#I can never remember if there’s supposed to be a space between the words or not 😭😭

[slightly-depressed-sloth]

Supersons WIP

COMMISSIONS OPEN

[cursingtoji]

ᥫ᭡ 𝐬𝐨... 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰?

— where satoru comforts you after breaking up with toji

gojo being lowkey yandere, fem reader, toji is the ex, mentions of baby trapping, reader is older, gojo calls her senpai (almost as a mock), classroom smut, fingering, gojo has to wear a condom and he hates it, he’s also a bit pathetic and in love, reader is a bit of bitch. 4k (this was supposed to be drabble idk what happened)

“i know what you’re thinking” gojo’s voice breaks the silence in the classroom where you were supposed to be grading papers but instead has been looking through the window for god knows how long now.

the sudden appearing happens after gojo catches your lost gaze on the field some of his students were training at. he saw your profile looking down at your desk, then after a few minutes you looked through the window until your eyes set on gojo’s protégée and the son of the man that broke your heart.

“but if you keep doing that megumi will get creeped out by you” gojo simply manifested in your classroom as soon as he realized you would stay in trance not even noticing your fellow teacher staring back at you from below.

“whatever, he never liked me anyways” you brush off, then remember what he said before, “and what the hell makes you think you know what i’m thinking?”

“ah, you forgot? i have an eye or six for this sorta thing” he points to his blindfold.

“you saying you can read minds now, you freak?” your relationship with satoru always had that dynamic. toji usually got very annoyed whenever he was in the same room as the two of you, he tried to pull you away or make an excuse for you two to go back to his place. deep down you knew he felt some type of way whenever you and satoru banter like that.

“please you’re so transparent i wonder how megumi haven’t seen it yet, i'm concerned that he might need glasses…”

“just say what you wanna say, satoru.”

gojo, on the other hand, didn’t need an instinct to see how jealous and possessive toji could be when he was around. all that gojo needed to say was one word to trigger the old man.

“every time you see megumi you think about him, don’t you?” he takes a step in your direction while you sink in your chair looking away, “senpai.”

gojo never showed respect for anyone, he was scolded several times by yaga because of it, utahime tried to hit him whenever she could, demanding formal treatment since she was his upperclassmen. but you, for whatever reason he decided, was the only one he used that honorific with.

“he’s his kid, of course i’ll—“

“ever since i heard about your breakup you’ve been acting like everything is fine, except for when you see megumi, then you frown,” gojo extends his index and taps the space between your eyebrows “and your cursed energy increases” he then sits on your desk looking down at you, “don’t tell me megumi had anything to do with why toji—“

“of course not” you stop him, although megumi was never fond of you, you know he’s a good kid and wouldn’t try to get in the way of your relationship with his father. as far as you know, he’s not particularly close to his old man either. actually, anything related to toji — bets, races, you — is automatically disregarded by him.

“then you gotta stop looking at him like he did something, or before you realize your energy towards him will become hostile and i can’t let that happen” gojo’s tone became more severe, it’s one of those rare times where he drops the playful persona in order to get serious. truthfully, megumi did nothing, but you can't unsee toji when you look at him, especially after seeing what your ex-boyfriend used to look like in the old days when he showed you some photos. it never occurred to you before, since you barely saw megumi anyways, you're not his sensei and in your free time you were with toji so there wasn't much time to get to know megumi since they don’t live together since the boy was five. you suppose gojo is right, pushing your hurt feelings away only makes them come out stronger when you see anything that reminds you of toji.

“that’s not gonna happen, i have my energy under control” you cross your arms, feeling exposed under gojo’s gaze even through the mask.

he stays quiet for a second, then his annoying tone is back.

“what did you even see in him anyways? he’s definitely not a good guy.”

“that’s rude, toji is—“

“did you think you could change him or something?”

“i— no, why—“

“from what megumi said he was cheap as fuck so it was definitely not the money” he rubs his chin.

“gojo, i swear—“

“was it the sex?”

you widen your eyes and close your mouth, not having a simple answer for that.

“jackpot” satoru whispers.

