels like a loss you’re not ready to accept. Without thinking, your hand darts out, fingertips brushing against the sleeve covering the charm bracelet you saw during the procession.

And that’s when you notice the bouquet—clutched awkwardly in your other hand, its delicate petals trembling just as much as you are. The flowers are slightly askew from the near disaster, and it all comes crashing down on you. 

You wince at the ridiculous public scene you’ve made, but the smile that spreads across Vernon’s face is enough to make you forget about everything, humiliation be damned.

“Perfect,” he says softly, though you can hear the teasing edge in his voice. “You got it, princess.” 

Princess, the joke he started calling you after Disney movie marathons in which you mocked the main characters always needing men to save them—you were definitely having a princess moment right now.

Vernon reaches to brush a strand of hair out of your face, and you feel your cheeks heat from the decidedly intimate nature of his touch. 

And that’s when the room erupts. 

Cheers fill the space as the guests begin clapping, laughing, and shouting in celebration. You see Chan whistle, while his newlywed wife shouts, “Finally!” The noise surges around you, but you can’t focus on anything except the way Vernon is looking at you.

You don’t know how on earth you could have misinterpreted it before—his wide eyes, slightly furrowed brows, half-open mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, and it’s suddenly clear he’s just as affected as you are. 

He’s looking at you like you’re the only one in the room, like you’re the only one he can see.

He’s looking at you in the same way you look at him.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare past his shoulders to see the waiting eyes of the entire room. It’s as though they’ve known all along, most having been there to see the constant teasing, the not-so-secret glances exchanged, and the tension that’s been building for what feels like ages. Everyone knew before you two did, really.

The realization hits you all at once, and a nervous laugh escapes you. You’re caught in the act—the act of love—and there’s no denying it. 

You exchange an uncertain look with Vernon, and something flickers in his eyes. It’s something deeper, like the three words you told him two days ago, only to be met with silence.

“Looks like it’s fate, huh?” you joke weakly, shaking the bouquet, trying to regain some control over the situation. 

But Vernon doesn’t laugh. His expression just softens, and his voice is so, so deep when he speaks, it’s barely audible over the noise of the guests. “Y’know, you don’t have to joke your way out of this.”

You swallow hard, but before you can respond, he steps closer to you, his gaze unwavering, presence overwhelming. He reaches for your hand, gently pulling it into his, where it fits just so, and the warmth of his touch sends a wave of electricity through you.

“You know I’ve been looking for you, right?” Vernon continues, his voice slightly choked, making your chest tighten. “All day. All day, yesterday and today. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything that day. It wasn’t because I didn’t care, I do,” he pauses, tightening his grasp on you. “It’s because I care too much, really.”

Your breath hitches. What is he saying? Your brain is practically numb from the excessive overthinking you’ve been doing for the past two days. He needs to just spell it out.

“What?”

Vernon exhales a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands, buried deep in his coat pockets, tense visibly as his shoulders lift slightly. “I feel like you don’t get it,” he says softly, the words teetering on the edge of vulnerability.

Your heart skips a beat. “Get what?”

He looks at you—really looks at you, staring intensely into your eyes, weighing whether or not to say the next part. His jaw tightens for a brief second, the muscle flexing as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He pulls a hand out of his pocket, raking it through his hair. His fingers linger at the nape of his neck before dropping back to his side, curling loosely as though they’re bracing for impact.

“That I’m here for you,” Vernon says, his voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, not quite closing the distance but close enough that you can feel the addictive heat radiating off of him. “That I’ve always been here for you. And not…” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Not just as a friend.”

Your breath hitches, and you feel his gaze flicker to your lips for the briefest moment before darting back to your eyes. His own are wide, filled with uncertainty but also a quiet kind of determination.

He shifts again, this time slipping his other hand out of his pocket and holding it out, palm up, like an offering. His fingers twitch slightly, betraying his nerves, and you notice a faint redness creeping up his neck, the telltale signs of his composure cracking.

“I didn’t say anything sooner because…” His voice trails as he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping to the ground. When he looks up again, his expression is raw and completely unguarded. “Because I didn’t want to mess things up. But I can’t keep telling myself I don’t feel this way. I’m sorry I’m so late.”  

Your chest tightens as his words settle over you, finally registering the weight of them.

“Please don’t get over me,” he says all at once, breathlessly. His eyes are shining, his gaze ever so hopeful.

His hand lingers in the space between you, waiting, hoping.

“Please?”

You stare at his outstretched hand in disbelief, limbs locked by pure shock. Is this real? 

You can feel the effort it’s taking for him to stay still, his thumb twitching every few seconds like he’s fighting the urge to pull away and retreat.

When you don’t immediately respond, Vernon exhales shakily and starts to pull his hand back, his lips parting as if to apologize. 

But before he can, your fingers move instinctively, brushing against his.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough to make him freeze. His eyes snap to yours, widening as if he doesn’t quite believe what just happened. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers curl around yours, the warmth of his touch steadying you as much as it does him.

“I mean it. I don’t want you to move on, because I love you,” he says shakily. “I’m in love with you, and I don’t know if you still feel that way for me, but… I need you to know how I feel.”

In the depths of his eyes, you see the vulnerability he’s always tried to hide, the intensity of the emotions he’s been holding back for so long.

And it’s as if the whole room vanishes, leaving just the two of you standing there. The bouquet is forgotten, and so are the guests, their cheers having long faded into the background.

Your heart feels as though it’s about to explode from your chest, but the words spill out before you can think. “I love you, too.”

Vernon brightens, eyes lighting up his, his grin stretching from ear to ear, and you fold. He’s handsome and sweet and a little awkward and brilliant—and yours.

Before your next breath, he’s leaning forward, closing the distance between you. 

His lips meet yours in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that you barely feel it at all. Impatient, you eagerly lift your chin up for more of him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss—oh, is it something to live for. You never want to let go. He tastes like chocolate and feels like a dream come true—he’s your very own prince, if you’re the princess. 

It feels like the world has finally clicked into place. You and Vernon are on the same page, and it’s indescribable, really.

When the roaring in your ears subsides, you hear some wolf whistles, and you suddenly realize where you are. You barely bring yourself to pull a few inches away from him, laughing softly, and he smiles, his eyes sparkling with so, so much warmth and love. It’s all for you. And you realize that here, in his arms, you feel full. You feel so warm, so cared for.

This, this is love. 

Masterlist

Author's Note: he's a bit of a loser in this, but i think he made up for it

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone

[moonsaver]

The isekai trope is burning my brain. Pls have this yan!alhaitham with isekai'd reader who actually tells him the deal.

---

What if you got isekai'd into genshin? (specifically sumeru for my taste of scenario)

And alhaitham actually got to know? Maybe you don't even hide it while he's talking to you and writing down whatever you're saying while you're half dazed, sitting up on the stretcher, mentioning an entirely different world. Investigations show no result for it, meaning you really must have come from a different world – which isn't entirely impossible. But it seems yours is a slightly different case.

Regardless, alhaitham still doesn't want trouble. Leaves you be with the matra to discuss and sort out your own situation for the most part.

And then you get assigned to work at the Akademiya.

Its temporary, just until you gain your bearings. And the higher-ups (ahem, Nahida), determine he's appropriate to look after you for a period of time. He's a pretty well-adjusted guy, doesn't bother much, and simple enough to not complicate things (you may protest regarding the kinds of books he reads, but to his standard, it is simple. Just don't bother with that.)

Regardless, he's now in charge of you.

He teaches you the main language Teyvat currently uses, or at least the main language talked in major parts of Sumeru. Stays with you after work hours from time to time to help you learn – but only in exchange for knowledge about your own world. He studies you – or rather your subjects, your culture, your languages. If he's teaching you, you have to appeal something to him, and of equal magnitude aswell. So for the most part, your time is spent trying to piece together how to get you back to your world, or simple cultural and linguistic discussions. Unless that isn't your thing; but you both can find a common ground even then, considering Alhaitham doesn't shy away from different areas of study.

It's only natural your bond progresses. You both go from "somewhere between acquaintances and strangers" to "might occasionally greet while passing by". It's not soon before some of the other higher ups approach you to help get a task done from him, since it always seems like he manages to evade them, going who knows where during his working hours. Maybe it's an important task that can't simply be left on his desk. But you're a bit of a special case - Alhaitham doesn't mind sharing a few details with you; as long as you can appropriately determine what is and isnt worth his time. So you somehow manage to find him and get things done.

Its a bit strange. There's only a few ever constants in his life when it comes to people, and doesn't expect much in return. But having you around is different. Having you around feels.. strangely understanding. Although he doesn't mind the solitude, a part of him has always felt secluded from the masses. And you seem to be stuck in a similar situation. It's only natural you two seem to stick together. It's natural. That's what he tells himself.

And then you start to fizzle out from his grasp.

You make new friends. Newer people who may or may not know about where you really might be from. You learn newer things, far beyond Alhaitham's scope (or rather, just his scope of teaching), you get involved with many, many, people, even get invited to events he doesn't. It hurts a bit when he sits silently at your usual table at the library, cozily tucked away from most prying eyes, sitting across where you should have been, but aren't. but he won't admit it. You did mention you're busy and might not be able to come. But something inside him twists the slightest bit.

And he will admit it– only to himself. He has no grasp on his judgement nor principle when he decides to destroy all your documents, leaving you to hopelessly and despairingly run around to somehow, someway, recover them, trying to revive all the information you earnestly gathered.

He begrudgingly gets up to attend the door in the middle of the night, almost regretting not having worn his headphones, when he stops thinking for a moment. Its you. Of course it is. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch up, but he resists. He invites your shaking, teary form inside with silence and serves you some tea, before sitting down in front of you. It's almost funny how familiar the scene is – except this time you're alone much later at night with him, and this time you're so distressed you can barely get the words out before you break down.

And he takes care of you, silently. His large, warm hand soothingly rubs your back as he gives you space to cry and blubber out all your stresses, humming to let you know he's listening, tapping the saucer of the tea cup when you're sobbing a bit too heavy and need a break. It's enough to make you realize just who you really need to stick by. None of your friends would really care for you, would they? They're simply fascinated by the strange things you say. Alhaitham and you have a deeper connection, don't you think? Maybe if you're a bit of a romantic thinker yourself, he can twist his words just right enough to even imply you both must have been meant by fate to meet.

In the end, it all settles when you decide to sleep over, cancel your plans for the next day as you get ready to sort out your information with Alhaitham all over again. And this time, he can study you closely.

-

[weemssapphic]

stay.

Larissa Weems x f!reader

Tags: smut (cunnilingus, dildos - Larissa receiving), overstimulation, hurt/comfort, alcohol may be involved, Larissa is kind of subby and has a praise kink and is hopefully not too ooc

Words: ~4.8k | ao3 link in title

Where does the thump of the bass end, where does your body begin? The song that’s playing doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you can feel its vibrations in your chest. You’re slightly tipsy — not hammered, not by a long shot, but just intoxicated enough to feel relaxed in the mass of people. Scantily clad bodies push against you from all sides, sticky and warm. No ‘excuse me’s, no ‘sorry’s, just vibing. It doesn’t bother you, they don’t bother you; you’re having fun, they’re having fun. You push your way across the dance floor, the bar is your goal. 

As you get closer, you notice a woman standing at the bar. She’s nearly a foot taller than everyone around her, her hair so pale that it takes on the color of the flashing LEDs above her head. Blue red purple yellow. Blue again. It’s curled into an updo, too sophisticated for a place like this, she doesn’t blend in with the rest of the crowd. She leans forward on her elbows, tries to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting unsuccessfully with some guy at the other end of the bar, hopeless. Now this woman is your goal.

The person to her left heads towards the dance floor — you take the opportunity to sidle up next to her. A glance at her out of the corner of your eye tells you she’s starting to get annoyed that she can’t get the bartender’s attention, so you do it for her. Luckily, he glances over at just the right time and sees you wave him over and, luckily, he decides he should be getting on with his job.

“Gin and tonic for me, please,” you shout over the music. “And…?” You turn towards the woman, motion for her to speak. She doesn’t yet, she’s taken aback for a moment, and the bartender raises his eyebrows impatiently as he starts on your drink. 

“Whiskey on the rocks, please.” She’s found her voice, and you almost lose yours — it’s just slightly deeper than you’d expected it to be, smooth and velvety, and she’s got the most melodic English accent. You wonder how long she’s been in Vermont.

She shoots you a grateful look, her tension clearly easing with the promise of a drink on the way. The bartender sets down both drinks and she opens her little clutch, but you’ve already tapped your phone to pay by the time she’s snapped open the clasp. Her eyes widen imperceptibly — she starts to protest, you shake your head and give her a look, a broad smile, and her words die in her throat. Her lips move, you assume that she’s thanking you but you can’t hear her over the music. Her lips are pretty. Soft, plump, you don’t know anyone who wears red lipstick like that. She knows you’re staring at her lips, her cheeks are starting to match them in color, but today you don’t care. You take a sip of your drink and she mirrors you.

“What brings you here?” you shout. It’s a basic question, but you genuinely want to know the answer. She doesn’t look like she’s having a good time. And she’s not dressed like the rest of the partygoers. Not that she isn’t dressed well, she is. A little black dress, a satin clutch, with gold details to match her jewelry. But her dress is a few inches longer than what most of the women here are wearing, and her heels a few inches shorter, and she doesn’t have any cleavage on display. She’s a bit stiff, proper, hesitant, like she’s drinking everything in, deliberating, considering. What to say, how to say it, who to trust. You think you already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“My friend dragged me here,” she shouts back. Bingo. You smile. A beat. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile wider. “Yes.” You pause. “But not in a bad way, trust me.”

The woman gives you a quizzical glance. “What do y-”

“Larissa, I lost you in the crowd!”

Larissa. It fits her somehow. You’ve never known anyone with that name before. That belongs exclusively, uniquely to her now.

The source of the interruption is a petite redhead with long bangs and thick-rimmed glasses. Larissa’s friend places a hand on her arm and leans in to shout directly into her ear, so loud that even you can hear her. She’s a little drunk. “I’m going home with Chel-sea,” she slurs.

Chelsea lingers by the dance floor. It must be Chelsea because the redhead glances back at her and winks. She’s young and she’s butch and she looks a little jealous at the way the redhead’s lips are plastered to Larissa’s ear. She looks away when Larissa looks at her. 

You miss the rest of the conversation between Larissa and her friend, but you don’t really care. Her friend leaves with Chelsea and Larissa is still standing next to you at the bar, and that’s all you really care about. 

“It appears I’ve been abandoned,” Larissa says, you can tell it's an attempt at self-deprecating humor, you smirk. 

“Sometimes it’s more fun on your own. You get to meet new people.” Larissa knows you mean her, her eyes drift from your face down your body, slowly — scanning, appraising — then snap back up to your face. You wonder if she likes what she sees, and you know you’re fucked because you even had that thought in the first place. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” she says, and you take it as a sign that she, at the very least, doesn’t find you completely repulsive.

You introduce yourself and Larissa repeats your name, and you think you don’t ever want to hear anyone else say your name but her. She says her own name then, and you smile, because you already heard her friend say it, but it sounds even more beautiful falling from her own lips. Larissa.

“It’s nice to meet you, Larissa.” 

She smiles with her lips closed, it’s sweet and almost shy — maybe she likes the way her name sounds coming from your lips.

Someone pushes past you, trying to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting again, with the same man. He’s down bad. You move to make room at the bar and find yourself closer to Larissa. You’re close enough to smell her, she smells nice, heavy, white florals. She doesn’t smell like sweat or booze or cheap body spray like everyone else here. She’s different, she doesn’t belong. In a good way.

Larissa asks you something but you can’t hear her. “What?” you shout, and she repeats herself but you still can’t make it out, and the person behind you elbows you in the back and you nearly spill your drink down your shirt, and it would annoy you if Larissa weren’t clearly suppressing a smile. You have to shoot your shot. “You wanna get out of here?”

Thankfully Larissa’s hearing is better than yours and, thankfully, she agrees — you both down what’s left of your drinks and you lead her around the bar and towards the door. You’re afraid to lose her in the crowd, you keep looking over your shoulder, but then her hand closes around your bicep and suddenly the thick, warm, sticky air of the club is less suffocating, fades into the background. Your skin is on fire even through the fabric of your shirt, and you cannot get out fast enough.

The air outside is a welcome contrast, there’s a cool breeze, and Larissa loosens her grip on your arm but doesn’t let go completely. The door closes and muffles the music playing and your ears ring. “I don’t know why I come here anyway, I have this ringing in my ears for days after,” you joke. You’re still shouting and it makes Larissa laugh, and you realize that her laugh is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. You’d like to make her laugh some more.

“I don’t think I’ll let Marilyn take me here again,” she admits with a smile. “It’s not really my scene.” You could tell. You wonder how hard her friend had to beg her to come along.

You lean your back against the cool brick of the building, breathing deeply, getting some cold air into your lungs. Larissa’s hand drops from your bicep and you miss the feeling immediately. “What made you come in the first place then?”

Larissa takes her time answering, leans against the wall next to you, clearly pondering her words carefully. “Marilyn always picks up girls here,” she starts slowly. “She insisted on being my ‘wing-woman’. Which has clearly worked out quite well, seeing as she’s gone home with someone and abandoned me.” There’s a touch of humor in Larissa’s tone, as if this isn’t the first time Marilyn has done something like this, as if it’s some endearing personality trait of Marilyn’s.

“The night isn’t over yet…” You try to sound nonchalant — you wonder if Larissa would consider coming back to your place, but you can’t get a good read on her. “There’s still time, you could go back in?”

Larissa deliberates again. “Or I could stay right here?” Her voice rises at the end, like a question. Your gaze snaps to hers, searching, searching for what?

“Would you like to come back to my place?” you ask bluntly. Larissa smirks, her cheeks turn pink — there’s something about her mixture of confidence and shyness that has you desperate for her. She steps closer and nods. 

“Yes.”

Not shyness, something else. She’s reserved, as if she’s never done this before, you wonder why she’s doing it now, if she’s proving something to her friend, if she’s sick of being alone. If she just really likes you.

Your arm goes around her waist. It feels soft and warm. Your eyes go to her lips. They look soft and warm. Your body draws nearer to her as if pulled by some magnetic force, the same force that’s slowly pulling her face down towards your own. 

Her lips are just as soft and warm as they look. Softer even. You feel as though you’re melting into her. She tastes like whiskey and lipstick and you know that the latter will stain your chin but you couldn’t care less. She’s eager but so are you and you deepen the kiss simultaneously, your tongues brushing as you taste each other. The feeling makes you shiver. Makes your arm tighten around her waist and your free hand trace her hip. You wonder what it is about you that makes her let go of her reservations, you shake the thought from your head, you don’t care, kissing her feels so good.

She buries her hands in your hair. Tugs a bit. Scratches your scalp. You moan, dig your fingers into her hip, maybe she’ll bruise. Fuck, she feels like heaven. You’re floating. You mumble something about calling a cab. You don’t though, not right away anyway, you don’t want the kiss to end.

You end up in a cab together. Larissa is handsy, you’re handsy. Your thigh is squished against hers, your hand is inching up her thigh, her hand is in your hair again. Her breath is heavy against your lips. The windows are cracked. The driver is used to this. He clears his throat, he’s come to a stop at the bottom of your driveway.

He’s happy about your generous tip, and you’re happy about Larissa’s hand in your own as you lead her up the driveway in the dark. You let go of it to fumble with your keys and Larissa giggles in your ear, her hand rests on your lower back as she waits, fuck, her fingers are so long, the thought makes you drop your keys.

Finally inside, you close the front door with your ass, lean back against it, pull Larissa against you by the hips, bypass her lips in favor of her neck. Moans fill the air, Larissa’s moans, deep and sensual. They vibrate against your lips as you taste the skin beneath her jaw. Heat fills your belly, sparks shoot up your spine, your groin aches.

You give Larissa a push, walk her backwards through the dark house towards your bedroom. She clings to your shirt, she’s panting, she likes kissing you, her lipstick must be all over your face, it turns you on. Her back hits the bed and she pulls you on top of her by the shirt. Your thighs bracket her hips and your breasts press against hers through your clothes, your teeth clash as you briefly lose the rhythm of your kisses. Her hands slip beneath your shirt, brush against your lower back, you’re sweaty, she doesn’t seem to care, enjoys the way you grind against her.

Your hands push at her dress, it clings to her, you’re almost jealous of the dress, you should be wrapped around her like that, where does your body end and hers begin, you want to meld into her. She tries to sit up, you let her, she pulls the dress over her head, you pull your shirt over your head. Both of your chests are heaving, Christ, it’s hot in here — your gaze traces the lace that clings to Larissa’s breasts, the delicate black pattern creating a delicious contrast against the milky white flesh that strains against it, that moves up and down with every breath. 

“May I?” you ask, fingering the straps that dig into her shoulders. At her breathless “yes” you push your fingers beneath them and drag them down her arms. There are pink indents in her shoulders, your fingertips soothe over them, your lips replace your fingertips which search Larissa’s back for the clasp. The bra falls away from her body and your lips follow her shoulder down to the swell of her breasts, kissing, licking, nipping, letting out little moans, soft soft soft so soft.