“fuck off, satoru” you raise from your seat but he raises too, blocking your way and trapping you against the black board and his body.

“you stayed with that guy for years just for the sex?” he has a mocking tone that makes your blood boil.

“no! and that’s none of your goddamn business.”

“and you’ve broken up, what? two months ago? you’ve been all this time without sex?” you raise your hand ready to slap his face or punch his nose but he sees your movements faster and catches your wrist, “don’t be like that senpai, your energy is getting hostile again” he takes all the time in the world lowering his blindfold and letting his hair fall down while staring at you with those freaking blue eyes, “although, on second thought i think that might be mmm… sexual frustration? it’s a color i never seen in you before” he grabs your wrist firmly.

“you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“oh but i do, senpai. i’m just wondering how you haven’t downloaded a dating app or tried to rub one off yet” gojo knows exactly which buttons to press to make you wanna stab him, or worst, make you wanna fuck him.

gojo gets closer to your face, so close you can smell his aftershave, and just the realization that it’s a different scent from the one you were so used to makes your heart ache and your clit throb.

“or did you?” he’s fast, gojo catches your phone on top of the table putting it right in front of your face to unlock then moving away from you to check it, “definitely no dating apps” you yell his name and try to snatch your phone back but he puts infinity on and you can’t reach him, “browser history?”

“satoru, you have no right, gimme that” your face is hot with shame.

“nothing either, well i suppose your camera roll…”

“no!”

“aha” he deactivates the invisible shield and right when you think you can retrieve your phone he turns you around, holding your arms behind your back and pressing your back against his chest, “is that what you use to get off?” he puts the phone in front of you, it’s opened in the gallery, more specifically in a part filled with lewd videos and photos.

“not bad, you could make some cash outta this” gojo puts his chin on your shoulder, playing a video which clearly was filmed by toji, his dick is getting in and out of you from behind, he gets a close look with the phone, his glistening dick shining under the flashlight while your pussy stretches to accommodate him. you press your legs together remembering the feeling, you’re not even struggling to get out of gojo’s hold by the time the video ends.

“you don’t need to get off by yourself, you know?” he smells your hair and kisses your ear, “it’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“that was forever ago” you reply, at the time you thought satoru was going to use that against you, just wait for an opportunity to drop that bomb on toji’s lap and proudly say he fucked his girlfriend before, but whatever image you had of him back then was proved wrong since no one knows about your little escape with gojo till this very day.

“and wasn’t it good? huh?” he presses, sucking the spot on your neck that has you throwing your head back.

“yeah, it was” you confess, too sensible from the light touches to rethink your answers.

“see? i can make you feel good so you don’t become a little monster” he trails his hand on your thigh, pushing your skirt up until he finds your underwear, playing with the hem to tease you then pressing a finger on your clit.

“so charitable of you” you mumble sarcastically.

“i would gladly do this favor to you” he replies in the same tone, “even though you still own me.”

“for what?!” you close your legs around his hand turning your head around to look him in the face, not even considering a world where satoru did you any favors.

“for raising your boyfriend’s son? you really think you would’ve had a sex life with an eight year old summoning pets around the house?” he raises an eyebrow.

“don’t pretend like you did that out of the goodness in your heart, if megumi didn’t have the ten shadows you wouldn’t have bat an eye if toji sold him to the zenin’s or whomever.”

“you sound just like him” gojo’s eyes get darker, now he has your clit slowly rolling between his thumb and index over your underwear.

“besides— hng i came in the picture years after you took megumi… so don’t blame me” you wiggle your ass on his crotch.

“a ‘thank you my favourite kohai’ wouldn’t hurt” you sincerely laugh at that, never thinking of satoru as your underclassmen since that fucking minx is everyone’s exception on their cursed technique due to how powerful he is, so him being below you somehow was never a posibility, at least not strength wide.

satoru pushes your underwear to the side, rubbing the wetness all over your pussy and teasing your entrance.

“five years” you murmur as he inserts a finger then pulls it back to join his middle one too and go back in.

“hm?” satoru gets quieter, after talking so much and having so many things to say you’re surprised he stayed silent for a whole minute.

“last time you fucked me, it was five years ago” you get comfortable on his hold, his leg is between yours, serving as support for you to lean on while he scissors you.

“that long huh…” he sounds… sad? no, maybe nostalgic.

“crazy, right? so much has—“ you sigh when he curls his fingers, “changed.”

satoru take a long sniff of your hair, keeping a pleasing rhythm with his hand, it feels like giving someone a massage. he could go crazy and have you stripped out of your uniform a while ago, fucked you on your desk and left after marking your body and giving your ass a mean slap.

he could still do that, but whatever feeling bloomed in his chest has him enjoying this moment with you in his hold, stroking your insides and smelling your shampoo while discreetly rocking his hips on your behind for some relief.

he almost feels sleepy, the relaxed state has his mind going other places. he thinks of a world where he can tease you under your uniform every other day, you would tell him the school is no such a place for that then the day ends and you go home with him, holding hands, and finally when you arrive home he gets to finish what he started. then, he cooks whatever quick meal he can find the ingredients for since he knows you don't like to cook, afterwards you fall asleep on his lap on the couch as he strokes your hair, your belly is full, your heart is warm, you feel loved and he feels—

“toru~” he comes out of the trance he fell at when you call for him, he thinks for a second you were calling his name cause you felt he was off, but in reality you were calling him cause you are getting close, “right there” your breathy moans makes gojo smile and kiss your temple.

“where? here?” he pretends to not know, when the truth is he never actually forgot after your first time together, “right here, senpai?”

“y-yeah” you throw your head back, shutting your eyes to give in to the orgasm. gojo looks down at your pretty face, he feels the urge to kiss you right now, but he wants you to ask for it first. your walls clench around his fingers, he strokes that spot sweetly, like he's caressing a pet.

which is an ironic comparison since he’s the one that would gladly accept being your pet.

when you open your eyes gojo is staring at you silently through half lid eyes, it is truly a shame that he keeps those hidden for so long.

“desk, now” you demand needly.

“yes ma'am” gojo picks you up easily, moving the papers on top of the table to the floor.

you immediately go for his belt, choosing not to comment on the wet spot on his pants.

you feel a pressure on your chin as he guides your head up to look at him.

“ask me” he pleads.

“for what?”

“for a kiss” you smile, looking at his lips and how inviting they look. you ponder if you should tease him for it, since he's been teasing you with words a lot today, but then you chose to comply, despite going through your phone without our permission and claiming your frustration comes from lack of dick, he's actually being good to you.

“gimme a kiss” you raise your chin higher, he gazes at your lips and eyes, looking for something other than lust, yet he gives in, sealing your lips with his trying to keep his mind away from thinking of the man that had your lips previous to him. and how dumb that motherfucker is to let you go.

gojo's lips are soft, he starts gently which feels foreign to you, but it doesn't take long before his hand presses your lower back, pulling you closer until his cock hits your clothed cunt. the warmth he feels is enough to relish the passion in him, he kisses you harder, tongue intruding your mouth like he's trying to devour you.

the wet kiss also awakens your urge for him, you pull his cock from his underwear in the tiny space between his and your crotch, the second it's out it's already against your folds, the leaking tip hot against your skin.

“nuh-uh you better have a rubber” you push your knee onto gojo’s pelvis when he starts to rub himself on you to spread your wetness on his shaft.

“did you make toji wear one too?” he raises a questionable eyebrow at you, willing to bet all his heritage on the answer.

“he had to earn that privilege” you reach for gojo’s wallet, not failing to notice the black cards and considerable amount of cash, “i don’t know what you do after 6 so…” you take the packs, ripping it open yourself and rolling on him. with a face and body like his you doubt gojo spends most nights by himself.

“unbelievable…”

“satoru” you warn stroking him slowly, “can i get another kiss?” you bat your lashes. gojo comes closer, his nose even touches yours, then you feel his hands on your waist, turning you around till your elbows and chest are against the table and your skirt is being flipped over, underwear pushed down.