Your hands on her waist, also soft, something out of a renaissance painting. Her hands on your back, she’s found the clasp of your own bra, you smile against her flesh. Bra is tossed aside, your nipples poke against her skin, hard, her nipples are hard, too. She arches her back when you lick them, slides her hands into your hair to keep you in place — you’re starting to realize what she likes.

Larissa’s belly is soft, you want to bite it so you do, she groans. You pull back to admire your handiwork, the indents of your teeth in the soft fat of her lower belly, the faint reddish marks covering her torso, remnants of her own lipstick that have transferred from her lips to yours to her skin. You kiss the bite mark, there, all better, you kiss your way down to her venus mound, pull her underwear down, dark blonde curls tickle your chin, her thighs part.

Kiss the crease where thigh meets groin, smell her arousal — shudder in delight. It coats your tongue, tastes just as good as it smells, makes your own cunt ache. Your nose is in her pubic hair and your arms are around her thighs, the softness of which press against your ears and muffle her moans. Your tongue laves her folds, shit, she tastes better than anyone you’ve ever had, you can’t remember ever having anyone else, you don’t ever want to have anyone else.

Larissa holds your head in place by the hair, you can tell she’s a little desperate for release by how roughly her nails scratch your scalp, not gentle like outside the club, and by the way her hips roll against your mouth. It’s hot, how bad she wants this. 

“Mm, good girl,” you moan against her clit — her fingers flex against your head and her hips stutter, fuck, she’s so responsive.

You let go of one of her thighs to touch yourself, popping open the button on your trousers and shoving your hand into your underwear — relief courses through you as you start to rub your clit, matching the pace of your tongue on Larissa’s clit. Her thighs tense around your ears, her hips buck erratically, she’s close, you suck her clit with urgency, you hump your own hand with the same fervor. Come on, same time maybe, it’s building, building, Larissa cums all over your chin, you can’t hear whether or not she moans, your heart is pounding in your ears, your own orgasm coats your hand and drenches your underwear. Trousers ruined, who gives a fuck, being between Larissa’s thighs is worth it.

Long fingers tug at your hair, pull you up, soft lips descend upon yours — you feel Larissa’s breath catch in her throat, you taste like her. You wiggle your hips, kick off your trousers, tug off your underwear, Larissa gasps when she feels how wet you are. Flexes her thigh against you, you mewl, god, what a pathetic sound, you don’t have time to be embarrassed, she kisses you harder. Her hands on your hips encourage them to roll, grind against her, use her to cum.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you pant — you’re looking down at Larissa as you ride her thigh and she looks like a goddamn angel, lips swollen, parted, lipstick smeared around them, pupils blown, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, hair half undone and stuck to the sweat on her forehead, tits bobbing, belly rippling, arms flexing. Her gaze tracks your own features, the movements of your own body as your muscles tense, your tits bounce, your chest heaves. You wish you could take a photo of the way she’s looking at you.

Your release is the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt, heightened by the way Larissa’s throat bobs as she swallows thickly. You want to kiss her senseless, so you do. “God, I want to fuck you so bad,” you mumble against her lips — she groans and squirms beneath you, you reach blindly over to your bedside table and pull your strap out of the drawer and Larissa shivers at the sound of the silicone bumping against the drawer. “Is it okay if I fuck you?”

Larissa moans a “yes” into your mouth as her hands cup your ass to pull you closer, her fingertips brushing against your core. Fuck, your eyes roll back in your head and it takes all your willpower to sit up, climb off of her, put on the harness. Her eyes track your every move, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, it drives you wild. You climb back on top of her, straddling her, squeezing some lube onto the dildo and spreading it with your hand — Larissa’s fingers twitch against the sheets, as though she’s itching to touch you, as though not touching you is driving her wild.

You settle between her legs, they part for you, her eyes are locked on the dildo, she pushes herself up on her elbows to watch as you tease her inner thighs with the tip. Her folds stick together with cum, you part them with your finger, her head falls back and her thighs twitch. She’s glistening, she’s drenched, you push your finger inside of her and she clenches around it, you wish the dildo was a real cock, that she would clench around you like that. A second finger, she takes it well, her body drawing you in, clenching with every pump of your fingers, your free hand gently rubs her outer thigh, there, that’s good, ‘fuck, so wet for me, are you ready?’

You withdraw your fingers and replace them with the dildo, teasing her folds, her clit, circling her entrance, pushing in, slowly, slowly, watching Larissa’s lips part, ‘breathe, that’s it, be a good girl and breathe for me.’ Your hips meet hers and you still for a moment, you let her get used to the feeling of being full.

“You okay?” you ask, you wait for Larissa to find her voice.

“Y-yes… it’s just a little big.” She blushes, it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. You’ll start slow, you tell her, and she looks grateful, she takes a few more breaths before she tells you to move and you drag the fake cock out of her until only the tip is left inside. Wait a beat. Push it back in, just as slow as the first time. She moans. Fuck, make that sound again, you pull your hips back and push them forward, just a little faster, she makes that sound again. 

You call her a good girl again and she responds by rocking her hips into you. She really likes being called a good girl, she closes her eyes and her hands fist at the sheets and her chest turns pink. She mewls and moans and whimpers and her hips meet your pace thrust for thrust, even when you start to pound into her. She grabs your hips for stability, her fingers dig into your flesh, her palms are warm and sweaty and they stick to you, you wish they would stay stuck, you like how they feel on you. 

Larissa cums hard, her face contorts in ecstasy, her eyebrows knit together and the creases there are deep, would it be weird to kiss them? Fuck it, you kiss them — that was the right move, Larissa’s arms wrap around your back, slide down to your ass, give it a squeeze, try to guide it to move again, to keep fucking her. You snap your hips, you kiss her sloppily, you moan into her mouth as if the cock were part of you, as if you could feel her warmth around you, you almost can if you focus on it hard enough, she moans back and clenches as if you could really feel it. She cums again, stops kissing you while she does, just pants erratically into your mouth.

“Be a good girl and turn around for me,” you mumble against her lips, receiving a tired moan in return. You pull back, slowly slip out of her, she whimpers a bit at the sensation. Your whole body is on fire. “I’d love to see you on your hands and knees for me.”

She turns, groans a bit, clenches her thighs together. You grip her by the hips and give her a gentle tug and she falls onto her elbows, her forehead rests against the mattress, her ass is in the air. So pretty, you run a hand along its curve as you push her legs apart with your knees, she’s open wide like this, she’s perfect. “This feel good?” you confirm as you tease her slit with the dildo, you wait for a muffled “mhm” before pushing in again, she’s tight like this and you go slow, you stroke her hips, her thighs, you watch the muscles in her back tense.

Something is different, you notice — Larissa’s moans are much quieter, her hips are much more static than before, she slowly stops meeting your thrusts, her biceps shake as she holds herself up. You slow to a stop, your hands rub her hips, you ask if she’s okay — she freezes, that tells you everything you need to know. You’re going to pull out, you tell her, and she stays perfectly still as you do just that, she stays still as you crawl beside her and urge her to relax, to lie flat on the bed. 

“Larissa?” She avoids your gaze, she lies on her stomach with her head turned the other way. You hardly know her, you don’t know what’s happened or what she needs. “Larissa?” you try again, trying not to sound pleading or desperate.

“Sorry, I just need a minute,” she finally replies, her voice shaky. You give her a minute, two minutes, three minutes. She sniffles and your heart sinks. You sit up a bit and peer around her, seeing tear tracks run down her cheek.

“Larissa…” You tug gently at her shoulder, urging her to turn towards you — she resists, then she relents. She lets you pull her onto her side, she buries her face in her hands, one covering her eyes, one covering her mouth, as if you can’t tell she’s crying like that.

You don’t know what to do, your heart constricts in your chest, your stomach hurts. “I’m sorry,” you say — you don’t know exactly what you’re apologizing for, but you feel like it's your fault that Larissa is crying, you want to make her feel better, you don’t know how. She shakes her head and her palm muffles a sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and your brow furrows. What the fuck are you apologizing for, you want to say, but the words get stuck in your throat and you rub her bicep in what you hope is a soothing manner. Is it worse to touch her or worse to pull away completely?

“What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for,” you finally say, but you don’t think Larissa has absorbed your words, because she keeps mumbling something about being sorry, that she’ll be ready to go again in a minute. “It’s okay,” you whisper over and over again as you rub her bicep. “We can stop, we don’t have to keep going.”

“We don’t?” Larissa sniffles, glancing up at you, and you shake your head vehemently. 

“We don’t.”

Another sniffle. The words ‘I’m sorry’ repeated again. You don’t like that she’s apologizing. You ask her why. She sniffles again. She dabs at the inner corner of her eye.

“It’s s-silly to be crying,” she says dismissively, it makes you frown. 

“It’s not silly,” you tell her. “What happened? Did you get overstimulated? Was it the position?”

She nods reluctantly, avoids your gaze. “I’m s-sorry… It was just too much…”

Your heart threatens to crack in two — what sort of shitty partners has Larissa had in the past that she didn’t feel comfortable telling you to stop? You push down your sadness and anger, they aren’t productive. You brush Larissa’s hair off her face, catch a stray tear on your thumb, trace her jaw with the tips of your fingers. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Larissa. If one of us wants to stop, for whatever reason, we stop. Whether it’s just a break or we stop altogether, we both deserve to have fun and to feel safe.”

Larissa closes her eyes, nods slowly, wipes her nose with her wrist — you get up, you’ll be right back, to get her some tissues and a wet washcloth. Larissa blushes as you clean her up, tries to be subtle as she blows her nose, mumbles out another apology which you chastise her for. 

“I doubt this is how hook-ups are supposed to behave,” she retorts — you laugh, that gets you a reproachful look from the blonde. 

“You’re not a ‘hook-up’, you’re a human. You don’t have to behave a certain way. I just want you to have a good time. And to be able to tell me if you’re not having a good time. I’m many things but a selfish cunt isn’t one of them.”

The tension breaks, Larissa snorts and shakes her head, you grin up at her from between her legs. She looks like a mess — lashes clumped together, mascara streaked down her cheeks, lipstick smeared down her chin and up onto the tip of her nose, foundation caked beneath her eyes. She’s beautiful. It’s the kind of moment that could make you fall in love — you shake the thought out of your head.

A trickle of morning light is seeping in through the blinds, bathing your bedroom in a soft glow. As you toss the washcloth aside and crawl up next to Larissa, you realize you can see her irises clearly for the first time. They’re the truest blue you’ve ever seen, deep and bright at once. Your eyes flicker between each of hers, which do the same to yours. 

“Sun’s come up,” Larissa says hoarsely.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

She gives you a shy, closed-lip smile. You cup the back of her neck, wait. It’s her move. She closes the gap, kisses you. Still smiling. You smile back, kiss back, stroke the base of her skull with your thumb. She hums, you hum back. 

You pull away first. “We should get some sleep.” You get up, cross the room, close the blinds, the room is dark. Stumble back to bed, bang your knee against the bed frame, curse — your eyes haven’t adjusted yet. Larissa chuckles.

“Should I leave? It’s morning…” she suggests almost timidly as you lie beside her.

“Only if you have somewhere to be. Otherwise I’d very much like for you to stay, if you want that, too…” You hold your breath, you hope she does want that too. Her answer comes in the form of lying down to face you, tugging the covers over herself.

Your eyes meet. “Thank you,” Larissa whispers. “Nothing to thank me for,” you whisper back. 

Even in the dark her smile is radiant. “Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Larissa.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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[sorryimananti-romantic]

The Leaders | Chapter VIII

"maybe a place where light and darkness meet, the choice between truth and lies is mine."

masterlist

ot8!ateez x f!reader, mafia au

chapter warnings: drinking, smoking, illegal businesses, mentions of war/military, drugs, gangs and corruption, impending doom sort of arrives, lots of kissing so we can call luna a serial kisser now-

chapter wc: 11.7k

chapter synopsis: jaemin informs you about the political shift with the sirens turning on president lee because of his involvement with a strictland official. you finally have a conversation with yeosang and at the bar, you decide to confirm your relationship with the boys. they warmly welcome you as a true leader. meanwhile, at the port, the illegal shipment to mist island returns unexpectedly with the navy hot on the crescents’ tail.

prev chapter recap: on your last day in edenary, you go prepared to the ju residence where eden newspaper’s 50th anniversary is being celebrated. you learn about the cuff bracelet hongjoong gave you from sunmi, heiress to maddox and co.. you meet chan of wolfgang and he shares tips about assemblyman kim. you are surprised when the assemblyman recognises you from years ago and you offer him the crescents’ support. you return to sector 1 and the crescents catch up with each other. you make up with hongjoong and he admits the bracelet he designed was intended to match the crescents’ rings. he has delayed madame tiffany’s deal and you are still waiting to hear back from madame cha. anxious, you go to the bar to find yeosang but run across san who offers a drinking session at his house. you get honest with each other and you learn about the crescents’ relationship. the night ends on a romantic note and you make up your mind about the crescents. you hear back from madame cha’s gang member, jaebeom, only after hongjoong signs the deal. he implies that the crescents’ doom might be around the corner.

“Good day, Missy,” the fifteen-year old Jaemin took off his newsboy cap to bow, ever the gentleman.

“That’s Miss Luna for you,” you tried keeping the smirk to yourself but the young informant was far too observant to miss it.

“Just Luna then,” he set his cap on his hair. “I bring news for the Captain.”

“And if you’re his informant, you must know that I am the Captain when he’s not present– sort of. At least, for you.”

“I’d say you’ve become the chief mate,” Jaemin considered, attempting to do some justice to the rankings. “I should make this official. The Captain has found his mate.”

The Captain has found his mate. You covered your cheeks to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Considering you’re lounging in his office and all,” he added with a shrug, continuing to inform you that he never saw this coming. The last time you had interacted, you were still a bookkeeper bordering the lines of a secretary. 

“Lounging is not the right word. I’m working,” you motioned at the documents splayed out on the table and he pointed at your cross-legged position.

“Don’t let the Captain catch you like that. He’ll discipline you.”

“Oh, shut up already,” you told him, beckoning him to sit. “What’s the news?”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you, so if you do me wrong, I will be out for blood, but,” he stopped you before you could throw something at him. “There’s been a shift in politics. The Sirens have crucified President Lee.”

“President Lee?” You asked. “Not General Wi? I thought he was their target. Doesn’t the Siren Rebel Party work to make sure that the military does not pull the strings of the parliament?”

“That’s right,” he folded his arm, proud to be the bearer of this news. “The Sirens have been protesting against a possible martial law for a while, because that would mean the army gets to make decisions regarding the issue with Strictland and its immigrants here. But anyways, they won’t publish this in the newspaper. Mr. Jang of Eden News is acquainted with President Lee so he will take special care not to publish anything about the scene the Sirens created. He’ll make sure nothing gets out.”

“Hold on,” you said. “One thing at a time. What scene did they create?”

“I’ve heard that they made a puppet of President Lee and set it on fire,” he said and you grimaced. “The cops got to them and they had to flee. They will try to torture the information out of the ones they caught, but I think they will still get away with it. They always do.”

“Woah,” you grimaced. “Now, how are Mr. Jang and President Lee connected?”

“I thought you would know, considering you’re an Edenary citizen and all,” he said and you shrugged. You were aware that the partners, Mr. Jang and Mr. Ju, didn’t see eye to eye on all things but made good partners nonetheless. 

Jaemin continued. “I don’t know how much they go back but when President Han was killed, there weren’t many articles published in the newspapers. Only the Edenary citizens who were present at that time have an idea of how exactly the events of her death took place– the rest only know the rumours that she was assassinated, some not even aware that it happened at a public event.”

“Hmm… why would he not publish articles about his wife getting killed like that? It could have earned him votes, if nothing else.”

“That’s what’s strange. He claims he kept it under covers to respect his wife but he never shuts up about it in his campaigns and broadcasts,” Jaemin said. 

“Why do you think President Lee was targeted this time?” You asked.

“Oh, right. That’s the thing– apparently a Hala Official is arriving soon for ‘discussion’ on the improvement of relations between the two nations. The Sirens claim that the man should not be the face of that discussion because he usually handles the Strictland affairs and is known to play dirty–”

“He’s related to Strictland?” You narrowed your eyes.

“That’s what I said,” Jaemin leaned forward, clasping his hands in a manner similar to a certain boss of a certain company. “He was present when the Treaty happened. He’s not very famous even in Halaland, so it’s kind of strange but not strange at the same time because he is a Hala official. The Sirens must have thought things might take a weird turn after their meeting, so that’s what they protested.”

“And they won’t mention this in the newspaper.”

“Right,” Jaemin concluded with a grin. “Juicy, isn’t it?”

“Very,” you muttered. “How did you find all this out?”

“Oh, I just run errands for the elites,” he said casually, getting up. “But I only answer to the Captain.”

“How loyal,” you smiled. “How did you manage to get him to take you seriously?”

“I told him a Captain must have a pet by his side– someone who can shapeshift and be his eyes and ears. Someone as loyal as a dog, as sneaky as a rat, as sly as a fox, and as cute as a bunny–”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t mention the last part,” you chuckled.

“You wanna bet?” He said in all seriousness. “You’ll take me with you the next time you go to the warehouse.”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Because it’s been a while. The warehouse boys spoil me,” he grinned. “And don’t worry about finding me– I’ll find you when you’re about to go.”

With that, he bowed mockingly before leaving, your smile falling as you processed the new piece of information. 

You really needed to dig into everything that was happening. There had to be a connection somewhere with the things happening in Strictland. If President Lee himself really was involved… you shuddered at the possibility. 

You wished you had asked Jaemin the name of the Hala official but you weren’t sure you would recognise him anyway. You decided to wait for one of the boys to come who might be able to identify the man with the description you had. You felt like you really needed to talk about everything related to Strictland again, to look into the Sirens and their involvement, to look into Mr. Jang and his media censorship–

But your mindspace was still occupied with Jaebeom’s warning. It had been three days and you still hadn’t heard back from him. No one else was aware that you had met up with him, and you intended to keep it that way. Every moment, you prayed that his suspicions would simply be that– suspicions. Not facts.

Burying yourself in work was easier now. You were finding that you had a special talent for multitasking when you were stressed. You could work speedily but then you would have a moment where you would zone out for a significant period of time until someone would interrupt you.

And it was Seonghwa who interrupted this time, whistling in a low volume as he entered the room, apparently feeling good. You didn’t move, only shot a glare at him before continuing to stare holes into the stained glass of the window.

“Well, someone clearly forgot to have lunch,” Seonghwa checked the time. “Weren’t you going to wrap this up and go home to rest for the evening?”

“I’m almost done,” you told him, sighing at the bundle of paperwork. “I think I’m more suited for field work.”

“Should I have a car prepared for you–”

“No, I think I’m good here,” you buried your face in your hands momentarily. You are only suited to stay in the shadows, your father’s words rang in your head. Maybe he was right. Maybe working from the spotlight was finally taking a toll on you.

“What are you stressed about?” Seonghwa asked gently, sitting in front of you across the table. He passed you a bar of chocolate that he must have grabbed from the reception on his way upstairs. You popped a cube in your mouth, letting the rich texture of it soothe your nerves.

“Stuff. I’m always stressed though, don’t worry,” you tried to joke it off, knowing it would never work in front of Seonghwa.

“Is it about Madame Tiffany?” 

You shrugged in obviousness. “You know I won’t relax until I hear back from my sources.”

“Ah, nothing that can be done about that then,” Seonghwa slumped back. “Anything else bothering you, my love?”

My love.

“Uh,” you bit your lips in nervousness– he clearly had no idea of the recent progression. Yunho had kept his mouth sealed for once, and you were glad because once everything was official, you wouldn’t be able to hide how these casual terms affected you to your very core. “Yeah, Jaemin came by. Have you heard about the recent news?”

“Oh, yeah, I caught him on my way to the port earlier in the morning,” Seonghwa told you. With the recent shipment of Black Shadow due for export to Mist Island soon, he had been quite occupied at the port since he came back from Edenary. “Strange happenings.”

“Do you know who the Hala official is?”

“That would be Major Sung Dongil,” Seonghwa said. “He’s a very respected and a hated personality in Halaland. Some believe that his aggression caused Halaland most of the war casualties.”

You nodded slowly. “So he’s not very loved back home, and he’s related to Strictland in some unknown ways.”

“He’s basically in charge of Strictland’s status– kind of like a pseudo-governor of that area.”

“So… he would be well aware of whatever goes on in Strictland, right? Nothing would go past him,” you said.

“He should be. If he isn’t… that means he needs to do a better job.”

“And now he’s meeting with President Lee,” you folded your arms, voice dripping with suspicion.

“Not the first time this has happened, and it’s not unusual for him to meet with President Lee,” Seonghwa mirrored your position. “Whatever happens in Eden affects Strictland too– especially because there’s still the matter of illegal immigrants. That’s probably the reason they’re meeting, and if the Sirens Rebel Party heavily comprises those immigrants of which most are illegally residing here, it makes sense that they got angry and protested the way they did.” 

“True,” you scratched your chin in thought, slumping back again. “I’m probably just overthinking again.”

“That’s why we like you,” Seonghwa chuckled. “Sometimes overthinking makes sense– especially when it comes from you.”

“Well, the overthinker in me wants to look into Major Sung and why President Lee keeps using media censorship to his advantage. I heard about how he never talked about his wife’s public assassination yet brings that up for pity votes every now and then.”

“Understandable. Let’s just wrap up the new deal first, yeah? I can have someone look into Major Sung for you in the meanwhile,” Seonghwa asked and you agreed, thanking him. He took over the files and asked you to go and take a breather and you laughed, staying to finish it before eventually leaving with a kiss blown his way. He shook his head in amusement, smiling through work for a good while after.

It was a little awkward, very overwhelming and kind of nerve-wracking but very familiar to wait for Yeosang in his office in the Crescent Bar. 

But it was something that needed to be done in order for your relationship with the boys to progress. In order for there to be a clarity to who and what you were– as a Leader, as a Crescent and as their romantic partner. 

You still were not sure how your relationship was going to progress with some of them– that included Hongjoong, first and foremost. There certainly was palpable tension between you two, but he respected you perhaps as much as you did (despite all your squabbles). He held you in high reverence and reminded you how important you were to them and to their cause at every step, and it was thanks to him that you were Luna of the Crescent Company now. 

As for the boys in the warehouse… you couldn’t say anything about it yet. You were content with your current situation– three of them already reciprocating your feelings felt unreal. Perhaps, this was how it was supposed to be. They were the ones opening you up to the idea of love and how it came in all forms. They were also teaching you how to be good at receiving love. They sure knew how to give it.

You were now on the way to shift your relation with Yeosang. Four of the Crescents wanted you. No wonder you felt like you were drowning, overwhelmed with the idea, while also feeling as if you were taking your first breaths after remaining underwater. 

The warm atmosphere of his office room and its familiarity comforted you like a lover’s embrace while also soothing your nerves for the discussion. Yeosang entered after a few moments in the middle of instructing one of the employees. When he finally finished and turned towards you, he clapped with a pointed look.

“I see you’ve almost finished my precious wine.”

“It was there for me,” you said as you shifted awkwardly, realising that he was right. The previous three quarters were down to a few sips. “It was looking at me.”

Yeosang laughed, settling down on the couch beside you. “How have you been? And what’s stressing you out so much that you almost drank the entire bottle? Not that I mind a tipsy Luna…”

“I’ve been well, for the most part,” you said. “The stress– you know why. Work stress. And… I wanted to talk to you about something, but first tell me how you have been. I heard you’re almost prepared to ship Black Shadow to Mist Island?”

“Yep,” he sank down, a tired groan escaping his mouth. “The police have been sniffing around so it was tough to get around them. We just hope it can leave the Eden territory without any trouble. Once it crosses the Eden waters, we’re mostly safe.”

“I sure hope so,” you said. “Why are they sniffing around? Is there a mole?”

“There actually might be– far too many strange coincidences have been happening, but San and Yunho are looking into it so I’ll leave it to them,” he said. 

No wonder Yunho had been so busy these days– you hardly caught him in the office anymore. 

“So? What did you want to talk about?”

“Well,” you turned towards him, stifling a smile– he looked far too welcoming in the brown tones of his outfit that perfectly complimented his hair and milky skin, almost creating a coffee-like contrast. It didn’t help that he was rolling his sleeves again, showing off his sculpted forearms. 

“Well?” Yeosang repeated, noticing how you zoned out, oblivious to your gaze stuck on his arms. 

“Right– uh… I wanted to tell you that, uh…”

“You sure you want to talk?” Yeosang teased. “Maybe another glass of drink to loosen your lips?”

“Shut up,” you glared at him. “I like you. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“Yeah…” he nodded after a moment of silence. “Never would have known if you hadn’t told me.”

“Yeosang,” you groaned and he laughed heartily, finally pulling you closer by your wrist. “It took me so much courage to come here and you can’t stop joking around.”

“Think of it as my coping mechanism,” he said in a serious tone, looking at you with caution and anticipation in his eyes. “Because I’m trying to find the words and the courage to tell you that I like you too.”

“I know,” you nodded and he looked at you pointedly, but soon the two of you were sharing soft, guarded smiles.

“This is kind of weird,” you admitted and he agreed. “But yeah. I wanted to tell you that I like you. And I like… the others too.”

“Elaborate,” he requested gently.

“Well, I like Yunho, you know that,” you said with a laugh and he smiled. “I like Seonghwa. It happened in Edenary– he’s just so… you know? Comforting. Caring. He’s so gentle.”

“That he is,” he agreed wholeheartedly.

“And… I don’t know how it happened but it happened recently with San. I went to his place–”

“You didn’t!” Yeosang gasped scandalously and you smacked his arm, making him snicker.

“Just to talk! I was actually here for you but you were out and he offered to take me anywhere I wanted. We decided to go to his place to drink and whine, but one thing led to another. We only kissed though.”

“Nothing else?” He teased.

“Just… a lot of kissing and cuddling– god, do I have to share everything with you?”

“I mean… he is a good kisser–”

You gaped at him. “Yeah… He is.”

So that’s what you were getting into. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Who else have you kissed?” 

“I thought you knew everything by now?” 

“Yeah, but I need answers from you. Who else have you kissed, Kang Yeosang?”

“Do you really want to hear the answer?” Yeosang leaned forward, inches away from your face. “Shall I add another to the list?”

You gulped visibly, making him grin and he pulled back, caressing the skin on your arms to let you know that he was only teasing. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I have, but I wanted to talk to you before I made it official,” you told him. “I want to be with you, Yeosang. With you, and Seonghwa, Yunho, and San. And with more, if they will have me. I want to be a part of… this.”

“You sure, sweetheart?” Yeosang tucked your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in the process. 

“I’m sure,” you insisted, your gaze steel. You had never been more sure of anything, and it was not just the thrill you felt in your veins. It was your heart singing for them, something like a knot in the middle of your chest that tightened with yearning everytime that you thought about them.  

Yeosang smiled and kissed your forehead. “Welcome to the gang, sweetheart. I think I should tell you the obvious while I’m at it?”

“Go ahead,” you nodded. 

“First and foremost, confidentiality,” Yeosang said and you nodded in understanding. “Us… we know everything about each other. We’re one. You can choose to share that with us, or keep your business with each of us private among us– that doesn’t matter. If you choose to remain private, we will make sure not to discuss relationship dynamics with you among each other.”

“I think if I’m sharing all of you, I don’t mind. We’re all together, so…”

Yeosang smiled proudly, very pleased to hear that. “Don’t worry, we don’t always talk in such detail. In the beginning, it was a little awkward navigating our way through this. We had to talk to learn about each other. Now… it’s become a habit.”

“No, I like it. I like how close you are. It makes it feel like you all have this little bubble.”

“And now you’ll be a part of that bubble,” Yeosang said and you smiled. “The thing about confidentiality is that we keep our relationship from anyone who is not us private. Very private, and you know why.”

“Because it’s unconventional,” you said and he nodded. “And because they will wish they were us.”

Yeosang laughed darkly at your comment. “They still do. But that’s just another weakness they can manipulate to take us down. They already know we are each other’s strength and weakness, but it’s better if our relationship is kept in the dark.”

“Understandable,” you agreed. 

“The second thing is something you already know– that it’s okay at any point moving forwards if you want to be with only one of us, or a few of us, or even none of us. You’re not bound to us in any way, Luna. You can explore outside of us if that is what you wish for. Of course, we would prefer to keep you all to ourselves. All of us have at some point tried something out of our circle but we never liked it. No one understands us like we do.”

“What about me? Do you feel like I could fit?”

“That’s what I mean,” he caressed your cheek again. “You don’t have to fit in. Just be yourself, and find what you like. Let it progress naturally.”

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding, suddenly having a moment of clarity. “Thanks for telling me that.”

Yeosang tapped your cheek lovingly. “Lastly… have fun. And be careful.”

“Of who?”

“Of your desires,” Yeosang said. “Being with us is not as complicated as it sounds. You can find comfort and solace in anyone of us– whether it be of platonic, romantic or sexual nature. I just want you to navigate these waters without worrying about the consequences within our group. That means that we won’t mind what you do with one or the other. But we would also like for you to be clear of what you want with us to avoid confusion. We will respect your wishes and boundaries and will expect you to do the same, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, understanding and also surprised how eloquent Yeosang was as he talked about this. “Just keep it undramatic and have fun?” 

“That’s a loose translation of what I said,” Yeosang chuckled. “But yeah. There’s no jealousy going on, nor will there be in the future. We’re all one, but if you don’t want all of us, that’s fine.”

“Have you had previous partners like me?”

“We tried, yes,” Yeosang nodded. “It always ended badly– silencing them wasn’t the problem. They tried to break us, and it made us wonder if that was their intention from the beginning.”

“I hope none of you got that vibe from me?”

“Well, there’s a reason you’re here, Luna,” Yeosang smiled knowingly. “Do you think Yunho, of all the people, would have warmed up so quickly to you? Do you think Seonghwa, who wanted to kill you that night, is kind to anyone like he is to you?”

You shook your head. He was right– they must have felt something different with you. Something good and pure.

“Do you think the maknaes will accept me?” You asked cautiously.

“Oh, they are the accepting ones– you just overcame the hurdle that was us,” Yeosang admitted and you scoffed in shock. “It would have been hard to win us over if you got acquainted with them first.”

“Good thing that I was your bookkeeper then, right?” 

“Yeah, that’s probably how it started,” Yeosang kissed the back of your hand. “I’ve had my eyes on you for quite a while, Luna.”

“I heard,” you admitted and he nodded, knowing someone must have told you already. He simply couldn’t believe you were here, wanting to be a part of them. Wanting to be with them, accepting them as they were. He had shot every arrow at you in this conversation, scared to find you having cold feet but here you were, letting him kiss your hand repeatedly, watching with glazed eyes. 

“We waited far too long, didn’t we?” You asked in almost a whisper and when he spread his arms, you immediately scooted closer, melting into his embrace and enjoying the kisses he planted on the top of your head. “I’ve always had a thing for you, just so you know. It’s hard not to, because you’re very handsome and charming.”

“Stop,” Yeosang laughed– in all of his life, he would never get used to people telling him how handsome he was. Even when the boys told him, he always got shy.

“But you are,” you pulled away to look him in the eyes. “You’re too good to be true. And to me, you always feel like home, Yeosang.”

Yeosang’s heart felt full. He cupped your face with one hand, his brows scrunching with something like amazement and disbelief and you were sure your own expressions reflected exactly that. You were finally in his arms, his. You were his, and he was yours.

Yeosang swiped his thumb across your lower lip and you shut your eyes momentarily, exhaling shakily. When you dared to look at him, you found his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

“May I?”

You nodded and he stifled a smile, pecking the tip of your nose first and making you relax as you giggled. You both moved closer naturally until there was no distance between your lips, sharing the softest of kisses that made your heart melt like candle wax. You moved your lips along his, alternating between deep kisses and pecks, caressing each other’s skin wherever you found easy access. 

Being in his arms filled a void in your heart that had been there for a long time now. The void of yearning. Oh, how you had restrained yourself from crossing boundaries with him while you worked as his bookkeeper. All to hide your identity– if you had known earlier that he would be so accepting of you, you would have yielded right there. 

It had taken far too long, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, and you hoped you conveyed that in the way you held him and kissed him– with deep respect and love. Once you felt short of breath, you drew apart, eyes fluttering open and finding his cheeks flushed.

“You’re a good kisser too.”

Yeosang choked on his laughter. “I didn’t imagine you would weaponise that piece of information.”

“Well… that’s how it’s going to be with me. Get used to it,” you pecked his lips and he deepened the kiss while keeping it soft and undemanding. You smiled through it and snuggled into his warmth.

You could definitely get used to this.

“Do I have to set up a meeting to make this official?” You asked. “What’s the next step?”

Yeosang chuckled, caressing your back assuringly. “San is handling that. It’s only going to be dinner with lots of wine so don’t worry too much. Just think of it as another work agenda– we’re basically doing this to congratulate you on becoming a Leader, but you can make an announcement there. Also, that man is the most obvious being on this planet– it’s clear as day that he was pleased about the other change.” 

“Oh my god,” you laughed. “He’s so goofy.”

“Don’t let anyone hear that. He’s supposed to be the scary one of us. At least first impressions.”

“I think first impressions… Hongjoong wins in that department,” you shuddered lightly as you recalled the ice cold gaze he gave you when he first saw you in the office. “Or Yunho, if he tries.”

“Wait till you see Mingi or Wooyoung look at someone like that. If looks could kill.”

You made a mental note to witness that, and the conversation steered from one thing to another. Never once did you feel out of place in his arms.

You belonged there.

The calm before the storm. 

It was always a short period of tranquility after a storm would wreck everything in its wake.  Impending doom seemed to be your life’s companion. It stuck at your side at the calmest periods of your life like an old friend, and then grew in intensity as the calm wore off to welcome the storm like a lifelong enemy. 

It felt like you were standing at the borderline between calm and storm– your gut was restless with anxiety and that was only a sign that something was about to go wrong. You could just pray that the intensity of it would be mild. 

Perhaps, this was not even the calm before the storm. Maybe you were simply getting squirmier with each passing day not hearing back from Jaebeom, or mulling over little pieces of information that did not sound too bad in retrospect, but put in a certain context or connection seemed more damaging to the business.

Whatever it was could wait a little longer. 

You were in Room no. 1 at the Crescent Bar tonight with all the boys present, sharing a hearty dinner. They welcomed you warmly, making a huge deal and you were half-sure it was just to annoy you, courtesy of a certain Kang Yeosang who knew you didn’t like being the centre of attention very much especially when you were going to be talking about important things here, but you could pretend this was all about your promotion from secretary to a Leader. 

However, the boys who knew– Yunho, San and Yeosang– kept exchanging suggestive glances with you and you kept mouthing at them to ‘stop’, which they were getting quite a laugh out of. The rest were thankfully oblivious, but that didn’t mean they were doing anything less. 

The warehouse boys got you a few gifts– a gun designed by Yerin, its hilt encrusted with a pearl which gave it ‘the Luna touch’, as they quoted. It was a beautiful beretta and they promised to teach you with that gun so you could get familiar with it. They also gave you a small dagger with a customised engraved cover that you could carry in your purse or even your boot. 

You asked them if you needed to expect an attack anytime soon but they laughed, saying every Leader carried a few guns and daggers on them. Wooyoung went as far as to say that it was a part of their ‘style’ and you accepted the gifts, amused but also appreciating their sentiments.

You were done eating and were now watching the boys talk about the little things, their voices intermingling in the room. Wooyoung and San were having a heated debate over something related to working out and Yeosang was intently listening, sometimes agreeing with one or the other. Yunho and Mingi, as usual, were in their own little bubble and you watched them with fondness spilling out of you– you loved the way the two looked at each other. Not only the two, all of them. The way they all looked at each other and cared for each other was something otherworldly.

Seonghwa was explaining something to Jongho– it looked like they were discussing something related to work with the way Jongho sketched over the table to make his points clear to Seonghwa. And here you were, watching them, your eyes travelling to Hongjoong who had also finished eating and was now looking at you from across the table.A smile graced his lips as your eyes met, making your heart flutter. 

He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if you were doing okay and you nodded, the silent communication carrying on when Wooyoung’s voice rose and San burst into laughter, the two of you shaking your heads at the duo. You took a few deep breaths, looking at your left where Yunho sat. You didn’t interrupt his conversation with Mingi, simply brushed your fingers against his and he understood, wrapping his fingers around your hand to give you strength. You knew that you did not need to hide that you were holding his hand but you still kept it under the table, silently letting his touch calm you. 

You waited for the conversation to die down a little and then you signalled Yeosang who got up and clapped to get everyone’s attention.

“What?” Jongho asked.

“I just want everyone to shut up for two minutes so Luna can talk about something,” he announced and you groaned, curling into Yunho’s side as everyone laughed knowingly or in confusion. Yeosang pretended he could not see you, finding the ceiling incredibly interesting, knowing damn well that he should have phrased it differently–

But this was his charm. 

“Right, so…” you started, squeezing Yunho’s hand. “I just want to thank all of you for giving me such a warm welcome for finally joining the inner circle.”

“No need for a thanks, darling,” Wooyoung waved his hand in dismissal. “This wasn’t anything special– we could have done so much more!”

“No, this is enough,” you laughed. “Just… thank you for accepting me and considering me someone worthy of becoming a Leader.”

“Honey, we’re not as good as you make out to be,” Seonghwa admitted, some of them agreeing. “There’s no such thing as being ‘worthy’ of becoming a Leader.”

“You are a mafia organisation, though,” you commented. “I think there is such a thing. It sure felt like it.”

“Yeah, tell him!” Mingi clapped. “Not anyone can be a Crescent!”

Seonghwa shook his head, laughing at the attack. “I just mean that because you felt like one of us, you became one of us. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well,” Hongjoong began. “We do have a strict code here, as you very well know now. We actually were not open to having another ‘Leader’, if you must. It’s just that you earned it. You found your own spot here– we were pretty much helpless watching you become one of us. It was as if you were always meant to be here, yeah? And not anyone can achieve that.”

Your heart swooped at his admission. He was always so clear about his views and feelings, and to hear that from him felt like an accomplishment. He always insisted there was no boss among them but he truly was the captain. 

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Seonghwa added and you all laughed. “Anyone can become a part of our organisation, the Crescents, but you found your own spot in our little circle.”

“Running on sheer confidence, holding key information and being able to hold us accountable? I think we needed that,” Jongho laughed. “I mean, we, the younger ones, don’t spend everyday with you but from what we’ve seen… the hyungs really needed a dose of someone like you.”

And then started bickering and finger-pointing because whatever did he mean? And how dare he? While Mingi and Wooyoung defended their precious youngest, asserting that while they were away, the hyungs started to get too pompous and they really needed someone to humble them– that someone being you who was a mere bookkeeper telling them what was wrong and right, stopping them from sabotaging their business and working to improve it while also entrapping them in the little ‘love bubble’ they had going on, according to Jongho. 

“We see the way you look at her!” Mingi continued, pointing at San, Yeosang, Seonghwa and even Hongjoong. “You’re not fooling us! She’s becoming your favourite. Rightfully so,” he added the last bit as he looked at you and you gave him an okay sign. 

“I like the warehouse boys more though,” you commented, earning gasps. “They’re… my type of boys.”

Chaos erupted in the room, San and Yeosang clinging on to each other in a fervent display of heartbreak, Seonghwa covering his ears with his hands as if he could not hear anything, Hongjoong sitting with his hurt pride and Yunho bringing your joined hands up in the air for everyone to see– an act of betrayal, it was. When you recovered from laughing, you placed your joined hands on the table for everyone to see.

“While we’re talking about this, I would also like to say that… I want to be your partner. All of you, if you will have me,” you said, meeting eyes with each one of them. 

There was a moment of confusion because what did you mean? You were already partners. And then it hit, Yunho’s hand caressing yours all the confirmation they needed. 

“You mean, like… partners? In our relationship?” Seonghwa was the first one to ask, unaware of the recent progression.

“Yes,” you felt a bit exposed with all their eyes on you, but you held strong, watching the boys talk among themselves, those who knew explaining to those who didn’t. “I want to try it with my whole heart. And I want to know if all of you are willing to accept me– you don’t have to–”

“But we will,” Hongjoong said in finality, the rest agreeing immediately. “I suppose you’ve talked in detail about this? To someone?”

“Yes,” you looked at Yunho, Yeosang, and San. “I know what I’m getting into. I’m ready.” 

Mingi whistled at your admission. “I hope they told you that you can take it easy? You don’t have to be so stressed about it.”

“Of course,” you nodded, relaxing and realising you must have appeared to be a bit tense. “I just wanted to say it out loud while all of you were present. And I’d like to hear what each of you think about it.”

“I mean, I’m good,” Mingi shrugged and you smiled at his casual nature. “Wherever the flow takes us, right?”

“Exactly,” you agreed. 

“I’m more than good,” Wooyoung grinned. “When can I officially take you out on your first date? Because I bet none of these fuckers have taken you out yet–”

And that started another finger-pointing session, though Wooyoung was officially winning that one. None of them had actually taken you out on a date yet. Even the ones you were intimate with. 

“I’ll make sure my first date is you,” you promised Wooyoung and he raised his fist in victory. 

“Can I tag along?” San asked expectantly.

“No, you lost your chance!” Wooyoung smacked his hand. “Give me some alone time with my girl!”

You grinned, looking at Jongho who was highly amused by the turn of events. You raised a brow and he shook his head. 

“Like Mingi said, wherever the flow takes us?”

You nodded, a silent understanding passing between you both. While it was not awkward with Jongho in any way, he was still more like a friend than anything else, just like Mingi was. Wooyoung, being Wooyoung, was going to take his chance and see where it takes him, but these two were the more cautious and reserved ones. You were not going to push them, just like they were not going to demand anything from you.

“So you’re officially our girl now,” San clapped once and rubbed his hands, a devilish smirk on his face. “I actually really like the sound of it. I think our group needed a feminine touch.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, laughing. “Don’t make it sound weird!”

“No, he’s right,” Seonghwa agreed, downing his drink in a single gulp. “Too much testosterone around here.”