“you have to earn it, senpai” he spits the words against your ear as he pushes his dick into you. until a few moments ago, satoru was composed, happy to accept whatever crumbles you chose to give him. you managed to trigger him by saying toji still had something he couldn't have.

he's still gonna go through this — that's how whipped he is for you — though now he’ll be less gentle.

his cockhead hits your spot, nothing accidental of course, satoru knows your spots like the back of his hand. you whine and arch your back, satoru pouts realizing he won't get to suck some hickeys on the skin of your back and shoulder, not now at least, but the night is young.

“c'mon satoru, don't be like that” you look over your shoulder, licking your lips at the sight of him sweaty, flushed and frowny.

the sound of his name in your voice makes him want to cum on the spot, he dips his head on your neck sighing, not stopping thrusting your behind. he wanted to feel you so badly, why the fuck did you make him wear a condom? he's clean, of course he is, he's gojo satoru for heaven's sake! even viruses are afraid of him.

or was it something else you feared?

“hey… you on the pill?” he lifts his head slightly, his voice still muffled by the material of your dress.

“you’re not fucking me raw, satoru.”

“just wondering… you said you didnt wear a condom with him, so what kept you from getting knocked up?” he wiggles his hand between you and the surface of your table till hes palming your belly.

“you keep bringing toji up a lot, obsessed much?” you tease him, avoiding the answer, gojo pinches your clit.

“please, he wishes. now tell me. iud? implant? injections?” you push him away turning around then pulling him back.

“okay, you clearly had sex ed classes, now shut up and fuck me right” gojo takes your leg and places on his shoulder, you bite your fist to contain your moan, the new position makes easier for him to nudge your clit with his pelvis.

“i could be fucking you better, you know how?” he bites the skin of your leg, not harshly but enough to make you yelp, he smiles, giving a particular hard thrust that makes your eyes roll.

“condom stay on, satoru, i can’t risk getting preg—“ you slap your mouth. satoru stops.

“you’re not… on anything?”

“listen you can’t tell anyone about this, okay?” you cover your face, “i had a pregnancy scare a few years ago so… gosh why am i even telling you this…”

“go on” gojo massages your thigh.

“toji got a vasectomy. birth control wasn’t working for me anymore and it was only a matter of time before— well it doesn't matter. you can see why you have to use it right?” you place your elbows on the table, sitting up enough to see the look on his face, it’s not what your expected to see.

satoru looks like a child that just found out where his parents keep all the sweets. he’s grinning, dick throbbing.

“yeah, i see now” he bends, holding your neck and kissing you, he makes the kiss feel like a ‘thank you for trusting me’ but if this was a cartoon his shadow would have horns and a pointy tail.

all he can think now is exactly how to make you his, he can sweet talk you into allowing him to hit it raw, promising to pull it out, then… whoopsie.

the new discovery gives him a different kind of stamina.

“don’t worry, your secret is safe with me” he kisses your cheek after leaving you breathless.

he plunges in and out, a rhythm that has you seeing stars. gojo craves you so much, he’s quite bothered by all the clothes and the need to keep it down, otherwise he would have torn your dress apart and have you screaming by now.

“fuck— keep doing that” you run your nails on his undercut, gojo mewls and take your other leg, pushing it further to go deeper. he sees the white ring around his cock, getting high on the sigh of it combined with your pussy illuminated by the natural light coming from the window behind him.

he wonders if toji ever fucked you in a classroom like this, then he shakes his head, not allowing the image to form in his mind, instead he focus on you, and how your pretty face contorts as your orgasm approaches once again.

“so fucking pretty” he whispers quietly.

you attempt to lower your legs. feeling it’s gonna be too much.

“nuh-uh keep them here” he pushes back, “so tight” he closes his eyes.

you’re a moaning mess at this point, almost forgetting where you are.

“that’s right, let it go baby” your legs shake as your orgasm hits you, satoru can see the shape of your cursed energy peaking then getting softer.

he fucks you a little more, trying not to think about the condom trapping his dream of knocking you up.

god, you would look so fucking gorgeous carrying his baby, all round up for him to showcase around. he would do anything for you, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

if only…

“fuck“ he fucks his load — into the condom unfortunately.

after the initial high goes away he starts to hear his students asking where he went and why he’s taking so long, “wait here, i’ll take you home.”