You shook your head, letting them argue further and getting to hear stories about them now that you knew everything. How the boys depended on each other and barely cared about each other’s personal space– they might be criminal lords but were just boys at their hearts. Seonghwa revealed how San would always hang out in his room even when they were doing nothing. Mingi liked his alone time and he wanted others to respect that but that did not stop him from making his home in San’s room or Seonghwa’s room– or even in someone else’s house. 

From what you heard about Hongjoong’s shared house with Wooyoung and Jongho, Wooyoung was basically the housekeeper, which made a lot of sense. He made sure everyone ate their meals, mostly cooked with Jongho and complained about how Hongjoong was a baby who needed a nanny to take care of him. Apparently, the mafia boss did not know how to look after himself and Hongjoong admitted being guilty of that. 

Yunho and Yeosang shared a house and you thought it was a good combination in the sense that the two always brought out the calm in each other. You were imagining their space to be the most soothing, and you made a mental note to ask them both how it was like to live with the other.

Just like that, the night of drinks, admissions and acceptance passed and wrapped up with a beautiful conclusion. Your heart felt full and you never felt out of place. This was where you were meant to be, and they made sure to never make you feel anything less– and the funny bit was that they were not attempting to do that consciously. This was just how it was supposed to be– the pieces had fallen into place.

You said your goodbyes to everyone, and oh, you got a sneak peak of what would soon be called normal now. Yeosang pecked your cheek before leaving, and Seonghwa cupped your face and planted a deep kiss on your forehead, saying he couldn’t wait to talk to you in private. San and Wooyoung both also kissed your cheeks but it seemed to be an inside joke and they disappeared into another room, snickering about something. You were mostly in shock at the sudden demeanour change though you could not complain. It was heartwarming. 

You spotted the boys exchanging hugs and kisses too– the ones who wouldn’t be seeing each other any time soon. Jongho was mostly avoiding any physical contact but he tapped your cheek teasingly as he exited the room, laughing devilishly at your shocked face. Mingi was supposed to leave with Jongho so he rushed to catch up with him, ruffling your hair and you shut your eyes in defeat.

This was what you had signed up for. You laughed as you looked at Yunho, who was leaving the room with Seonghwa, speaking about something in an urgent tone. 

That left you with Hongjoong. The air felt cold all of a sudden as he walked towards you, swirling his cane and poking his tongue in his cheek to keep himself from grinning.

“You look like you want to kill me and feast over my bones,” you commented and he scoffed.

“Feast, maybe, but kill? You think too lowly of me, love.”

Oh. you pursed your lips as he drew closer, watching you with a sort of curiosity. 

“I heard something interesting, recently,” he said in a low voice for only the two of you to hear. “‘The Captain finds his mate.’”

“Just another title to add to my name, eh? Bookkeeper, secretary, chief mate,” You tried joking your way around it but he wasn’t having any of it. He took your hand and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles, all the while maintaining eye contact with you and successfully melting your insides.

“Well, I quite like the sound of it,” Hongjoong said, smirking. “See you in the morning… mate.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” you raised your fist for emphasis though your voice came out weak, making him chuckle. You muttered a curse. Forget the warehouse boys– he was going to be more challenging than all of the boys combined. 

You exited the room and took a turn to the corridor that led to the backdoor when Yunho appeared out of the shadows, taking your hand and leading you to an empty, dark corner. Before you could ask him what was happening, he twirled you around and pressed your back against the wall, swallowing your surprised gasp with his lips, making you instantly drop your bag and melt in his arms. 

“Our girl,” Yunho muttered in your ear, voice thick with desire. “Do you have any idea how much I love the sound of that?”

“Oh, god,” a shaky breath left your lips, your senses heightening in pleasure. “You’re crazy.”

“For you,” he kissed your jaw. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Definitely,” you brought his lips back to yours, sharing another passionate kiss. “I missed you so much. In Edenary. Here. Don’t you ever give me space again.”

Yunho chuckled, the deep timbre of his voice sounding inside your skull and you wrapped your arms around his neck, letting him pick you up. You laughed at the height difference and he melted into your hug, content in this position.

“Someone could see us,” you whispered. 

“I don’t care,” Yunho whispered back, kissing your neck and burying his nose there. “I only have a few moments before I need to go. Let me make the most of them.”

“Where do you have to go at this hour of the night?” You asked, cupping his face and tucking his hair back. 

“To the port– the situation does not look good. I’ll let you know when I actually know something about it,” he said and you nodded. “I’m just waiting for Johnny.”

“Stay safe,” you kissed his forehead, going back to hug him. You stayed like that, limbs wrapped around each other while he gently rocked your bodies until you heard Johnny’s very loud voice call for Yunho, the both of you laughing at his arrival. With a final soft kiss to your lips, he let you go reluctantly. You wished you could keep him all to yourself for the rest of the night.

He did steal a few more moments, insisting that he drop you off on his way– it was only going to take him a minute, and he wanted to make sure you were safe, something about how the police were becoming a problem so the gangs might take this opportunity to create another ruckus again. He managed to steal one last kiss before watching you disappear inside your house and Johnny shook his head at the sight.

“You big chump, you.”

Yunho shot a glare at him but the men ended up laughing, Johnny making an effort to keep the mood light because he knew Yunho was absolutely going to snap when he would hear about the events at the port in the past couple of hours that took place in his absence. 

The storm had arrived, in the literal sense and the metaphorical. 

The night had been washed in a fierce torrent of rain, the sharp patter of it accompanied by globs of ice which kept you restless throughout the night. You and Wendy were light sleepers so the next morning began with a groggy start, both of you sitting next to each other to process the weight of being alive and drinking coffee to help with that. You took to the corner of the living room next to the window to watch the sky open up. Since you were on the second story, the view from up here wasn’t much, crowded by other apartments in the area. 

Still, you could tell that the storm wasn’t going to end any time soon. It had only magnified the confusion and anger of the Crescents at the Sector 1 Port. Their shipment of Black Shadow to Mist Island was rumoured to be returning back, and in the previous evening it arrived accompanied by the navy who had not let it pass the Eden territories, insisting that the shipment was illegal. 

It was illegal. That wasn’t the problem– the problem was who told them? It had been about three years since the Crescents started smuggling Black Shadow to Mist Island. They always knew that one day they would get caught and would have to pay a hefty fine, at the very least. They found ways to involve the police, to make fake licences, to make it seem like the shipment was meant for some other land instead of Mist Island, and made basically every preparation in case they were caught. 

However, the Crescents had also familiarised themselves with the police procedure. In case of suspected smuggling, the nation that was about to receive the shipment was going to deal with the police first before sending the case back to the country of origin. That was the international law, which meant that in no possible scenario would a shipment return from halfway across the ocean.

Yet, that was exactly what had happened. Mist Island never received the shipment and they would not be able to help calm things down. The navy would report to the main office in Edenary and it would be hard to get out of it unscathed– the main office was full of scavengers waiting to have a taste of the Crescents’ doom.

The atmosphere at the Crescent Office today was thick with tension. Everyone was busy clearing the records in case the police decided to investigate the whole company for illegal trade. Yunho had been out almost all night for damage control. He went to rest in the morning and Seonghwa took his place, the boys from the warehouse accompanying him. You stayed in the office with Hongjoong, trying to pull some connections and keep the news from blowing up.

It was not a good time for this to happen, considering the pharmaceutical side of the business was just about to flourish thanks to the new deal to launch silver light as a medicinal drug. If they started investigating all the shipments going out from the Crescents, they might catch on to the copper the Crescents import for weapons manufacturing, and Pledis Manufacturers, the partners of the Crescents, could be under threat too. If Pledis pulls out at this sensitive time to protect themselves, the weapons channel might be exposed or come to a stop altogether.

So it was no wonder that Hongjoong sat grim in his chair, staring into the distance and strategising while you helped him check discrepancies or flaws in his plans and made calls. 

“I think you could really send a few men to look into who tipped the navy,” you suggested, having just finished making sure that the next shipment to Utopia was rescheduled. It would be a mess if they found out that you were exporting weapons parts to them. 

“I think it’s a shot in the dark,” Hongjoong said and you knew that he was partly right but also highly focused at solving the problem first. 

“Think about it, Hongjoong,” you said, placing the pen back on the table and unbuttoning the cuffs of the sleeves of your black shirt, wanting to roll them to avoid discomfort. “Not anyone can tip the navy– they don’t take everyone seriously. And while we’re at it, we might want to look into why they tipped them now. This isn’t your first time trading with Mist.”

Hongjoong sighed deeply. “You’re right. Who could tip the navy? Is someone trying to distract us from our new business prospect? Is this a bait? Or did some bastard get lucky with the timing?”

“Someone of influence– that’s who the navy listens to. That means it’s not just any other bastard who lucked out. It has to be someone who knows about the recent happenings.”

Hongjoong curled his lips in thought. “Secretary Park?” 

“I thought so too, but it’s unlike him to tip the navy. He shoots from the front, not from the back,” you said and he agreed. “Some reputable gang?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “They know very well that they can’t mess with the Crescents and get away with it.”

You made an impressed face, making him smile for a moment. “I think it’s probably someone who knows about the silver light business, and they’re trying to throw you off while they pull another stunt which would be far worse.”

“But Madame Tiffany is the only one aware of this silver light business,” Hongjoong folded his arms. “Secretary Park may have an idea but if he was aware of what we were doing, he wouldn’t have simply watched it happen all along– he would have done something earlier before we ever made a deal. That leaves just the Crescents, MX Pharmas who I don’t suspect at all, could be a mole but they wouldn’t tip the navy…”

For a brief moment, your father’s knowing smile flashed before your eyes when he said that he wanted the Crescents to make a deal with Madame Tiffany. You felt a wave of anxiety in the pit of your stomach, recalling Jaebeom’s little warning. 

Could everything be connected? But Secretary Park wouldn’t do that, you both were right about that. Madame Tiffany had just heavily invested in the deal, so why would she hurt herself now? She could have pulled this stunt before she made a deal with the Crescents.

“God, I’ll go insane. Are we doing something to keep this from the media?”

“Wooyoung’s handling that– he has connections with some people in Eden News,” Hongjoong told you.

“Great. I’ll make preparations for all the possible outcomes then?”

“You do that,” Hongjoong let out a tired sigh. “I’ll help you out–”

“You’ve been up all night. You should go and get some sleep, I’ll take care of things here,” you said softly but he opened his eyes a fraction wider as if to show you that the lack of sleep didn’t affect him. However, his eyes were bloodshot and you snorted.

“You’ll start to look like death, Joong,” you joked. “Just take a nap– go. I’ll handle things in the meanwhile, and if we need you, we won’t hesitate to call your residence. Hopefully you pick up the phone.”

Hongjoong poked his tongue inside his cheek and you wondered what the smug expression was for until you realised you hadn’t addressed him by his name. 

“Joong, eh? Heard that from Seonghwa?”

“It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” You suppressed a smile. Hongjoong shrugged in response, considering if he should take a nap or just stay–

“Just go,” you laughed. “Shall I order you to go?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Hongjoong narrowed his eyes but you weren’t one to back away from a challenge.

“Kim Hongjoong. Joong,” you said in your most assertive tone and he shook his head in amusement. “Go and get some rest. That’s an order.”

Hongjoong got up and sauntered around the table, stopping in front of you and tucking his thumb under your chin to raise your face so he could look you in the eyes.

“One day, I’m going to do something about that mouth of yours, y/n.”

It was a promise, and it registered in every part of your body. It was an effort to stop the noise that threatened to leave your mouth at the suggestiveness of the situation. He licked his lips slowly, swiping his thumb on your lower lip before drawing away with a smirk and leaving.

You pursed your lips, lightly slapping your cheeks so you could come back to your senses and get some things done. After collecting yourself, you straightened and picked up the contacts diary to call the Crescents’ residence in Edenary.

After a few rings when you were starting to lose hope, Jaehyun finally picked up the phone and you made small talk before asking how the situation looked in Edenary.

“It’s not being blown out of proportion yet,” Jaehyun began. “Which is both a good sign and a bad sign. I feel like there’s another hit coming and we’re just waiting for it.”

“And that’s why I called,” you said. “Remember what we did the last time I was here?”

“Had fun,” he laughed a bit and you hummed in amusement. “But yes. I got you.”

“Yeah, and while you’re at it, see who the public suspects. Also, can you see if we have a connection in the Edenary station?”

“The police station? We don’t, actually,” Jaehyun admitted. “But I’ll look around. I think Inspector Gong might be our best option because as much as he hates us, he’ll actually look into this fairly. We might also need a favour from General Wi– he could certainly pull some strings.”

“Yeah… remind him that he owes us a few and let’s find the source as soon as possible, yeah?” 

Jaehyun agreed and you ended the call, taking a few deep breaths. Now that you had sorted things out, you felt a bit more at peace, just waiting to hear back from one of the boys. You went towards the couch, curling on the very welcoming soft seats and shut your eyes, feeling the throbbing headache grow more intense with every second. 

You didn’t realise when exactly you dozed off but upon opening your eyes, you found Seonghwa mirroring your position on the couch across you, though wide awake. You looked around trying to get your bearings, checking the time on your wristwatch.

“Oh dear. I napped throughout the afternoon!”

Seonghwa chuckled. “That’s alright. Hongjoong is probably still asleep, and I just came back about half an hour ago. We sorted the mess at the port.”

“How’s it looking?” You asked, stretching your limbs.

“I honestly can’t say yet,” Seonghwa admitted. “I’m just hoping they don’t conduct a full investigation– now’s not a good time. And on that note, we must transport some important documents elsewhere.”

“You mean the ones in the safe here?” 

“Yes,” he said. “Mingi owns an apartment near the warehouse. It’s registered under his cousin’s name so it’s a safe place to store them.”

“Alright. Do you want me to go ahead and do that?” 

“No, it’s alright,” Seonghwa straightened. “I can go, I’m just waiting for Yuta.”

“Oh, you look tired, though. At least I got my rest,” you joked and he smiled wryly. “I can go with Yuta. We go to the warehouse first, right?”

“Yeah. Are you sure, though? I’m perfectly good to go, Luna–”

“Hwa,” you called his name in warning and he pursed his lips. “Do I have to order you like I ordered Hongjoong?”

“You ordered Hongjoong?” Seonghwa laughed in disbelief. “What did you tell him to do?”

“To go take a nap,” you said. “And you– you don’t have to take a nap, you can just… shut your eyes for a few moments like I did.”

Seonghwa nodded sarcastically and you smiled– he didn’t look as weary as Hongjoong but you knew that he put more effort into appearing put together too. His hair was curling at the ends probably due to the wet weather, not styled to perfection like it usually was. His eyes still sparkled with energy but his shoulders seemed to be drooping.

“You need a massage while we wait?”

“Oh, that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Seonghwa sat a bit straighter and took off his coat. You walked behind the couch where he was sitting and smoothened his white shirt around the shoulders, rubbing your fingers into the tight spots on his neck and collarbones. He groaned in relief and you smiled in satisfaction, continuing to rub and pull the tightness from his body. 

“Where did you learn that?” 

“Madame Cha,” you told him. “She would make me massage her sore parts until she was content, which means I had to learn to do a good job.”

“Did you ever hear back from her?” Seonghwa asked and he noticed your fingers pausing for just a second.

“Kind of. She’s acquainted with a gang and one of their members is here on some business. He’s still looking into some things so he promised to let me know what’s up once he has a clearer picture.”

Seonghwa also noticed how vague your answer was. “Everything okay?”

He really noticed everything.

“Yeah, he’s actually looking into some political stuff and he’s just making sure Madame Tiffany is not a part of the people who’re stirring up trouble lately.”

“Hmm…” Seonghwa tapped your hand to let you know that you could stop now. He held your hand and steered you in front of him so he could look at you. “Did you tell Hongjoong?”

“I don’t want to tell him anything before I’m sure of what I have,” you explained and he nodded, understanding. “You know that it’s too late anyway– I only heard back from them at the beginning of this week.”

“That’s okay,” Seonghwa squeezed your hand in assurance. “Can you let me know first when we hear back?”

“Of course,” you frowned. “I didn’t take a wrong step, did I?”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” Seonghwa pulled you closer and made you settle on his lap, your eyes widening in surprise. His other hand went to rest on the small of your back. “Hongjoong is handling a lot at the moment and I don’t want to burden him with more. I’m sure you feel the same.”

“You all are dealing with a lot,” you said, noticing the bags under his eyes. “That’s why I decided to keep it to myself until I had an answer.”

Seonghwa smiled. “You and I think alike, in that sense. Remember that you can lean on us at any time, Luna. No matter when, no matter who.”

“I know,” you brought your hand up to cup his face, hesitating a bit and he raised a brow. You locked eyes with him– you hadn’t been intimate with him in any way after the kiss in Edenary, and now that everything was finally sorted out… 

“What’s stopping you?” Seonghwa whispered, squeezing your sides as if to comfort you.

“I just had flashbacks to when you were about to kill me–”

Seonghwa laughed loudly. “You want me to beg for your forgiveness, love?”

Your lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Hmm… I quite like the sound of that.”

Seonghwa shook his head, scoffing and you finally cradled his face to make him look at you. You traced his cheekbone and sucked in a breath– he was beautiful. He pulled you closer on his lap and you continued to entangle your fingers in his hair while you caressed his face.

Seonghwa heard the honk of his car and whispered, “Yuta’s here.”

“I know. I should get going, right?” You asked, eyes fixated on his lips and he nodded, wanting nothing more than to keep you in his arms for the rest of the night. 

However, none of you was ready to let the other go. You moved in tandem as your lips met, kissing leisurely as if you couldn’t hear the honk of the car outside. You dipped your weight against him, curling your fingers in the soft strand of his hair. His own hands rested on your hips to keep you in place and he swiped his tongue along your lips to make you open up.

His tongue explored the cavity of your mouth and you hummed in pleasure, the surroundings disappearing into nothing– all you could feel was Seonghwa kissing you ever so gently, his hands squeezing your hips, the warmth of his body radiating on yours, just Seonghwa, your Seonghwa–

A sharp knock sounded on the door and you drew back with a startled gasp, gazes still stuck on each other’s parted lips. Before you could make a move, a familiar voice sounded.

“Mr. Park? Luna?”

Oh, Jaemin. That menace. He had promised to find you when you would go to the warehouse and here he was. 

You shared a quick peck and a giggle before you went to open the door. Jaemin stood with narrowed eyes, observing the two of you.

“Were you… fighting?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely. Let’s go,” you squeaked, grabbing your things while Seonghwa’s laughter boomed in the room. You shot him a glare before leaving the room, asking Jaemin to wait in the car. You joined him after grabbing the documents from the safe, cooling your cheeks with the back of your hands.

You greeted Yuta as you got inside and passed him the documents which he slid under the seats. Jaemin asked if he could take the passenger seat but Yuta insisted it was unsafe right now and he was better off sitting in the back with you. Jaemin’s annoyed expressions thoroughly amused you and you patted his back in a sign of comradery.

“Tell you what– next time, you can sit in the front. We’ll have Yuta sit in the back and I’ll drive.”

“If you’re driving, I’d rather stay at home,” Jaemin folded his arm and you and Yuta shared a laugh.

“Oh, I was a good driver. I used to drive a lot when I lived in Edenary.”

“Really?” Jaemin asked. “What car?”

Thus, the forty minute drive passed in a breeze as the three of you talked about cars and your lifestyle in Edenary. The conversation steered to Yuta’s past and how he found the Crescents a good few years ago, the group of them hired as bodyguards for their commendable street skills. 

Finally, you got to learn about who Jaemin really was– an orphan boy who had taken upon himself to take care of the younger kids in the neighbourhood where he lived. He told you that the first few years when he left the orphanage for the streets were hard but it was Seonghwa who had found him before anyone else, and you weren’t surprised in the least to hear that. Seonghwa always kept a watchful eye on the kids and the women. A guardian of sorts.

Mingi had remained in the warehouse, waiting for your arrival. He told you that the boys were running some errands– Wooyoung was making sure the warehouse would be ‘clean’ in case of an inspection, and Jongho was out bribing some police officers. Apparently, Jongho was an expert. 

Jaemin and Yuta disappeared inside after Yuta handed Mingi the documents. You stood next to Mingi at the entrance, your hands stuffed in the pockets of your coat and you took a deep breath– it was chilly here since it was an open area.

“Would you like to stay here, catch up with the girls? Or would you like to accompany me to the house?”

“I’m okay either way– if you’d like some company I can join you.”

“Come along then,” Mingi smiled. “I’ll show you around.”

It didn’t feel awkward to drive with Mingi– it was the first time the two of you were alone yet there was a sense of familiarity especially because of the stories you had heard of each other. Surprisingly, though, you did not talk much about work or the boys. The conversation somehow steered from the documents to silver light to the war.

“I heard you were a soldier during the war– who was your commander?” You asked. 

“Captain Byun,” Mingi said and you looked at him in surprise. “You know him?”

“You know his partner, Captain Yoon?” You asked and he nodded, glancing at you in between driving. “I was drafted in his medic squad.”

“Oh, that means we must have crossed paths at some time,” Mingi laughed in disbelief and you agreed, surprised at the revelation– who would have thought? Perhaps, you had even treated him at some point– the two captains had often worked together.