“you don’t have to” you smile, poking his cheek.

“oh i do, i’m not done with you” he takes your hand from his nape and gives it a kiss before pulling out and throwing that despicable rubber into the bin, making a mental note to empty that bin outside where the evidence of what happened between two teachers is not so easily discoverable.

you sit up adjusting your dress and looking around, “did you see my…”

“nope” gojo leaves the classroom pushing the material of your panties further into his pocket.

gojo had the weekend of his dreams, he convinced you to stay in his place that night and the next one too, he rubbed your sore legs after you came so much you were spasming then made you breakfast, it almost made him believe of a happy ending for the two of you.

a dream that was shattered when, a few days later you returned from a mission and stood by the entrance of the school kissing… toji.

gojo watches the scene from above, a frown on his face.

“yeah i was surprised too” he almost forgot that megumi was with him, “thought she finally created some sense” he confesses.

gojo doesn’t say anything, he watches silently as you tiptoe to kiss toji, the fucker doesn’t even hold you right, he keeps his hand in his pockets and lets you with all the effort.

“meet you in the classroom in five” gojo disappears from megumi’s sight.

on your way to report your mission to yaga you see satoru leaning against a tree. you say his name in a surprised manner, not having prepared what to tell him beforehand.

“listen, i— hm… i thought you should know that toji and i are back, so—”

“did you tell him?” his arms are crossed.

“about… us? of course not.”

“why? don’t you think he should know?” you hear the challenge in his tone.

“no, and you’re not gonna say a word to him either” you step closer to him, trying to look intimidating which can be difficult due to the height difference, “may i remind you that between the three of us there’s a teen boy who would not appreciate the drama.”

“look at you, using fushiguro as an scapegoat” he smiles at the look of anger forming on your features, “it’s fine, i’m just a bit surprised at how quick you were to go back to him, that’s all.”

“let’s be real, satoru. it’s not like you were going to take me on a date or anything” gojo pulls you by your wrist, your body hits his, the sudden proximity has your eyes widening, anyone could see you and take the wrong conclusion. i mean, it wouldn’t be wrong but you didn’t want any conclusions to be taken for that matter.

“this is not going to be the last time and i don’t give a damn if you’re dating him or married or widowed.”

“satoru!” you shout his name in a whisper, immediately rejecting the idea of becoming a widow.

“you can tell toji or not, i don’t mind fighting him” he pushes himself out of the tree and past you. megumi is grown now, of course he still needs a lot of coaching regarding his skills, but emotionally speaking, he’s been a grown up since he was six.

before going to his classroom as promised, he teleports himself to yours, picking up the bouquet he left at your desk then teleporting to the fountain across the campus where he rips the paper that holds the flowers together and lets it all fall into the water.

satoru watches it for a moment, hurt but still decided to go through with his plan.

he wonders what would you tell toji if you got pregnant, maybe you could convince him the child is his, a miracle. then when the kid comes out with white hair and blue eyes you’ll have no choice other than be with him, the father of your child, the man who truly loves you. gojo satoru.

[lovebugism]

hello sweetheart, i read your prompt list and saw this one "hug?” “clingy, much?……” but hugs them anyway and my heart melted, i don't know if you already did this, but can we have something like that with our sweet but grumpy eddie? 🤍

ty for requesting! — eddie doesn't know why you're avoiding him (fluff, ditzy!reader, 0.9k)

Eddie lost sight of you ten minutes ago. 

You were squished between Robin and Steve on the loveseat last he saw you, giggling into your solo cup while they belted Total Eclipse of the Heart to you — at you — over the music and in their best Muppet impressions. 

He only remembers it so vividly ‘cause he was jealous. Not jealous because you were subjected to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’s drunken antics, of course, but jealous because you were with them. And so, so far away. 