“I don’t recognise you, though,” you told him. 

“I don’t either, but it’s been years,” Mingi said and you supposed that he was right. “I don’t think I would recognise most of the soldiers who worked with me either. Everyone scattered, and we all changed a lot after the war.”

“True…” you said and Mingi dug out his wallet from his back pocket.

“Take a look inside– there’s a photo,” Mingi said and you opened the wallet, finding a worn out photo of a group of men in uniform. You extracted it and checked the date. It was from February, 1962, a whole eight years back.

“Where are you?” You asked and he laughed, urging you to look carefully. You did and a gasp left your mouth– 

“Is that Jongho?” You asked and he grinned. “And that– that lanky tall boy has to be you!”

“That’s me,” Mingi laughed. “There’s another one in there if you can recognise him.”

“It must be San, he told me you were all in the same platoon but I don’t think I can find him…”

Mingi stopped the car, having arrived in front of the house. He drew closer and you passed him the photo. When he pointed at a small boy, you put your hand over your mouth.

“No way that’s the Choi San.”

“He’s changed the most out of all of us,” Mingi said almost proudly and you took a closer look. That was a boy in the picture and the San that you knew… he was a man, all muscles and presence. Mingi continued, “He’s still the same person, but physically, he’s changed quite a lot.”

“Unbelievable. Jongho is very recognisable, so are you though you’ve also changed, but San? I’ll have to ask him to show me more photos of him from before the war.”

Mingi chuckled. “You do that. Come on, let’s hide the documents.”

Mingi did a quick scan around the neighbourhood before opening the car door for you and you accompanied him inside the shabby house. It looked like no one lived inside which you supposed made a good spot for a hideout, even. Mingi told you that the house had a lot of secret compartments so you would be scattering the documents. You memorised each spot, making small talk as you went back to the warehouse.

On your ride back to the Crescent Office, Jaemin fell asleep, tired from all the energy he spent– he had as much a busy day as the rest of you, if not more. You let him rest his head against your shoulder, feeling a sense of peace, Yuta’s low humming lulling you into a calm headspace.

Things were going to be okay. The storm would pass.

But before a storm dies down, it leaves something irreparable in its wake. For you, for the Crescents, the storm was no longer a sign of ‘impending’ doom, because doom had arrived in the form of a whisper, a news carried by someone who was only a messenger yet felt the burden of the news on his own shoulder.

And that messenger was Jaebeom, finally bringing a message of confirmation in your office in the early hours of a morning in Eden when the sky had just started to clear, the clouds having wrung every drop of water they held. With each word that he spilled from his mouth, you felt the walls of Yunho’s office room tighten until they threatened to swallow you whole. 

For once, you were sorry to be right about someone.

And once again, you were surprised at how wrong you were about the same person.

next chapter

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[moonstruckme]

I had my car’s battery die the other day (still don’t know why) and I thought it would be cute if the same thing happened to reader… so like maybe she’d be on the phone with Remus and Sirius be like “my car died which sucks lol” and he’d leave work early just to help her jump start her car 😍

Sorry about your car battery babe! That used to happen to me all of the time. I wasn't quite sure who you wanted the love interest to be in this one, but since you mentioned both Remus and Sirius I went with poly wolfstar, hope that's alright <3

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 757 words

When Remus arrives home, you seem to be bickering at Sirius while he rifles through his trunk.

“I know he said they were in here somewhere.” 

“Your manager is going to be so upset with you,” you fret. “I could’ve caught the bus.” 

“Yes, but why would you when you have a perfectly good car and a perfectly capable boyfriend?” Sirius turns to toss one of his flippant grins at you, and he catches sight of Remus coming up behind him. “Hello.” He greets him with a kiss, pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were walking home, love, I’d have picked you up.” 

“It’s fine,” says Remus. “I thought you were at work.” 

“He was.” You seem unable to choose between feeling cross with Sirius and guilty with yourself, but you’re definitely distressed. “He left work early, just because I texted you guys.” 

“You know,” Sirius drawls, “some people want a partner who would drop everything to come help them.” 

“I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known you were going to leave work!”

Remus understands your upset. Sirius is perpetually on thin ice with his manager—who, in Remus’ completely unbiased opinion, is a tyrant who expects far too much sacrifice from his employees—and Remus would feel bad too if he further jeopardized Sirius’ job by accidentally calling him away from work early. But also, you’re going to be late for work if you can’t get your car started. 

“You need his car here to get a jump, dove,” Remus says. He can feel Sirius’ smugness like an aura about him, but Remus ignores it. 

You sigh, resigned but dispirited. “You didn’t have to come home, either. I was only complaining to complain.” 

Remus smiles and stretches out his arm. You fit yourself under it automatically. “I wanted to see if I could help,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head in greeting. “Don’t be upset, okay?” 

You’re easily mollified by a soft touch and a loving tone. “Okay,” you mumble. Remus kisses your head again in thanks. 

“Alright.” Sirius stops digging around in the trunk, spreading his hands helplessly. “Are we sure we ever had jumper cables?” 

“We do,” Remus says. He lets you go to join Sirius, showing him the compartment where the spare tire and other essentials are kept. 

“Oh, a secret extra trunk. Excellent. Now, does anyone know how to use these?”

Remus has always been a public transportation beneficiary and Sirius was raised posh, so the three of you end up cloistered around Sirius’ phone watching a video about how to jump start a car. 

“Seems easy enough,” says Sirius. “So, we start my car first, then?”

“We start neither car before all the cables are attached,” you say, while Remus gives his boyfriend a worried look. 

“It seems important that we do everything in order,” Remus agrees. “Considering we’re working with electricity and such.” 

None of your objections seem to put a dent in Sirius’ confidence, however. Though nothing you’re doing involves working with grease, he takes his work shirt off “to keep it from getting dirty” and ties his hair back. It’s all rather dramatic, Remus knows, but he can’t find it in himself to protest. Neither can you, apparently. 

“Okay, so that one goes on the positive one.” 

“Right.” You tear your eyes from your boyfriend’s tattooed abdomen, visibly forcing yourself to concentrate on the battery. “Uh…” 

“The one with the plus sign, doll.” 

Sirius’ eyes dance with mirth, but he delivers the instructions patiently until both cables are connected and Remus is turning the ignition in Sirius’ car. 

“Okay, now yours!” Sirius calls to you. 

Remus hears the croaking sounds of your car trying to start, but then the engine roars to life. 

“Beautiful!” 

Remus gets out of Sirius’ car to see you beaming at each other, your upset over his leaving work clearly forgotten. Sirius looks like he’s about to pat your car approvingly, so Remus catches his hand before he can burn himself. Sirius appears not to notice the interception, only squeezing his boyfriend’s hand excitedly. 

“I’ll pull out of your way so you can get out of here,” Sirius says, backing towards his car. 

“Wait!” Your door opens, and you come running out. “Just one thing first.” 

You take Sirius’ face in your hands, planting a heavy kiss on his lips. He looks half dazed when you pull away and come for Remus, your mouth warm and sweet on his. 

You break away with a giant grin on your face. “Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

[meadowfics]

frugal

kang sae byeok x smallbusinessowner!female!reader

you spoil sae byeok in your own way while she takes care of you

warnings: none

a part of this series

three months into your relationship, sae byeok is extremely frugal, saving nearly all of her money for her younger brother, cheol.

she also is working toward getting her mother out of north korea through a broker.

sae byeok only spends money on bare essentials for herself, like a toothbrush or a washcloth, refusing to buy anything she deems unnecessary.

instead of buying things for herself, she uses many of your belongings, which you don’t mind at all.

as an overconsumer, you have too many body washes and things that you would never be able to use alone.

it makes you happy that sae byeok feels comfortable enough to use your things.

despite understanding her frugality, you secretly wish she’d spoil herself a little, even if it’s not in her personality.

you want her to feel deserving of a little luxury, even if it’s small.

one morning, sae byeok comes to work while you go out to grab breakfast for both of you to eat in the back of the shop.

you love surprising her with little things like this, even if she initially protests.

sae byeok always saves a portion of the breakfast you bring her to take home to cheol, even though you assure her she doesn’t need to.

it’s one of the ways she shows her love and responsibility as an older sister.

you and sae byeok don’t live together right now, since she’s focused on raising cheol and keeping a stable home for him.

whenever cheol has a sleepover at one of his friend’s homes, sae byeok stays over at your place.

these nights are special for both of you, offering a rare chance to relax and enjoy each other’s company without interruptions.

on these nights, you pamper sae byeok, knowing she would never do it for herself.

you draw her a bubble bath, set up candles, and play soothing music, encouraging her to let go of her worries for a little while.

after her bath, you give her a massage or let her pick a movie to watch together while cuddling on the couch.

she might resist at first, but she always ends up leaning into your care, letting herself relax.

sae byeok is still hesitant to accept gifts or anything she considers indulgent, but you sneak in little ways to take care of her, like buying her a cozy scarf or upgrading her old washcloth to something softer.

one day, you bought her a full basket full of things she can use for herself.

you got a gift basket full of things for cheol as well.

over time, sae byeok begins to feel more at ease with you, sharing small moments of vulnerability.

she talks about her struggles and fears, some of those fears involving her home place.

you listen without judgment, reminding her she doesn’t have to face everything alone.

cheol has grown fond of you, often asking sae byeok when he can see you again.

his bond with you makes sae byeok happy, even if she doesn’t say it outright.

sometimes, you catch sae byeok stealing glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking, her gaze filled with quiet admiration and affection.

you both show love through actions rather than words.

sae byeok might fix something around your shop that you have not told her about or help you with heavy lifting, while you leave her small notes of encouragement or make her favorite tea without her asking.

despite her reserved nature, sae byeok starts to let herself lean on you more.

you cherish every moment she allows herself to be cared for.

you look forward to a future where sae byeok can finally feel the weight of her responsibilities lift, even if only slightly, and you’re determined to be there with her forever.

series masterlist

[holylulusworld]

Animalistic (2)

Summary: He’s coming for them.

Pairing: Alpha!Kraven x Omega!Reader

Warnings: a/b/o, betrayal, human trafficking, sex trafficking, angst, kidnapping, innocent reader, implied character death (unnamed thugs), grumpy Kraven

A/N: Please consider that I do not write for Kraven from the comics, but from the movie.

Catch up here: Animalistic (1)

Animalistic Masterlist

Kraven wraps his jacket around your shoulders, knowing you must be cold in your party dress, with no shoes and nothing to keep you warm.

“Thank you,” you murmur, offering a cracked smile. It’s a kind gesture, and you want to tell him you appreciate it.

“Your friend, where is she now?” The man dragged you around town, never stopping until you reached a car hidden in the dark. “I need to know. I cannot waste more time tonight.”

You swallow hard at the mention of your best friend. “She was my best friend since childhood. I always looked up to Oriana. She was so strong and self-confident.” You choke out a sob. “How could she do this to me?”  

“Greed.” He grunts and opens the door to the passenger seat. “Get inside. We don’t want one of them to follow us.” You glance at him. “Even though, I don’t think there’s anyone left.”

You sniffle and wipe your teary eyes. “I know where she lives. If that was her home. Maybe she lied about that too. I don’t know anymore. If I ever knew her at all.”

“She’s not worth your tears,” Kraven tells you to get inside the car. He silently closes the door, sighing deeply because he didn’t plan on bringing a helpless and scared omega with him on a hunt.

Kraven gets behind the steering wheel. He leans forward to open the glove compartment, causing you to stiffen in your seat. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He grunts. “I only wanted to get this.” He drops a pencil and notebook in your lap. “I want you to write down everything you know about her. Every detail.”

“I can just tell you.” You sniff and look out of the window when he starts the engine. “What do you want to know?”

“First, we will go to her home,” he says and quickly glances at you. “I want you to write down her address. You can sleep while I drive.”

You scribble her address down. “She has a roommate…” You sniffle and shake your head. “Had.” You correct yourself. “Celia was one of the women at the party. I don’t know what happened to her after Oriana slammed my face into the tile wall.”

Kraven exhales sharply. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with the victims. He only wanted to take out the monster and move on. “You said something about the other women. That you heard where they are taking them.”

“I heard the men laugh and joke about the women’s future. One of them mentioned a truck and that they should be happy they showed them how to satisfy their owners.” You start to whimper and hide your face in the palms of your hands. “They wanted them to be thankful.” You growl now. “Can you believe this?”

“Sadly, yes,” Kraven replies. “I’ll try to find the others too. I won’t make any promises, though.”

“That’s more than I can ask for,” you sniffle. “After everything happening to them, they deserve to be free.”

Kraven nods and focuses on driving while you slump into the seat, slowly drifting into sleep. He drives slower than he likes but doesn’t want to risk getting in an accident with you.

“That’s her place,” you whisper, once again averting your gaze. “There’s a back entrance.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to get inside.” He looks at you for a brief moment. “Hmm… I can’t leave you here all alone. It’s safest if you come with me. She won’t be a challenge.”

You open your mouth to protest. “I don’t know if I can face her. Not after everything she did and the pain she caused. Maybe I’ll freak out and kill her.”

“You’re welcome to be my guest,” he laughs. “I won’t let her live either…”

You stiffen in your seat again. So far, you haven’t had the time to think about Oriana’s future. Blinding rage was what kept you sane over the last few days. “I can live with that.”

“Kraven.” He offers his hand.

“Y/N.” You shake his hand. “That’s a unique name.”

“I choose it myself after—” He stops talking and hastily gets out of the car. There seems to be more behind the man saving you. A story to tell. Maybe you’ll get to know it one day.

Kraven guides you inside the building. He’s hiding in the shadows, sneaking toward Oriana’s apartment with the deadly accuracy of a lion.

“You’ll stay behind me.” He signals you to stop and listens closely. Kraven inhales deeply and visibly relaxes as he doesn’t sense enemies. “If you cannot go through with this, I can help you hide.”

“No!” You walk around him to walk toward Oriana’s door. “I’ll take that woman down myself!”

“Cub, wait!” He moves faster than expected to shove you behind his back. You ignore the pet name and growl as he won’t let you have your revenge. “Let me get her first. You can do whatever you want after she tells us everything about Darian Garton and his business.”

“Fine,” you sigh but lean against the wall next to the door. Closing your eyes, you listen to him pick the lock. Kraven usually would just kick the door open, but he cannot risk drawing attention toward you.

It’s a blur after Kraven entered the apartment. You heard a scream and then, silence. It took you a few moments until you found the strength to enter the apartment—the place you knew so well.

“She’s not here,” Kraven huffed and pointed at the man on the ground. Dead, without a doubt, but you didn’t want to step closer to be sure. “Any ideas?”

“Sometimes,” your voice cracks as you try to help your savior hunt your friend down. “Sometimes, if the world got too much, she came to my place to find solace.”

“Your place,” Kraven curses. “We should’ve known she was not waiting at home. If you do business with Darian Garton, you grab the money and run. I don’t think they’ll look for her at your place. It’s a condemned place now.”

“Condemned because they kidnapped me,” you murmur. “Oriana is hiding there until she can leave town.”

Kraven takes a quick look around the apartment. He doesn’t believe Oriana left anything useful behind. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go to your place.”

It wasn’t easy returning home after what was lying behind you. This place felt colder now that the world tried to swallow you whole.

Kraven and you sneaked inside your apartment. Finding the traitor sleeping on your bed. Oriana looked so at peace, and it made you even angrier. After all she had done to you and the other women, she slept as if nothing had happened.

“Let me,” Kraven says. “You cannot come back here. We don’t know if I will find all of them. Grab a bag and pack a few things. Only the most important things. I’ll take care of her.”

You don’t listen when he rudely wakes Oriana or when he slams her into the wall like she did with you days ago.

Busying yourself with packing two duffel bags, you ignore her whines. Oriana showed no mercy that night, and you will return the favor.

“Done?” Kraven asks as he ties Oriana’s hands behind her back. “This place isn’t ideal for an interrogation. We need to bring her somewhere else.”

“Okay,” you turn around, not sparing Oriana a glance. She looks up at you, gasping as you walk past her.

“What? Y/N?” She whimpers before Kraven puts duct tape over her mouth. Oriana starts to trash, but you couldn’t care less.

Kraven wraps one hand around her throat, forcing her back on her feet. “Listen,” he growls. “If you don’t stop, I’ll break your fucking neck.”

You laugh when she starts to cry. She brought hell over you and the other women—now she will feel the heat.

Part 3

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Force in Nature | Platonic Yandere Trey Clover x Toddler Reader

Part 2

Being a child, in your experience sucked. Even with a developing mind there were constant reminders of all your faults. Short, weak, disadvantaged and constantly at the whim of adults. Most children wouldn’t mind so much, considering that the adults in their life mean well but not you. Never you.

“(Y/n) don’t give those fat brats anymore then that. They’re already eating us out of house and home.”

The drivel of your mother rings like a bell in your head. Always chastizing, always negative. It had gotten better now that she had found your father but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. In her mind she figured his children were the only obstacle left between her ‘happily ever after’ with your father. 

“Ace! Deuce! Did you break into this pantry again?!”

It didn’t help that the twins were rambunctious spitfires that were prone to trouble anyway. Which meant they were often forced to reach out their hands to suffer the wrath of the ruler. Their father was a popular man, often more focused on updating the town’s bulletin boards than disciplining his children but it was clear he loved them. 

But love was never enough to save the duo from your mother’s accusations.

At least once a day, your mother would report the twins for doing or saying something awful. It would always lead to an exhausted sigh before stomping over to the children to give another lecture and dish out some chore as punishment.

“This so unfair, we didn’t even do anything this time.”

“Well I know I didn’t. Maybe you did something Ace.”

“What!? How dare you blame me! Don’t you believe me, (Y/n)?”

You usually were a witness to their innocence, often spending your time with them anyway. But for whatever reason not being able to speak meant your written testimonies were invalid. No matter how many times you wrote in you’re book and presented it to your father it never seemed to work. 

“You’re so sweet (Y/n). Trying to save your big brothers; you know that lying doesn’t help their case anymore.”

It was fine when it was only that. Baseless accusations and then the punishment of simple chores. Every now and then a prank in return for their suffering but then the chilly warning of Autmn came around. While the likeness that the snow would pile too high was low, the scarcity of food was a guarantee. Already aware of the set portions you’d receive suddenly decreasing and the way your father didn’t dare eat with you all any more spoke volumes.Unfortunately your mother wasn’t all too fond of cutting material costs.

“Cater I’m telling you, we’ll never get to eat if we have those kids in the house.”

“But love (Y/n) would never survive the trip into town.”

“Not them you idiot! They hardly eat more than a rat! It’s those boys of yours! They’re so big they ought to be hunting for their own by now.”

“The boys…not them they are still children too.”

“Stop whining. I’m going to take them out tomorrow, to learn how to hunt.”

“You?! But you’ve never—”

“Shut-up! Maybe then I can get those kids to do something worth the wasted meal.”

Reporting to your brothers the plan for the day felt like being the espionage detail for a secret operation. It made you proud when they used their information to concoct their own plan. They deduced that she planned to ‘lose’ them during her hunting lesson. Thus Deuce’s genius-plan to leave stones leading to the house was born. It was a shame that this plan didn’t involve you in any way but you were happy to see Deuce leaving stones behind as your mother led him into the forest. 

Trying to comfort your father for a decision he didn’t protest felt odd. Of course, you wouldn’t understand the emotional struggle of his love life and the love of his trouble-causing twins. You are a kid, you aren’t supposed to know. Still, you let him hold you, mumbling curses to himself about cowardice as your mother opened the door. She huffed and puffed about him not greeting her before going off to prepare dinner. 

Unable to resist the urge you settled on the chair beneath the window. Watching the opening into the forest being led to by the stones. Sure enough, before the sun had set and the fourth time your mother had called you for dinner they were there. Appearing slightly dirty but determined they came just in time, much to your mother’s dismay.

Of course, what followed was a new plan for tomorrow.

“I’ll take them deeper in! And I’ll make sure to kick all those pebbles away”

“Please let’s just–”

“Starve!? We’ll barely have enough for dinner tomorrow! They must go!”

“But it’s so cruel.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

The silence from your father was telling and like before you reported to your brothers. They took your notes with just as much urgency as the last, instead trading their stones for crumbs from the sliver of bread they’d be given for lunch. At the time it sounded like a great idea.

But as the sun set and the critters of the forest picked at the crumbs left behind, it dawned on you. 

This was a terrible idea.

With a quickly scribbled note left on the window sill, you took a ball of yarn tying it to the bush near the forest opening. Following the disappearing trail of critters, you were walking in the direction your brothers went finding that it stopped in a clearing. From there the moon could no longer illuminate the crumbs still left and the critters weren’t leading you accurately anymore. 

It was getting colder. The woolen sweater and mitts are your only comfort. With a rumbly tummy and the heaviness on your eyelids increasing, you settled into the dirt. Promising you’ll find your brothers when you wake, staving off the fear from your shrunken spool of wool.

When the sun rose again you woke with renewed vigor. The pain of hunger leaving you for the time being you set your gaze to the ground. Of course, the crumbs were gone but vague indents in the dirt gave you enough of a guide. During your tracking you start the game of letting your smaller shoes take a fraction of their tracks following along as you replay a song your father would sing.

Eventually, the tracks stopped at a paved pathway, it smelled sweet like a candy you’d seen the twins eat. It made you curious but you trusted your judgment to ignore your hungry thoughts. The tracks didn’t continue past the pavement and knowing your brothers they’d certainly gave the brightly colored path a try.

The grumbling desires of your stomach weren’t spoiling your resolve— or that’s what you were telling yourself. Going down the hill the path led over it’s destination led you to a place you swore shouldn’t have existed. In a clearing, the candied path led to a gingerbread house, decorated with various frosting, gumdrops, and red vines. The fence around it was peppermint canes surrounding the sugary house invitingly. A perfect garnishment for an already delectable house. Your stomach agreeing you found yourself closing in on the gingerbread foundation perfectly level with your small mouth. 

Before you could dive in, you stopped. Thinking back to nicer days in the forest you remembered thanking the squirrels buried in the trees surrounding your cottage. Instead of burrowing inside your warm, inviting home they kept to their holes in the nearby trees. Of course, your young mindset wouldn’t have comprehended why animals that wanted to survive avoided the cottage. But that was beside the point. 

Your manners for the owner of the candy house would not be affected. Even though your stomach churned almost painfully at your denial. To make it easier you turned away from it crouching down to hold the grumbling organ. Repeating that you could eat when you returned with your brothers to share—no matter how little was left. 

“You are allowed to eat you know.”

The sultry voice of a man stopped your internal thoughts, peeking your head over your shoulder to look at the interruption. In the doorway of the house was a tall and handsome man, he reminded you of the young bachelor in town. Wearing a tight black long-armed shirt lined with rhinestones, your mother would envy. The dangling sparkles matched his pants which were long and wide at the ankles. His attire was interesting because you’d never seen it before, the man’s face was just as alarming. Hair as green as the surrounding trees was flowing to his waist contrasting his black outfit in a ragged but neat look. It was like a halo of green against his pale skin, golden eyes, and pink lips.

“You look hungry, why don’t you take a bite?”

The way he said it was hypnotic. An inviting and comfortable thrum of a voice that started to pinprick into your morale. You shook your head as if that would expel the greedy thoughts threatening to take hold. You hurriedly pulled out your notepad writing as neatly as you could. Holding up your notepad, you hoped he could read.

'It’s your house…that’d be mean.'

He leaned in to see what you wrote, retreating back to the arch of the gingerbread door.

“I was the one who chose a candy house. It just comes with the territory.”

He flashed a smile, white as milk. You licked your teeth beneath your mouth, feeling the plaque build-up that you’re sure makes your teeth yellow. Thinking of brushing, your memories trickled the moments you’d had with your brothers. The excitement that came with using your toothpaste for anything but. It reminded you of your real objective.

'Have you seen my brothers?'

The man tilts his head. You proceed to draw them to the best of your ability; trying to use the charcoal to detail the colors of their hair, and their height compared to your own. It’s hard to tell if he knows anything as his small smile hasn’t waivered. But as you scribble and point you worried he’d stopped listening.

“How about you come inside, have a bite, and I can help you find your brothers. That sound like a plan?”

You nodded. Standing up, you rushed to his side to grab his extended hand letting him lead you inside.

'My name’s (Y/n), what’s you’re name?'

“Trey. You can call me: Trey."

'Nice to meet you, Trey!'

“Likewise.”

______________________________________________________________

Trey Clover loved to eat children. It was in his nature to come from a long line of baking witches. It wasn’t a trade secret that children extend your life and beauty; the real secret was how to craft the potions with the children to make delicious desserts. Forest animals and pesky adults were fine ingredients but nothing was more fulfilling than a child’s soul. They were also much nicer to have as victims. They cried sure but they were dumber, more gullible, and so much easier to fatten up. But for all the children he’d consumed over the past century, there was something Trey could definitively say was the truth.

That Trey Clover loved children. His family ruled him as demented for such a thought but it was the truth. For all the fulfillment he’d have after his rejuvenating meals, there was still a resounding sorrow that nothing he could make would overshadow. Nothing but the shining presence of another child. 

Trey rationalized that he wasn’t crazy, humans had pet pigs all the time. He’s no different in that way. That every now and then the thought of keeping one crossed his mind, diminished at the thought of one thing or another. Whether it was a spark of brattiness that was hidden behind a sunny demeanor or just the undisciplined actions of a bully in the making. It reminded him why he’d never let himself feel too bad as he tossed their belongings into the basement after a satisfying meal. He figured it was natural selection. Like any other predator, he looked for the weakest, the slowest in the pack to pick off and sustain him for another ten years. 

But he’d begun to waiver with such an innocent soul in his grasp.

“How was that? Was it good?”

'But my brothers–'

He'd close the pad before the question was asked.

“Your head is so warm, I think you’re coming down with a fever.”

Cradling the young child, he settled to swaying them to sleep. His usual victims were not so young, often much older and more defiant. That is why it was such a treat to have a well-mannered impressionable little toddler to care for. With a resolve to their mission that was unavoidable, it still was nothing against the bedtime routine he’d been taught long before. He couldn’t remember if it was his mother or one that he’d eaten but she detailed the way to care for small children with such pride. In his heart of hearts, he’d admit to having eaten her out of envy. But now she proved more useful than her bones as he ran a bath for the yawning toddler.

Distracting them with talks of nothing as he gently wiped the grime off their little body. He had to refrain from frowning at the signs of a rash on their back. He was blankly staring at the untreated patch, cursing the adults who’d allow a sick toddler to run through the woods. But from their other children’s stories, they weren’t all that good to begin with.

The sound of a sneeze reminded him of his task.

“Bless you. After your bath I’m just rub a little ointment on your back before you settle down okay?”

They tiredly nodded, Trey resisted the urge to coo.

“You’re doing a good job staying awake. Let’s finish up before you fall asleep, okay?”

His parents were completely right about him. What sane witch would have a room decorated for a toddler already made, already infused with sleeping herbs that’d erase the thoughts of the past? 

“Goodnight, my sugar cube.”

The notepad had been abandoned long ago. The urge to burn it was growing.

“Tomorrow we can look for your brother.” 

The demanding sign of '2 brothers', made him laugh. Not after today you wouldn't.

“Maybe one day sugar cube, sleep tight.”

Kissing (Y/n)’s head and waving as he closed the door, Trey was elated. It was difficult to wipe the smile off his face when he unlocked the basement door.  

It wasn’t just as he left it per his instructions to the bratty boy. Ace was far too skinny to be worth a good meal and from what Trey could tell a decent worker under stress. Trey figured it’d be hard to break his spirit if the other boy was around. Of course there was a chance it'd return with his little one. Trey would bet on fear and duty overwhelming him and he’d fall right into place.

“I see you’re working extra hard. Good.”

______________________________________________________________

Ace stopped sweeping, his little knuckles white as he fought the urge to scream at the witch. He only wanted to see his brother. After the first night, he knew rebelling would get him nothing but trouble. 

“Can I see my brother now?”

Trey hummed closing the door behind him, he didn’t bother to lock it. He knew the boy wouldn’t want to leave. He took the ring of keys from his belt twirling around his lithe finger as he stepped deeper into the basement. Ace stuck close to his side, waiting anxiously to see his brother again. 

The last time he saw him, his face was wet with tears. His hands were still sticky from the treats they’d gorged on, angrily shaking the unmoving metal bars around him. Ace couldn’t sleep if he tried. 

“Before we go in, you two have a younger sibling. (Y/n) was it?”

Ace’s already sped-up heart-rate, went seconds faster. The collection of little papers in his hands with a tattered cover was far too familiar.

“They sound so determined to find you two.”

“What did you do to them!?”

When Trey turned his head over his shoulder the sneer he gave, bore into Ace's soul like a needle. Flashes of the suffocating pain the night before demanding he fix his demeanor immediately. 

“Quiet boy.” The command was like a heat rod, sweltering from such a short distance. He looked away from those golden eyes for his own sake. “I won’t be doing anything to them if you behave.”

The final warning hung in the air with the door now unlocked. The metal door swinging open was a cruel mirror of when they first accepted the invitation to eat some more. There were tables of sweets and pastries along the cracking walls of the room. A table with a checkered tablecloth and a painted chair were placed off to the right side of the room; waiting for someone to enjoy the decorative plating on its surface. But unlike the day they first arrived a metal cage was hanging from the ceiling and his brother Deuce was in it. 

“I’m glad you ate. At least hunger won’t be the last thing on your mind.”

Trey’s off-handed comment was ignored as Ace ran to clutch at the bars separating him from Deuce. As best as they could they hugged one another, the cold and rusted bars a constant reminder of their unfortunate circumstance. 

“Deuce I can’t let this happen! I have to do something!”

Deuce shook his head,” No, if you do anything bad he’ll eat you too! You’ve got to get back home and find Dad!”

Ace pulled at his orange strands, “I can’t he has (Y/n).”

Deuce’s serious face, quivered. His brave instructions became mute as he imagined their youngest sibling unknowingly falling into the same trap they did.

“You have to protect them. Please, Ace.”

The blue-haired boy couldn’t speak anymore his nose running and tears falling again. All he could do was clutch at Ace’s hands, attempting to put his forehead against the bars to feel his brother's. Ace was crying too, barely standing as he held onto his brother.

“Are you done? I’m not getting any younger over here.”

Trey's snide remark was not appreciated, nor was his giant hand pulling at the rags of his clothes, shoving him toward the oven. Ace didn’t need to ask for Trey to point at the brush and pan on the floor.

“Clean up the oven. The metal earrings from my last meal will make him taste worse.”

Ace murmured his distaste as he opened the oven door. Looking into the deep black mouth of the oven, it amazed him that whole people could fit in there. 

It also gave him a devilish idea.

“Uhm I don’t know how to.”

Trey turning towards him was frightening, the black coloring around his eyes flaring with such disgust. 

“Are you troubled? You just go in and sweep the ash at the floor of the oven.”

Ace pretended to look into the oven before jumping back, “Are you sure there’s not someone down here?”

The witch was prepared to punish the boy but he thought of the toddler upstairs. He had dreamed of the day, he would be called to check the closet for monsters. He figures if he’s keeping the defiant one, he should show some of the same care that he’ll be showing for (Y/n). 

It’s all too easy for Trey to climb inside, having done so on his own, hundreds of times before. Crawling to the back he felt the child coming up beside him, immediately making him grab the head of the boy. 

Ace felt his stomach flip. Had he figured him out?

“We can’t go in at the same time, wait ‘til I’m done.” 

“O-okay.”

As instructed Ace crawled back out, watching how the witch's body fully disappeared into the oven. Once his feet passed the threshold of the oven’s opening, he didn’t hesitate to close the oven door. Jumping up to flick the lock closed, Ace ignored the angry banging as he pulled at the red-colored lever to turn on the oven. 

The feeling of the heat flickering to light brought a successful comfort to the orange-headed boy. The frantic banging from within the oven was as frightening as the demonic screaming from within. 

“W-wait but the keys! He still has them!”

Ace assured his brother with the jingling object in his hand. Deuce pulled him into a teary hug once he’d been freed from the metal cage. The smell of sweat and burning flesh, never being so enticing. The moment between the two stopped as the banging became more and more apparent; the lock clicking as it held the oven closed.

“Let’s get out of here before he breaks out of there.”

“I agree.”

Deuce is the first to run through the door and out the basement; likely because of his time in the metal cage. Ace on the other hand faltered, snatching an armful of the pastries lining the room. He flipped the bird at the furnace and ran to lock the door to the basement door. Before he did, he took a moment to pay his respects to those before him. Bowing his head at the rows of shoes and belongings he’d organized, he apologized again before snatching a satchel. With the final locking of the basement door, Ace lets Deuce run up the stairs to search for their little sibling. 

Allowing Ace to have free reign of the upper floor that had deceived them before. He was never considered a good kid but he hardly saw the appeal when he had no qualms about breaking whatever he couldn’t take. 

“It almost makes this all worth it!”

Deuce, on the other hand, found you easily. The room had a distinct smell that almost made him feel safe. Going out on a limb he found his baby sibling curled up underneath a fluffy blanket. He easily tucked his arms underneath to carry them, he stopped to notice the spool of wool falling from their hand. Deuce put two and two together; smiling at the sleeping toddler in his arms. 

“Thanks to you, (Y/n). We’ll all get to go home.”

The trip back was like a minor stroll. The original dangers of the forest were diminished to minor nuisances in comparison to the horrors they’d endured. Of course, the two still had other things to worry about when they did return home.

“What are we supposed to do about the step-lady?”

“Hm, I don’t know maybe we should push her into the oven too.”

Ace laughed and usually, Deuce would scold him for the macabre joke. But Deuce didn’t really consider that a joke nor was he completely against it. The brothers had plenty to think about as they each took turns holding their snoozing sibling. 

It’s probably best they didn’t look back at the candy house. 

For they might be filled with dread at force they awakened.

[satorusugurugurl]

Yeehaw!!

Summary: Suguru loses a bet to Satoru and had to wear a cowboy costume to a party. But you consider yourself the real winner.

Characters: cowboy!Geto Suguru x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: costume play, kissing, sex in a stranger's bed, language, face siting, 69ing, aex, unprotected sex, cream pie, hair pulling

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: Kinktober Day 16! Cowboy!Geto! I think I was possessed when writing this! Holy shit. 😮‍💨

You cannot wait. Excitement shoots through every nerve in your body. You could kiss Gojo right now, but thinking about him like that alleviates some of the arousal that’s pooling between your legs. This was going to be the best night of your life. Your boyfriend had lost a bet against his best friend. I bet that involved costumes for your local Halloween party at the college. Suguru wanted to wear something simple, like a suit and tie. While, Gojo had been insistent on his choice.

You had never been more excited over your boyfriend losing a video game than you had the second Gojo whispered his costume idea to you. You squirmed, toying with your scarecrow costume as there was a sigh from behind the door in front of you. Suguru was not looking forward to this, but you were seconds away from screaming and pure anticipation.

“If you say anything—” his voice was dark and deep. You could almost hear the blush that was fuming in his cheeks. “I swear to God, I will kick you out of the apartment.”

“Seeing that I have a set of keys to the apartment, I think that would be a waste of time.” you bite down on your lip, rubbing between your teeth. “And I can assure you that I will not be laughing.” if anything, he would be fighting back a moan. Because the thought of your boyfriend and this specific outfit had your pussy throbbing.

The door to the bedroom creaked, and out stepped your cowboy boyfriend. God, he looks like a fucking meal. Your mouth watered at the sight of the blue jeans, hugging his thighs to the tight black button-down top around his toned arms. The black bandanna that was tied around his neck. Your heart feels like it’s racing in a 5K marathon.

Suguru looked like sin incarnate, and that sin was lust. It took everything in your power not to pounce on him right then and there. He seemed so shy in his cowboy outfit. Dusty rose hue was tinting his pretty cheeks. He looked anywhere but you. He had no idea just how sexy he was.

“I told you not a damn word.” He jabbed his pointer to you to emphasize his words. “Not a word.”

“Of course,” you responded in a sing-song sweet voice in an attempt not to phase him in the slightest. In reality, all you were thinking about was pushing him down on the couch right there, but he was just feeling a little insecure. You only needed ten minutes with your mouth, and he would feel like a million dollars. However, now was not the time to suck him dry. That would have to wait until after the party.

You stay true to his request, not saying a single word about his costume, even if it was nearly physically impossible not to respect him and his wishes. When all you wanted to do was catcall him like a horny construction worker. But you did your best, staying close to him all night and being his moral support even when Satoru started parading him around the party, which you hadn’t initially minded.

Until you saw the girls staring.

A whole bunch of them were eye fucking him right there in front of you. You could see it in their little eyes that they were mentally trying to undress him despite you being right there by his side. Jealousy turned in your stomach like molten lava, making the alcohol you had drank boil in protest. This came with the territory when dating a supermodel-worthy gorgeous boyfriend. You had gotten used to it. But maybe it was because he was too good-looking tonight; it made you want to go on a spontaneous murder spree whenever someone glanced in his direction.

You had stepped away for just a second to regain your composure and cool before you did something completely irrational when there was a flash of white. You whirled back around, watching as one of the girls that had been oogling your boyfriend all evening grabbed him by the bandanna yanking him down to her height. Suguru looked uncomfortable by this, his violet eyes searching for you in the crowd as the drunk woman twirled her finger around the fabric.

“Say cowboy~ let me take you for a ride?”

Oooh fuck this! This costume was supposed to be for your pleasure! Not for every single woman, man, or person at this fucking party! You snapped forward, little pieces of hay falling out of the sleeve of your dress as you hooked your finger under the loop of his belt, yanking him back towards you. The sudden movement of Suguru falling back into you had the drink he had been nursing to slosh within the orange silo cup before coating his hand in beer which also hit the girl's dress square in the tits.

“Ah!” She screeched, looking down at herself. “What the fuck?!”

You stepped forward, putting yourself between your boyfriend and the stupid angel bitch. “The only person riding him tonight will be me.” The angel’s lips curled up away from her teeth.

“Says who?”

“Says me!” You grabbed hold of his bandanna with your entire hand, yanking him down to your mouth as you kissed him as if no one else was in the room. Suguru’s eyes are wide at your sudden action. But he slowly relaxed, letting you take the lead as you kissed him with ferocity.

You could hear the angel cursing in disapproval before her stiletto clicked against the floor as she walked away. Suguru was the first to pull away, looking around for any sight of the woman. When he realized you guys were safe, he sighed in blissful relief.

“You saved me there, Princess.” There was a certain gleam in his eyes as he turned his attention back down on you. “Talk about that awkward conversation starter, huh?” You say nothing as you grab him by the hand, leading him upstairs. “Hey, what are you doing?” He questioned, eyebrows pinching together as he was shoved into one of the vacant rooms upstairs.

“Something I should have done the second. I saw you in that fucking outfit.”

One second, Suguru is standing before you, and the next, he’s being shoved onto the mattress. “Huh? What?” He props himself up on his elbows, watching as you slowly shimmy your panties down, kicking them across the room.

“I should have kept you all to myself. But I fully intend to make amends for my mistake.”

Suguru greatly underestimated how much you would’ve liked his costume. At first, he was annoyed with the childish game that Satori was playing since he didn’t have much of a childhood. Geto saw this as a way for his best friend to torture him. What he never expected for his girlfriend to be the one to torture him. Because here you were 20 minutes later, your pussy being ground against his mouth as you sucked on his cock, hollowing your cheeks as you both sixty-nine.

But— most really considered as torture?

Because Suguru was losing his fucking mind over how good you tasted and how fucking feral you were. When you shoved him down on the bed, he was expecting you to pull his cock out and just ride him, or maybe you’re going to beg for him to fuck you. You instead took a seat right on his face, grinding your hips and slow, meticulous circles with the last thing he had been expecting. Not that he was one to complain.

It wasn’t very often that you rode his face, but fuck when you allow yourself to loosen the grips you had on yourself. Fuck, and it always led to some pretty amazing sex. You had his cowboy hat off, throwing it across the room as you fisted your fingers through the silk strands of his hair, gripping onto it as if they were reigns, and you rode him up and down slowly over his tongue, grinding your slick pussy all over his willing tongue.

Your head had been tossed back and pure blissful pleasure. Not giving a damn about who might be around to hear you lose yourselves. All that you were concerned with was fucking his mouth. He was slowly cursing himself, wishing you weren’t in a scarecrow costume but a cowgirl costume alongside him. Thinking of you wearing a cute little hat as you rode his face like a fucking horse, had his cock throbbing against his denim jeans, begging to be released.

And luckily for him, it was something you had picked up on. You stopped grinding your pussy on his tongue, pulling back just enough to look into his pretty lilac eyes. Your boyfriend made a sound of disapproval. The second you pulled away from his mouth. But before any protest could leave his talented tongue, you turned around, working at his belt in the buttons to his pants.

All protests vanished along with the blood in his head as it rushed to his cock. That crazed horny manic still fueled your actions. Making you forget momentarily that you both weren’t in the comfort of your own home, but instead, we’re in a stranger's house, a frat house, to be exact. The only thoughts that were going through your mind were how badly you needed his cock in your mouth.

You growled, your eyes rolling back as you wasted no time. You jerked him several times with fast, quick pumps in your adorable hands before you let him into your wet, willing mouth. Usually, Suguru would have been completely enthralled by your talent, watching how you hollowed your cheeks as you’re pretty, perfect lips wrapped around his thick cock. He couldn’t care less about what you looked like sucking him off right now. Because he was more entranced with your dripping wet cunt in his face.

That momentary setback of switching positions came and went like clicking seconds on a clock. Suguru growled, lifting his head, darting his tongue out, sliding it between your slick folds, the tip grazing over your entrance, swirling his tongue around it before he reached up, grabbing a handful of your ass. You cried around his eyes, watering as you struggled to take him further down your throat. Which was surprisingly hard when he was shoving his tongue deep inside your pussy, licking your inner walls without a care in the world.