Now you’re gone, and he misses you like a stray dog — aggressive and hungry and hurt. He walks up to Steve in the kitchen just the same. Hair wild. Button eyes glittering. Slightly reluctant. 

“Where’d she go?!” he shouts over the music, half-muffled into his drink. He uses the plastic cup like a shield ‘cause he doesn’t want people to know he’s missing you. The metalhead freak from the wrong side of town isn’t supposed to need the ball of sunshine from the suburbs. 

But alas.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Steve slurs, half-distracted as he pours himself a drink. He doesn’t need Eddie to tell him who she is. There’s only one person in the whole world he’d go looking for. “She went outside with Robin, I think—”

Eddie spins on the worn heel of his sneaker before the words can properly leave his mouth. He ducks through the bustling, drunken crowd and finds you sitting lonesome on the porch outside. Prettier than the full moon and all the stars in the velvet black sky combined. 

He walks to stand beside you, shoes thunking heavy on the wooden deck. You tilt your chin to smile brightly up at him while he slips a cig into his mouth. He cups the stick as he lights it. Pretends that’s what he came out here for. Not to see you, of course. 

Definitely not.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he mumbles beneath the cigarette in his mouth.

“Robin just left,” you answer plainly, half-shy.

“Why didn’t you come find me?” he asks with an air of nonchalance, still trying to play it cool. ‘Cause there’s nothing less metal than yearning.

You shrug. “‘Cause you were busy?”

It’s easier than telling him that you thought he wanted the space. Or that you actually spent the whole night aching to hang on his side — too scared of embarrassing him in front of all his friends to act on it. 

You know who you are just like you know who he is. Bubblegum pink doesn’t always go well with black. It gets in your hair. Makes everything go all sticky. It’s an acquired taste you know Eddie’s still getting used to — too much of it, and his stomach will start to hurt. So you figure it’s best to keep your distance.

You just didn’t think he was as grieved by it all as you were.

Eddie scoffs. I’m never too busy for you, he wants to say. He might’ve if he wasn’t such a coward. Instead, he blows smoke from his lungs and jokes, “I wouldn’t call keeping Argyle from crowd-surfing in the living room busy, sweetheart.”

A laugh tumbles from his plush lips. The golden sound falls over your skin like stars. You smile absentmindedly back at him as you rise from the creaking rocking chair. You plant your feet ahead of his and smooth your palms beneath his leather jacket, over his warm sides.

Eddie meets your twinkling eyes with narrowed chocolate ones. “What?”

“Hug?” you ask in a mousy voice.

The boy laughs like he’s too cool for affection, though he’d be lying if he said your offer doesn’t have his chest sparkling something fierce. He flicks the cig to the ground — sheepish gaze going with it — before snuffing it out beneath his sneaker.

“Clingy much?” he scoffs.

You nod with a proud smile. 

Eddie’s chest swirls with an unfamiliar feeling. You’re strangely brave about all this — affection and love and all things sweet enough to make him gag. 

It makes him feel like he can feel brave, too.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you with all the intensity of someone wanting to swallow you whole. You hug him back just the same. “I missed you,” you murmur with your cheek squished against his chest.

“Then what’re you avoidin’ me for, huh?” he teases, chin bobbing against your head.

You pull slightly back to squint at him. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’ve been hangin’ out with Steve and Robin the whole night,” he grieves, hiding his sincerity behind boyish theatrics. With a feigned pout that feels totally real, he says, “And you didn’t even sit next to me when we played Never Have I Ever.”

“I thought you wanted the space,” you confess in a hushed voice.

His face screws up like he’s tasted something sour. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know…” you shrug. “You always talk about how much you like being alone and stuff, so—”

“Well, yeah! I like my space— just not from you!”

It’s likely the least metal thing he’s ever said.

“Oh,” you hum, mouth contorting into a sheepish beam. “Well… Sorry.”

“Yeah. You should be,” he scoffs, mostly joking. He pouts softly and pulls you back into him again, nosing at your hair until his chapped lips brush your temple. “Just don’t let it happen again, alright?”

[alastorss]

HIIII so i had an idea for like a reader that's crushing on alastor, and angel dust making jokes about it in front of alastor and basically what would happen once he catches on

Have a lovely day, get good sleep!!!<33 luv ur writing<33

a/n: hello sweets <3 thank you and i hope you like this!

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Alastor has watched you splash your martini all over Angel's face so many times this week, he's almost certain the star is provoking you on purpose just for a free drink.

In the short time he's come to know him, he's learned that if there's one thing Angel Dust is good at—besides looking pretty on film—it's that he can be absolutely shameless.

Alastor remembers, with a twinge of disgust, that the spider had once told him he came with built in reins. That comment kept him seething for hours.

And now, poor you, having fallen into the trap of his intricate web—the Radio Demon would be laughing if he didn't actually feel slightly bad for you. He knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of those comments, after all.

You, unlike your four-armed friend, have a capacity for shame the likes of which have never been seen before. All hot cheeks and wide eyes, lips pulled into a straight, thin line—embarrassment burns in every corner of your expression.

Though, that's probably why Angel has taken such a liking to teasing you.

Here he is again, crawling over the bar to get into your face as soon as Alastor appears in the room. His voice is low and melodic, so quiet the Overlord can't quite make out the words until—

"Look, hun. Your prince charming!"

Alastor raises a brow as he takes his seat next to you at the bar, setting down his newspaper.

"What was that?" He asks, eyes flickering between you and a coy-looking Angel Dust.

"Oh, nothin'. That right, sugar?"

You look nothing but utterly defeated, martini forgotten and abandoned. "Angel..." you mutter in warning. The spider only shrugs and gives you a toothy little grin.

"Hey Smiles," Angel suddenly grabs you by the cheeks and turns your face to look in Alastor's direction. You only blink at each other in surprise. "Cute, eh?"

You quickly smack his hand away from you, swivelling around to glare. "Quit it!"

Angel puts his hands up in mock surrender. He huffs, backing off. "Okay, okay! Fine! You two are unbelievable."

With that, he stalks off to bother Husk instead. You sigh in relief, head hitting the bar counter. For a moment, you completely forget that Alastor is still sitting beside you.

"Care to explain?"

He watches as you nearly jolt out of your skin, amused at how flustered you are from a little teasing. It's rather cute.

"It's nothing!" You sputter, waving your arms around in panic.

But you can't fool Alastor. Not anymore.

It hadn't clicked before—that perhaps there was some merit behind Angel Dust's words. He had gotten so used to empty threats of sexual advances that he had ruled out the possibility that the star was being a little serious for once.

He wasn't exactly subtle, always jumping on the opportunity to make your cheeks burn whenever the Radio Demon was around.

"It didn't sound like nothing," he sings, leaning in closer to you so he can gauge your reaction.

As expected, you nearly leap away from him when he suddenly invades your personal space. He snickers.

"Not you too..." you groan.

"Why, I didn't know you had such a crush on me, darling~"

"You're the worst."

"Ah, and I suppose that's why our dear friend has been teasing you about me all this time? Because I'm the worst, and you hate me?"

He's getting entirely too close. His face is nearly touching yours.

You stare at him in bewilderment, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Finally, you manage to stammer out a weak retort.

"You should butt out of other people's business."

"It sounds like it's about to be my business, dear. You know, if you liked me so much, you could have just told me instead of Angel Dust."

"I preferred it when you were just a regular asshole, and not a cocky one!"

"Oh, how you wound me~"

"Shut up!"

~

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda

[dykeishh]

lessons in lust

ellie williams x fem reader

synopsis: ellie meets with her hot tutor for calculus and somehow ends with an anatomy lesson! 

CW: 18+ MINORS DNI, dealer!ellie (throwback asf), tutor!reader, slightly dom!ellie, cunnilingus, public sex (they don’t get caught tho), a bit of teasing, both reader and ellie are just sluts basically. not proofread :3

a/n: heyyy the way i wrote this in literally 2023 and it's just been in my notes… hence slight dealer!ellie appearance LOL its also barely relevant to the story but I just think tutor!reader x dealer!ellie is a hot pairing. also ellie being lowkey dominant in this is so funny cuz i'm really in my sub!ellie era… but its still hot honestly. anyways hope y'all enjoy!