His enthusiasm nearly had you choking on his dick as he breathed heavily against your swollen folds. Like he had been diving deep in the water and gasping for air. But the only thing he was diving deep into was your sex. He pulled his tongue out from inside of you to lap at your folds again, the tip of his tongue finding your clit with such ease that it had you buckling down on his mouth hard. You cried out, eyes squeezing, as you tried to focus on him and his cock.

Both of you were withering masses as you worked each other to get off, but right before either of you could cum, you pulled off his mouth and his cock, hovering above him. His cock throb angrily in protest. The dark rosey tip twitched, and a droplet of pre-come sheared on the tip before running over to trail down the underside of his cock, making him shiver.

“W-Why’d you stop?” He questioned, watching as you moved, putting your legs underneath his as you presented your backside to him.

“I told you I was going to be riding you tonight.”

Before he could respond, letting you know that you had rode his face, you reached around, grabbing a hold of the base of his cock. He jerked forward, thrusting into your hand as you led the tip toward your entrance, rubbing it up and down the slick folds before pushing yourself down onto his length. Suguru cursed under his breath, back as his jaw clenched tight as you threw your head back while arching your beautiful bareback.

“Nngh fuck!” He huffed out, lifting his head just enough to watch as you sink down completely onto him. Your bodies were pressed flush against each other. “Holy fuck—you’re so fucking wet! Just how much do you like this costume?” it wasn’t so much a question and more like a statement. He knew you liked this costume.

Suguru just wanted to hear you say how much you liked it.

There was a breathless laugh that passed through your lips as you began rocking your hips back and forth while pulling off of his cock, slamming yourself back down onto it. Is it possible for you to be so cute and sexy simultaneously?! You hum breathless moans, filling the vacant room you both are in.

“I-I love it!” You post yourself down onto his length until the head of his cock is pressing right against your cervix. “I fucking love this goddamn costume.” You pulled yourself back up off of a length, allowing him to see your slick, coating his cock. “I-I love it s-so much!”

Suguru hisses through his teeth, becoming more animalistic as you bounce. “Fuck—fuck I can tell you’re so worked up!” He crashes his head to sight as he tries his damnedest to blow his load right then and there. “Fuck you squeezing me too tight, babe!” His hands both reach out to grab handfuls of your ass, squeezing and massaging it before pulling it apart to watch with lustful eyes as you force yourself further down his length.

“Haha!” You laugh out as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling gently on it. “Fuuuck~ I don’t give a damn if you cum too fast right now! I plan on riding you all fucking night.”

Your bounces become something less methodical and more precise, pulling all the way off before his tips snag at your entrance before you slam yourself down on him. Skins clap against skin that sheen with a thin layer of sweat. You’re crying out as you grab hold of his upper thigh for leverage as you throw yourself back onto his cock as if he was your own personal sex toy.

“Fu—hnnngh!” Suguru’s eyes roll back as he grips your ass with a force that’s gonna leave bruises. “Holy fuck, your pussy is so fucking good.” He was trying to fight against the white spots that were forming in his vision as his orgasm was closing in on him. A white ring of your combined arousals forms at the base of his cock, the physical evidence that you were aroused and that you were both close to cumming. And that sight has your boyfriend smirking sinisterly. “Fuck!” Suguru pulls his hands away just to slap them as hard as he can against the fat of your ass. “Ride me, cowgirl, put your fucking back into it.”

Suddenly, the tables have turned on you. “Ahhh!” You cry out, eyes going wide as your boyfriend reaches up, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your back, forcing you to arch your back even deeper. “S-Suguru.” You bouncing like a maniac, like you’re bouncing in his thrust, are the only thing keeping you both alive.

“Yeah, just like that princess, ride my cock, ride me like you fucking mean it.”

“I-I’m—I’m c-cumming!” You cry out, whimpering like the submissive little bitch you know you are. Suguru props himself up on one of his elbows as he continues to use your hair as leverage as he begins fucking up into you in time with your bouncing. “F-Sugu!! Sugu! Cu-cumming!” He laughs low in his belly as he watches you come undone on his cock.

You’re squirting, saving the sheets of the unknown bed that you find yourselves in, not giving a fucking damn about it at the moment. “Fuuck!! Princess, take it!! Fucking take my goddamn fucking cum!” You couldn’t care less because all that mattered, and that moment was feeling your boyfriend fill you up with his hot thick cum. None of the fuckers downstairs mattered. They didn’t even register in your mind as your boyfriend fucked into you like the rugged cowboy he was dressed like.

The man that pushes you, forcing you down into the mattress as he takes control, his hand that’s still wrapped in your hair or your face down into the mattress as you scream into the duvet. Your eyes are watering mascara, and your face makeup is running down your flushed cheeks. Fuck his cum into you, forcing another orgasm out of you as you scream into the mattress. He shudders behind you, pressing his button-down top flush against your back; he grinds into you, pushing him and his new load further inside of you.

And he doesn’t stop until you’re both breathless, lifting your face out of the duvet, turning you to face him. You both are fucked up mess of sweat, spit, and cum. Suguru growls, kissing you deeply, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as the door to the bedroom jiggles as someone tries to get in.

“Fuck off!” Suguru barks out, tying his hair back into a bun as he slaps your ass. “I’m a hardworking cowboy, enjoying the fruit of my labor.” You squeaked out as he flat on his stomach, grabbing your ass, forcing you back onto his mouth where he’s licking your combined cum out of your pussy. You shuddered, eyes rolling back. A sweat beads against your forehead. “Yee-fuckin-haw.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[ozzgin]

hi! I'm the anon who said that Daitou is my #1 sweetheart, and I saw your post talking about time-skip Daitou kind in dilf vibes... I'm interested, take all of my money right now !!

also wondering how Daitou would react with a darling who wants kids 💭💭 imagine of she is having a hugeee baby fever ( not me projecting whattt)

Turning this into a general "Would the yakuza men want children?" and other bedroom habits. There's a more detailed answer for Daitou here. Content: female reader (pregnancy talk), mildly NSFW, fluff

You may think of Boss as old-fashioned, but he's seen a fair amount of depravity back in the day. Before gambling was deemed illegal in Japan, he'd owned several casinos in big districts like Ginza and Kabukichō, and consequently spent a lot of time in various parlors. Unlike many of his men, however, he never really cared much for adult entertainment. In his drunken rants he used to say that women would be his downfall, and no one would want to be involved with him, anyways.

He might be into you calling him daddy, although you should expect a lot of dad jokes to go with it. He’s a silly old man like that. Could be interested in shibari, because it takes a lot of patience and skill and he’d probably enjoy taking his time and gazing at you after each knot. It’s quiet and intimate, and he gets to tease you about it afterwards, especially if it’s an arrangement to go under your clothes. “What’s the matter, (Y/N) love? Tongue tied?”

His recurring humor around his age makes you wonder if he’d even be interested in children. When you finally bring up the topic, Boss is very casual about it. “Sure”, he’ll say with a grin, “whatever the missus wants.” You suspect he’s not taking you seriously, but after settling you on his lap and having a hearty laugh about it, he’ll conclude, this time with confidence: “Have a look outside this room. See all those rascals? I raised them! Ya think I can’t handle a bunch of kids?”

Daitou can be surprisingly (and unintentionally) kinky, especially if you encourage him to. He’ll apologize the day after for being too rough, even if you tell him it's fine and you quite literally asked for it (See Valentine's Day incident). Overall, though, I’d say it depends entirely on you. He can be dominant or submissive, according to your wishes. You can go all out with him, he’s sturdier than most and takes great pride in it. If you’re into more extreme hobbies like knife play, you’re certainly in good hands.

Daitou lives in the moment and hasn't really planned too far ahead. Such is the life of a yakuza: you never know when you might lose a limb or more in the next gang fight. He's therefore quite surprised by your proposal of having children in the future. Is it even something realistic for someone like him? On the other hand, it's hard to refuse that enthusiastic smile you're flashing at him each time the topic comes up. "Do you, uh...", he begins one day while looking at baby toys in the store. He fidgets with his prosthetic eye nervously. "Do you really think I'd make a good dad? Heh."

Kazuya can be quite kinky and loves teasing you in public about it. Last time you were hanging out with him and his underlings, you happened to pass by a park bench you'd recently used during your nightly strolls together. “This location is familiar”, he’ll hum with a smirk. “Isn’t this where we…ah. Nevermind.” Despite your frequent protests, he always struggles to keep his mouth shut. Can you really blame him for wanting to brag to others? You're an undeniable catch.

"Kids?" he repeats with a raised eyebrow. Good question, although something he's considered many times already. What, you thought he wouldn't notice your curious glances whenever some woman walks by with a baby stroller? He pretends to ponder your suggestion and declares after a long moment: "Well, you'd certainly make a great milf, and I obviously can't have anyone else do the honors." He picks you up with a mischievous grin on his face. "When do we start?"

[Main Story] | [More Yakuza]

[kadwrites]

deja vu | T.S

previous part | next part

or check out the series masterlist

summary; how well do we really know the people we love?

warnings ; dark!tommy, minor character death, description of violence , mentions of murder, arranged marriage!trope , slow burn, fem!reader

a/n ; please let me know what you think!

-

you tilted your head and frowned , you're both standing at the garrison.

"tommy..." you mumbled in protest

"i know" he nodded "it'll be very short."

you clicked your tongue and then huffed "if you take longer than ..... 30 minutes i'm leaving."

"ya won't."

"get out of my sight." you muttered , taking a sip of your drink.

you sighed, looking over at the place. it was fairly busy, but not stuffy. sounds of chatter and men laughing echoing around, the lighting is dim. you made your way to the booth you were in, sitting down , eyeing your drink.

"when i heard tommy was marrying again, i would've never thought it's celest's little sister that he's trapped."

you recognized the voice before even processing the words, you look up, your brows raised and smiling in disbelief "lizzie?"

she's standing there, looking over at you. her blue eyes studying every inch of your face, a face she hadn't seen in a long time. and you hadn't expected to see her here , of all places.

"what are ya doing?" she speaks softly. you know the tone, you get the meaning; what are you doing with someone like him ?

you stand up, your gaze never leaves her , still smiling. "lizzie... i've not seen ya in so long..."

since she got involved with tommy , that is. lizzie and celest knew each-other , went to school together. lizzie would sometimes stay over , whenever your mother felt she wouldn't be safe otherwise. until the war.

she chuckles, "ya 'ave your mother to thank for that."

you chuckled too, still looking at her. "how did ya know about it?"

she gives you a look, her dark brow raised "everyone knows. i just didn't know it would be someone like *you*"

you lick your lips, "lizzie i know ya two share.... a history"

she scoffs , a bitter smile on her lips "i don't resent ya for this, i wouldn't." she shakes her head "i 'ave given up on 'im... a long time ago." her eyes look away for a moment before landing on you "whatever ya think of 'im, whatever ya believe he is , he's not." she speaks with conviction.

you don't reply to that, you're just trying to know what she means by it.

"thomas shelby doesn't know love like we do, what he knows is ownership." she chuckles bitterly, "learned what that meant the hard way. but ya shouldn't go through what i did." she shakes her head softly

"i don't understand...."

she stays silent for a moment "consider this a warning from a friend, this man , *will ruin you* , and when that 'appens ya will not recognize who you've become but he.... he will remain the same, unchanged not matter how hard ya try. he will always be what he always was, no love in the world can heal whatever is broken in 'im."

"ya don't understand, lizzie." you speak finally, "this isn't simple, for either of us. i can't leave"

"ya can't or ya won't?"

"i..." you pause for a moment, letting out a chuckle "i can't."

she studies your face , nodding "what does celest think? what does oliver think?"

"they're not thrilled."

"i know 'im more than most." she adds "and if i

knew what i do now when i first met 'im....." she looks away "i came here because i knew you'd be here and to tell ya that ya can come to me... if ya ever need help."

she places a hand on your arm, looking at you one more time before turning and making her way out of the garrison.

"she was always a nice girl" your mother sighed, taking a bite of her food

you and celest look at eachother before looking back at her,

celest knew why lizzie talked to you , and so did the rest of your family

"where's abraham?" you nod towards anna

she shrugged , "he had to do something before coming here"

"ya knew who i dreamt of?" your father pointed his fork at you "that teller boy, jeremy was it?. it was the strangest thing , i tell ya"

all the women at the table tried to stay neutral, keep their reactions to a minimum, you try to hide your uncomfortable reaction behind your glass of water "it is strange"

the whole table looks towards the front door, the sound of the door slamming open and not slamming back closed, and the heavy rushed footsteps

"i need to talk to ya," he appears in the living room doorway. he puts his hands on his hips, breathing heavily as if he ran to the house. he's disheveled, he pushed his glasses back on his nose with a shaky hand

"jeremy teller is dead." he speaks in a hushed voice, looking around to check that no one is listening, both of you standing in your parents bedroom. he didn't want anyone to hear , especially not renee or she might just give birth on the spot.

"what? no he's not." you laugh, looking at him. waiting for him to finish his joke

he looks at you, wiping a hand over his face. he looks at you "he's fucking dead."

your laugh falters slowly as you look at him, your face twitching with different emotions "how ? when? how do you know about it?"

"i heard. they found 'im murdered," he tries to not speaks too loudly "his throat was slit"

you can feel your blood go cold "do they know who killed 'im?"

he tilts his head, his hands still shaking as they rest on his hips. "ya know who killed 'im."

"no....no." you shake your head, laughing again in disbelief "no no no, no" you look away and step back, putting a hand over your forehead "that's impossible."

"listen to me" he grabs your shoulders, turning you to look at him "he did it, all of small heath knows he did and ya do too."

"no , he wouldn't." you shake your head again, your heart beating so fast you can hear it. "why would he do that? he wouldn't ."

he moves you gently, sitting you down on the chair in your parents room. he kneels , his hands move to your face "what do ya wanna do now ?"

the room feels so stuffy, you can hardly breath.

"i don't know." your chest feels like it might collapse. you try to stand up, but you can barely feel your legs, you try to blink away the darkness that takes over your vision.

but you knew it was coming, the darkness does take over.

here you are again, staring at that portrait that hangs opposite of your bed. you're filled with dread , fear and even anger , your eyes trace the portrait that you've already memorized.

your head on the pillow, your sister sniffling is another reminder, like a deja vu of that cursed night.

but you can see someone else in your peripheral vision sitting in the chair , those cold blue eyes cannot be missed. its as if his presence filled the room with a cold sort of air.

you try to get up,

"lay down"

"i don't want to." you mumble, letting out a breath as you lean your back against your bed frame. your eyes still on the painting, you don't even glance his way.

"feeling better?" his voice sounds colder than you ever remember it being. the smell of the cigarette smoke making you close your eyes shut, making your head spin. you reach for the glass of water on your bedside table, your hands quiver as you bring it to your lips

"yes" you put the glass back down

"ya look pale"

"hmm"

you can't shake that feeling, you're scared of looking at him and seeing the same view you did that day, the blood on his hands.

"ya killed 'im." you're almost muttering to yourself,

he doesn't answer you, and you don't ask again. you finally peel your eyes off of the old painting, glancing at him. the look on his face gave you the answer that you already knew.

he looks so calm , so collected , almost wicked. "are ya scared now?"

and it was your turn to not answer his question, but your eyes never leave his.

"did ya do it yourself?"

"yes" he looks right back at you "you're already aware of what i can do"

you just shut your eyes, your hands shake as they grip into the covers

"forgetting it is your fault, not mine." his voice sounds again

you don't even remember the rest of that day, his words were replying in your head.

you snap out of that trance a day later, you're in the living room on the chair by the window. you look straight at the window as your mind tries to make sense of everything, and then a figure down the street catches your eyes and you feel a switch go off in your head.

i have eyes around here.

and you realize , probably ears too.

your clothes swish as you run out of the living room towards your parents' room, your mother running behind you. the old wooden floor cried under your rushed footsteps

"what happened?"

you don't even hear her, you don't process what she's saying. you pull out the box from under their bed, you rummage through it , pulling out your dad's revolver.

the cold metal of the gun feels like it's burning through your flesh

"what the fuck are ya doing? where did ya get that?" oliver yells , his eyes opened wide as tries to run after you too.

the whole house freezes, all of them just still as if the slightest movement would set that gun off

you push that door open , it slams against the wall beside it. your feel take you towards the man standing in the street , a figure you've seen lurking around too many times to chalk it up to coincidences

you cock back the hammer, your hands are steady for the first time since yesterday.

"ya tell tommy fucking shelby that if he doesn't get ya fuckers away from me , i'll start shooting."

you move the revolver and point it to the pavement , missing his foot by a hair.

-

taglist ; @tardisloverz , @optimisticsandwichgladiator , @theshelbyslimited , @illuminwtesz , @goldensunflowe-r , @gruffle1 , @warrior-of-justice , @mgdixon , @babayaga67 , @goblinjnr , @justaproudslytherpuff , @budugu , @twlegit , @amberpanda99 , @aesthetic0cherryblossom , @capswife , @lets-turn-and-burn , @affabletimelady , @edencherries , @globetrotter28 , @eg-dr3amer3 , @sadroses98 , @fairytale07 , @hakudaru , @swordofawriter , @esposadomd , @blogforficslol ، @bearchermer , @n1c0t1n4 , @dreamy-caramel , @dragonsondragons , @charli123456789 ، @bunny24sstuff ، @butterfly-lover , @my-tin-can-mans , @powellssaturn , @vlryexsworld , @h0neylemon , @citris-runaway , @swinginmusicalfunnydragon , @babyspice6 , @oatmealisweird , @yuki254 , @ce1iat , @thelastemzy , @queenofshinigamis , @bai-wuxiangs-mask , @knmendiola ، @bethexo07 , @geeky-politics-46 , @dawnzzzz , @probablypossesedbysatan , @n0vaj3an , @oscarisdaddy69 , @nadloves , @ay0nha , @whoreforaz , @starrystormwritings , @hml2918 , @bloodywickedvamp , @ajmiila02 , @torrie421 , @queen-bunny , @febris-amatoria , @verycollectivecreator , @mutareadastra ,

[mono-red-goblin-party]

what you can't have | part 1

Pairing: Cameraman! Joel x Reality Star! Reader

Summary: Hooking up with your cameraman is the last thing you should be doing as the lead of Mr. Right. But when Joel Miller is assigned to be your personal shadow, it's impossible to deny your attraction. He's the guy you want, and the only one on set that you can't have.

Word Count: 5.5K

A/N: Please enjoy!

AO3 | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Top ten warning signs that your music career is over:

1. When Barnett Records releases your second album, you realize they've decided to name it Summerbash.

2. The label cuts all your original songs from the record.

3. When you complain about this to Grant Barnett, your producer and boyfriend of three years, he dumps you. A week before your thirtieth birthday.

4. You celebrate your thirtieth birthday.

5. Pitchfork rates the album a 1.5/10. You learn this from an article entitled "Summer-bash my head in".

6. The "Summerbash Summer Splash" Tour is postponed. Indefinitely.

7. When Marlene - your manager - calls Barnett Records about a contract for your next album, the label doesn't call back.

8. In fact, none of the record labels call back.

9. The only call Marlene does get is from the producers of a reality dating show called Mr. Right. They want to see if you'll be their so-called Dream Girl next season. Because you're now notoriously single and unemployed.

And the ultimate, irrefutable sign that your music career is over:

10. Marlene actually wants you to take the job.

“No,” you say. The music in the gym is always blasting, so you have to shout for Marlene to hear you. She originally convinced you to work out with her to build stamina for the Summerbash tour, and lately has been dragging you here with arguments about endorphins and you “not exactly being up to anything else”.

You raise your voice over the chorus of “Abracadabra” and continue your protest. “Absolutely not. Shows like that are completely humiliating.”

Marlene finishes her bench press and re-racks the barbell. Sometimes you think she deliberately breaks bad news to you here so that her insanely jacked arms add emphasis to her managerial authority. She sits up and levels you with a long stare.

“More humiliating than actually going on the Summer Splash Tour?” she asks, “because you were willing to do that, last I checked.”

You do not appreciate this comparison.

“This is not the same thing,” you say. “The tour would have involved actual singing. Mr. Right is a glorified beauty pageant.”

“I told them as much on the phone, actually.” Marlene gets up to pull plates off the bar and replace them with your much lighter ones. You give her a skeptical look, and she continues. “Well, not in so many words. I told them you’re a musician, not a reality star, and it would be a tough sell.” She nods to the bench. “You’re up.”

You lie back and brace yourself, then slowly lower the weight as Marlene spots you. It takes all your concentration to hold the right form, so you conveniently can’t interrupt her pitch.

“Apparently your career is a big draw for them,” she says. “If you take the role, they want to use one of your songs as intro music for the season. They even offered to pay for studio time if you want to record an original single for the show.”

You consider this as you finish your set. One single – even if you manage to write a good one – is not going to erase the legacy of Summerbash. But it’s the closest thing to a record deal you’ve seen in months. You struggle through your last rep and sit up.

“I get why you want me to do this,” you tell Marlene, “But it’s Mr. Right. I really don’t think it’s for me.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, “dating twenty eligible men is going to be so miserable for you.”

“Not dating,” you say, “marrying. One of them, at least.”

“Come on,” Marlene says. “Mr. Right has been on TV for twenty-four seasons. You know how many couples are still together? Three. Nobody on that show is really there to marry you.”

“I’ll still have to get engaged,” you protest.

“Maybe,” she says, “if you find someone you like. Or maybe you have a dramatic on-camera heartbreak. Either one gets you diehard fans.”

You don’t respond, and she drops to the bench beside you.

“I know you know this, but Summerbash only got fifty thousand streams,” she says. “No label is going to risk signing you after that, not unless you can guarantee better numbers. Do you know how many people watched the last Mr. Right season?Twenty million. You take this Dream Girl offer, you win over America, and I can get you your pick of labels.”

You let out a soft moan of despair and bury your head in your hands. Marlene tells the truth. It’s what you’ve always liked about her, but right now you want to hate her for it. Because when the facts are all in front of you, there’s really only one good choice.

You take the fucking part.

Chapter One

Tonight, you meet your Suitors. Your call sheet for the day has a six-hour window for “getting dressed”, with a handwritten annotation in perfect cursive reminding you to show up on time. Not that you could really be late, seeing as the dressing room is in your hotel suite. It’s a beautiful room, with plush white carpeting and large French doors that open to a balcony overlooking the LA skyline, but you can’t take it in at the moment. You’re perched on a stool in front of a vanity mirror, trying hard to stay still while Courtney – the official Dream Girl Stylist – glues the final few lashes onto your eyes.

In the mirror, the reflection of Eliza, the head Dream Girl producer, buzzes across the room looking for problems to solve. Eliza is beautiful in a sleek, professional way, with a blonde high pony and eternally flawless French manicure. She’s also the one who submitted your name to the show-runners as a potential Dream Girl, and you probably should resent her for this, but she reminds you of Marlene and you can’t dislike her. She told you once that she loves your album – not the new one, but your EP, Glass Slipper. She might have been lying to soften you up, you think. If so, it worked.

Eliza’s running a steamer over the already wrinkle-free folds of your dress when somebody knocks on the door. She puts the steamer down and checks her Apple watch. “It’s six fifty-seven, so that has to be your camera guy. I told him seven sharp.”

She opens the door and there’s a confusing instant before you spot the actual camera when you think one of the Suitors has found his way into your suite, because fuck, your cameraman is gorgeous.

He’s tall, with broad shoulders that stretch against the fabric of his snug green t-shirt. It’s probably not a good idea to stare at him, but you’ve been on a strict no-dating regimen since you signed the Mr. Right contract, and a part of you can’t help but take in the strong outline of his chest, the way his worn-out jeans hang low on his hips. His hair is dark, curls slightly overgrown. You notice a hint of gray at his temple and figure he’s a few years older than you, mid-thirties maybe.

You catch his steady gaze in the mirror. A tiny thrill runs through you. Did he notice you checking him out?  Your cheeks warm and you might be imagining it but his expression shifts, a slight raise of an eyebrow. Oh, he noticed. Suddenly you’re remembering that all you have on is a satin robe and a no-show thong.

Eliza closes the door. Right. There are other people in the room.

“I want to introduce you to Joel Miller,” Eliza says, “He’s our best videographer, and he’s going to act as your personal cameraman this season.”

You tell him your name, and his tiny smirk widens.

“Reckon I already knew that” he says, and you’re almost too annoyed by his smartass comment to notice that even his voice is sexy, smooth and deep with a hint of drawl.

God, you need to get it together. Twenty of the hottest men in America are about to be vying for your affection. Marlene would kill you if she knew were drooling over someone else.

It turns out Joel is here to shoot a handful of “getting ready” shots for the first episode.  Eliza brings in a few PAs and Joel asks them to reposition the vanity three times before he’s satisfied with the lighting. Then Eliza hands you a mascara wand and tells you to look in the mirror and pretend to apply it to your lashes.

“Think about your future husband,” she says, “the man of your dreams is probably driving up in a limo this very moment. Look in the mirror and imagine how it will feel when you find him.”

Really, you’re stuck trying to imagine how anyone could believe these are your natural lashes, and it must be obvious because Joel is frowning into his camera behind you.

“Light still ain’t right,” he mutters. His hand settles on your shoulder as he guides you backward, turning you toward the window, the soft light of the sun just starting to set.

He takes a step back and trains the camera on you again. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Beautiful.”

You know he’s talking about the shot, but your skin heats up at the soft praise.

Eliza leans over Joel’s shoulder and confirms that the shot is “dreamy”, and then she’s whisking everyone out of the suite so Courtney can get you into your opening night dress. It’s a soft pink evening gown, slightly low-cut and fitted down to the waist with an A-line skirt that flows to your ankles. Eliza had final say over tonight’s gown. She wants this one to“reintroduce you to America.” No longer a pop star, but a princess.

This isn’t the first outfit you’ve been told to wear in your career, and hardly the worst of them. It’s nothing compared to the cover of Summerbash, which, as per the Barnett exec’s directive, depicts you clad only in sky-blue soap suds. You never want to be labeled difficult by complaining about little things like styling. You certainly don’t plan on rocking the boat tonight, especially since you don’t exactly have a closet of your own “Dream Girl meets her Suitors” looks. But it feels strange to play dress-up on the biggest stage of your career.

The door cracks open. Eliza calls in to see if you’re decent, and then she’s back with Joel and the PAs. Now that the sun is setting, they want a few shots of you outside in your dress.

Joel positions you in the center of the balcony, arms spread out, facing away from him. It's just the two of you outside. Silence stretches between you, and you’re not sure why but it makes you uncomfortable to stand there under his quiet scrutiny.

“So, are you from the south?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Where from?”

“Texas.”

No elaboration. Cool. Clearly Joel Miller is not much of a conversationalist, and this shouldn’t annoy you, but it does. You’re the goddamn Dream Girl, aren’t you supposed to be good at talking to men?

You try again. “Are you looking forward to filming this season?”

He gives a noncommittal grunt.

“So, hard yes?”

Joel doesn’t reply, and you figure he’s decided to ignore you completely when he breaks the silence.

“Y’know, the shot’s gonna be just as good if we don’t talk to each other while I take it.”

Fuck, he’s exasperating. You roll your eyes, grateful that the camera can’t see you, and you hear a small huff of laughter from behind you.

“I’m gonna need you to relax,” Joel says, “You look real tense on camera.”

“The back of my head looks tense?”

“Well, that too, but you’ve got a fierce grip on that railing.”

You let go instantly. A hot spike of indignation runs through you. Somehow Joel has had the upper hand since he walked into your suite.

Behind you, Joel lets out a low chuckle. You feel him move close, then he places your arms one by one back on the railing. You’re becoming increasingly convinced this guy is a nightmare, but some horny, treacherous part of your brain notes that his touch is surprisingly gentle on your skin.

“You know,” you say, “some consider it common decency to try and get to know a person you’re about to be glued to for the next six weeks.”

“That so?” He’s teasing you now, a playful current in his voice. “Because I’d say the decent thing is to let a man do his job in peace.”

Asshole. You say as much out loud.

He is tone is entirely unaffected when he responds.

“I ain’t paid to be nice to you, Dream Girl.”

Obviously not.

It’s a bit of a relief, to be honest. Joel may be life-ruining levels of hot with his mouth closed, but you could never be attracted to the patronizing jerk he becomes upon opening it. You tell the part of you that’s been memorizing the slope of his chest to fuck off. It’s time to meet your Suitors.

You’re standing on your mark in front of the Mr. Right Villa, fresh out of a final hair-and-makeup check with Courtney. Eliza budgeted four hours for you to meet twenty men, which seems excessive. Then again, you’re already running five minutes behind. Joel wasn’t satisfied with the camera crew’s setup, so the PAs are putting up an additional reflector in the driveway. Eliza is taking advantage of the delay to run through tonight’s events one more time with you.

“You’ll only have a few moments with the Suitors now. They have to say their names for the camera, but don’t worry about remembering. Just focus on the connection you feel.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“After they greet you, they’ll go ahead inside the Villa. Feel free to – ”

“Watch them walk away,” you cut in, “And comment out loud if they’re especially hot. I remember.”

Eliza’s brow furrows. “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”

“Tense.” Joel offers, raising an eyebrow at you. Asshole.

“I’m fine,” you reassure Eliza.

You’re not fine. You’re nervous as shit. You’ve been on camera before, to film music videos, but always dancing or lip-syncing. You’ve never just had to be you, and it’s hitting you now that this whole season rests on your shoulders. You need to be electric. If you’re stiff, or rude, or boring, the fans will hate you.

The panic must show on your face because Eliza sighs. “You’re totally spiraling, aren’t you?”

You close your eyes. “Okay, yes, a little.”

“Talk to me,” she says.

You keep your eyes closed for a moment. You want to tell Eliza that you don’t even know how to connect with people if you can’t impress them with your career, that the only man you’ve ever maybe loved dropped you the second you screwed up, that you’re afraid all the Suitors will just see right through you. But there are already B-roll cameras recording you.

You open your eyes and sigh. “I think it’s just hitting me how surreal it is that I’m America’s Dream Girl.”

Behind Eliza, you notice Joel is done fiddling with his new reflector. He’s trained the camera on you and is staring into its screen, undoubtedly clocking every moment of your freakout. Great. His eyes flit up to meet yours, and his expression shifts slightly as he holds your gaze. You break the eye contact and focus on the producer in front of you.

Eliza smiles softly and squeezes your arm. “Believe it or not, the lead feels like this every season. But you deserve to be here. You’re going to be an incredible Dream Girl.”  She takes her phone out of her pocket and pulls something up on it.

“Technically phones are contraband,” she says, winking at you, “but I came prepared for night one jitters.” She passes you the phone and you realize she’s showing you footage Joel filmed earlier tonight. “I want you to see yourself the way America will see you,” she says.

The footage is incredible. Linen curtains part in the wind, letting through a shaft of amber light. The camera follows the light until it falls on an ethereal woman – you – touching up her makeup in a mirror. The mascara application felt stilted in the moment, but under Joel’s lens it comes across artistic. He’s positioned the camera so that it catches the fringes of evening light on your eyelashes. In the glass, your reflection is exquisite, her satin robe shimmering as she moves, shadow pooling beneath her exposed clavicles. Yes, the makeup she’s fixing is already perfect, yes, she’s a touch uncertain, but somehow this makes her seem human, desirable. You watch as her breath hitches, a flush spreading over her skin, and oh. You are the picture of romance.

Next is the balcony shot. The camera walks through the curtains to find you gazing out at the city, your silhouette haloed in gold. There’s a zoom-in of your hands lifting restlessly from the railing, then another full body shot as a sigh settles through your shoulders. The woman on the screen has a perfect view before her, but Joel makes it clear her mind is elsewhere. She’s aching for something more. She’s the perfect Dream Girl, and she’s yearning for love.

The footage ends. Your skin is burning. You can’t bring yourself to glance at Joel, but you look up at Eliza.

“Do you see?” she says, taking back the phone. “You belong here.”

You nod wordlessly. The girl on the screen isn’t here by accident. She already is the fantasy. You take a deep breath. You can do this.

Eliza is still looking at you with concern.

“Thank you,” you say, “for being the best producer a girl could ask for. I think I’m ready to flirt with some very hot men now.”

Eliza grins. “Attagirl. Let’s tell this love story.”

She strides off camera, shooing the remaining crew members out of frame, then radios into her walkie-talkie that you’re ready for the first limo. You shoot a glance at Joel as it pulls in, belatedly wanting to thank him somehow, but he’s fixated on his camera screen, ignoring you. Right then. You turn to face the car.

The limo comes to a stop and a PA opens the door. Your heart races. A tall Asian man steps out onto the driveway. He’s dressed in a deep blue suit, and you notice his hands jitter as he closes the button on his jacket. He meets your eye and gives you a shy smile. You smile back automatically as he walks toward you.

Up close, he’s even taller than you thought, easily a head above you despite your stilettos.  He’s also incredibly handsome, with high cheekbones and long, thick eyelashes. He hovers in front of you for a moment. His eyes jump to the cameras behind you, then back to your face.

“This is crazy,” he blurts out. His eyes widen in horror. “I mean, good evening.”

“Good evening,” you say back.

“Thank you,” he says, and you watch him cringe. There’s a pause. In your periphery, you watch Joel pacing a few steps closer to get a shot of you over the contestant’s shoulder. You probably look like an ice queen on camera. How can you salvage this?

You reach out and take the contestant’s hand.

“It’s okay,” you say, “I’m nervous too.”

He sighs shakily and runs a hand through his hair.

“Fuck,” he says, “Two seconds into meeting my celebrity crush, and I’ve called you crazy, forgotten how to speak, and now I’m cursing on camera.”

“Technically you didn’t call me crazy,” you reply, “and if I swear too will it make you feel less like a fuck-up?”

He laughs, a bit of the tension washing out of him. “You know, I read once that swearing actually helps us relieve stress. There was a psychological study where they measured people’s heart rates before and after they cursed, and their vitals improved every time.”

“Really?” You tilt your head at him. “Do all bad words work? Would ‘shit’ get me just as calm as ‘fuck’?”

“I don’t know.” He crinkles his brow. “And I can’t look it up, so the only way we can find out is via experiment. I think we’re going to have to test this out on our dates.”

“Oh, so we’re going on dates?”

“I hope so,” he replies. He takes your other hand and looks you in the eye. “If you can’t tell already, I’m really excited to be here. I even planned a whole introduction for us that didn’t involve profanity.”

Over his shoulder, Eliza is giving you the wrap it up signal. You squeeze the Suitor’s hands.

“Well, I can’t fucking wait to hear more about this would-be introduction later.”

“Sounds good,” he says, and he pulls you into a quick embrace before walking past you into the Villa.

You’re beyond grateful to have producers who know you well enough to send such a sweet guy out first. You try to play up an optimistic, love-struck expression. You’re about to comment on how cute he is when you see Eliza’s frustrated expression. All at once, you realize what you forgot.

You turn toward the Villa to call out to the Suitor, but he’s already running back. Joel backs out of the way as the man skids to a stop in front of you.

“Holy shit,” he says, “I completely forgot to tell you my name.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Henry.”

You shake his hand, amused at the formality of the gesture. “It’s very nice to meet you, Henry.”

He beams, then impulsively pulls you in for a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you inside,” he says, then jogs back toward the Villa as you laugh for the cameras.

Eliza is practically shaking with excitement by the time the door closes behind Henry. She shoots you a thumbs up over Joel’s shoulder. “That was perfect! I told you, you’re a natural!” She looks around at the crew. “We all good for the next guy?”

“Just a minute.” Joel’s gruff voice ends the moment of celebration as he strides over to you. He places a hand on the small of your back and guides you two steps forward. “We need you to stay on your mark,” he says, “Okay? And it’ll help me keep your face in frame if you cheat out at an angle from the men.”

Now that you’ve seen how good Joel is, you shove aside your frustration at his overbearing comments and try to follow his lead. You pivot your body slightly. “Like this?”

“Hang on.” He steers you into position. He’s barely a foot away, so close that you can see stubble dusting his jaw. He smells of woodsmoke and leather.

“There you go,” he mutters. He removes his hand and steps back, snapping into focus as he gives you instructions. “If you’re ever not sure about a shot, look at me, right? If you can see the camera without having to lean around anybody, all good.”

“Got it.”

He pauses for a moment. “You’re not doing terrible,” he says.

Gee thanks.

The limo exits continue. Plenty of the men are nervous, but no one else forgets to say their own name. A few of the contestants have customized their introductions for you. A dark-haired Suitor with a one-word named brings you fan mail from his niece. Solomon, a tattoo-covered guy who can’t be older than twenty-five, unbuttons his shirt to show a glass slipper inked on his ribcage. The most memorable of these Suitors is Lucas, a burly guy a little older than you, who steps from the limo in a recreation of your sky-blue soap suds from the Summerbash cover.

The remaining Suitors use their limo entrances to tell you about themselves. Mike, a soft-spoken paramedic, hands you a stethoscope so you can hear his heart racing. A Suitor named Jasper wants to teach you how to ballroom dance, and usually you’d be thrilled at the chance, but at this point you’ve been standing in the Villa driveway for two hours, and you’re suspicious that the stilettos Courtney chose for you tonight are actually medieval torture devices.

Your feet are killing you. These heels look great with your evening gown, and they felt okay when you tested them out in your suite. But now the straps are digging into you, and you’re pretty sure there are blisters forming on your toes. When Jasper leads you through a figure eight, it takes everything you have not to wince. Dream Girls do not grimace at their Suitors.

You do your best to keep the pain from showing, but you practically sob with relief by the time the last of the Suitors – an ex-hockey player whose name you’ve already forgotten – gives you a hug and heads into the Villa. You’ve made it.

Eliza runs out to congratulate you. “You did great! And you worked fast. We’re fifteen minutes ahead. We’re never ahead night one!”

The contestants still have filming to do without you, so you get to take a break. Hopefully a sitting-down break.

The crew disperses. Joel strides off without a word as soon as Eliza says you’re done. A few PAs start disassembling the outdoor lighting. Everyone else heads inside the Villa. There’s a big bedroom on the second floor that producers have set up as a green room, complete with a coffee maker, mini fridge and old leather couch. You make a beeline for the couch and sink down, barely suppressing a moan of relief. You want nothing more than to take off your heels, but you don’t think you have it in you to put them back on when the time comes.

Eliza perches on the other side of the couch. You feel as though you’ve been to war, but she’s still exuberant as ever. It’s probably because she gets to wear sneakers. She leans off the couch to open the mini fridge, extracting a water bottle and an energy drink, then hands both to you.

“Drink,” she orders, “We’re going to film until dawn at least.”

You drink, and the two of you sit in silence for a few minutes while you recover. Then Eliza checks her watch and sends the remaining crew members in the room to go find Courtney. She gets up herself to run and get "girl talk supplies", pausing on her way out.

“Just think,” she says, “one of these guys is your husband!”

You lay back on the couch once she’s gone. It’s the first real moment alone you’ve had since waking up this morning, and being America’s Dream Girl has tired you out. You close your eyes and try to practice dissociating from your feet so you can get through the upcoming cocktail party.

You hear the doorknob turn and open your eyes, expecting to go through cast photos with Eliza. But Eliza isn’t back yet. Instead, you see Joel slip into the room, something tucked behind his back. His gaze slides over you.

“Hey, Dream Girl.”

His voice is heavy, and you realize he’s nearly as exhausted as you are.

“Hey, Miller,” you reply, closing your eyes again. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“I ain’t,” he grumbles. You hear him settle on the other end of the couch. “At least no more than I got to.”

You’re about to point out that he initiated this conversation and very much does not have to be talking right now when he speaks again.

“Open your eyes.”

You obey, and suddenly you realize what he was hiding behind his back. You sit up all at once.

“Joel.”

Shoes.

He brought you shoes. Flip-flops. Yours. He must have gone right to your hotel room after Eliza called for a break. You stare at him in wordless gratitude.

He meets your eyes and for an instant he’s smiling at you, really smiling. A warm band tightens in your chest. His expression stiffens and he drops his gaze. He hands you the shoes and stands up, walking over to the coffee pot.

“Don’t think this is me being nice to you or anything,” he says.

“Definitely not,” you agree, bending down to free your feet. “There is absolutely nothing kind or friendly about this heroic deed of yours.”

Joel scowls. The coffee in the pot is long-cold by now, but he pours himself a cup of dregs anyway and regards you steadily as he puts it in the microwave. “You were fucking up all my footage out there, hobbling around. No one’s gonna believe you’re in love, looking like that.”

“I’m not in love,” you say, glancing up at him, “I’ve known these guys for two minutes.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to press this point to Joel. Maybe because Eliza expects you to be so smitten already.

Joel doesn’t respond to this. He pulls his coffee from the microwave before the timer goes off and drinks it in silence, then turns to rinse the mug. You undo the last few straps of your heels, then ease your feet free with a soft sigh of relief. Warily, you eye your stilettos. Courtney or Eliza will almost certainly make you put them back on before filming.

As if he’s read your mind, Joel returns and bends to pick up the cast-off heels.

“Gotta get rid of the evidence,” he explains, his brown eyes dancing. “If Eliza complains about the change-up, tell her I said we’re done with full-body shots for the evening. Then mention that we’ll get behind schedule if you change your shoes.”

You nod, and he turns to leave the room. This is the second time Joel has helped you tonight. It makes you uneasy, owing him something. You try to think of the right way to thank him.

“It’s beautiful, by the way.”

Your words catch him as he’s reaching the door. He pauses, looks at you questioning.

“Your footage, that is,” you explain. You feel hot under his scrutiny. You think of the clips Eliza showed you, all the cracks in your composure that Joel somehow made beautiful. He can see right through you. The thought sets you on edge, and you speak to fill the quiet.

“I feel like you could take footage of a rock and make it tell a story.”

Joel’s expression is unreadable.

“If the rock’s still an option, I reckon it would be easier to work with,” he finally says, but there’s a tension in his voice. Is this what “pleased” looks like on Joel Miller? He tilts his head in your direction as he opens the door to leave.

“See you outside, Cinderella.”

Not your name, not “Dream Girl”. He probably just intends to poke fun at your missing shoes, but you wonder if he’s referencing Glass Slipper. Does Joel Miller, unapologetic asshole, sexy perfectionist and, apparently, part-time knight in shining armor, listen to your music?

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