——————————————————————

ellie sighed as she looked at her current course score, knowing she was about to fail her calculus class if she didn’t start getting decent grades soon. she cursed herself for picking astrophysics as a major, recalling how she ‘thought it sounded cool’ and failed to consider that she would need to take difficult math classes.

she didn’t hate it, but she was falling behind as she allowed her ‘business’ to take up most of her time. it was easy to get caught up, and she was pretty proud of herself once the money really started raking in, but was quickly humbled when she remembered she couldn’t afford to retake a foundational course to her major. 

that was how ellie found herself tapping her shoes against the library chair, waiting for her calculus tutor to arrive. she blew out a sigh from her pursed lips as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone, in a daze—so much so that she hadn’t noticed you walk up to the round table until you said, “hi, are you ellie?”

she looked up, a bit startled by your voice in the quiet library, especially because she had picked a spot in the back, away from other people and their chatters. 

she took a second to respond, partially because she had expected some kind of geeky math nerd to be her tutor--especially since it was through the school. however, the main reason for her delayed response was because she knew you.

well, knew is an overstatement, you were a bit of a crush that ellie had in one of her classes. she had never made a move to talk to you, but she often indulged herself by staring at your legs, barely covered by the short skirts you wore to class, and fantasizing about the sounds you’d make with her face between them. she noticed you were wearing a similar skirt today and her mind already started racing, but she quickly snapped out if it. 

“hi, yeah that’s me.”

“i’m y/n, i’ll be working with you today,” you said, smiling at her. she felt her heart rate increase, but she made sure to play it cool. “oh, nice, thanks.” you gave her a slight smile aam pulled your chair in next to her. 

“so, where should we start?”

—————————

after several minutes of going over the subjects taught in the course, ellie’s mind had started to wander back to your short skirt and your words faded into the background as she wondered how quiet she could be while fucking you in the library. you can feel her eyeing you up as you spoke, and try to keep your voice steady regardless of how nervous she’s making you feel. how are you supposed to teach her while she’s practically undressing you with her eyes?

“so, can you show me how you could solve this kind of problem?”, you ask. after a few moments of silence and ellie scratching her head, you giggle, noticing she looks a bit spaced out.

“jeez, am i that boring of a tutor that you’re zoning out?”, you tease. she chuckles and shakes her head, “no, not at all. these kinds of problems just confuse me is all, i really don’t know where to start.”

you scoot your chair closer to her and aren’t sure if you imagine hearing her breath hitch. 

“okay so, show me exactly where you’re having problems."

—————————

“holy shit. you’re a fucking genius. or a saint. both—whatever. i can’t believe i actually understand this,” ellie scoffs in disbelief. 

you smile at ellie and and shrug, “you had it in you. sometimes it just takes a bit of a push. i’m sure you’ll do great on your tests.”

ellie looks at you with a suddenly soft expression, suddenly realizing her appreciation for your help and being so patient with her. she also realizes that she might have a thing for nerds. she would be lying if she didn’t find your intelligence extremely sexy, as if you weren’t already hot enough.

“so, how am i going to repay you for this, y/n?” she asks, leaning towards you and brushing a hair out of your face. 

you let out a shy laugh at her sudden boldness, caught off guard by the cute girl’s fingers brushing against your skin. 

funnily enough, you had heard about ellie before. there was a small number of queer students on campus, and an even smaller circle of queer girls. and as it usually happens, lots of you knew of each other. in fact, you and ellie were both hooking up with the same girl, which was how you knew about her. just based on this, you assumed she was a bit of a womanizer, and her obvious flirting with you now seemed to align with this idea. 

but you aren’t put off by this—in fact, it only makes her more intriguing to you. behind your studious math-nerd image, you aren’t all that innocent either. 

“please, i already get paid to tutor. i’m just doing my job, so you don’t have to thank me any special way,” you reply, amusement laced in your tone.

“i know i don’t have to,” she states simply, “i want to. you helped me out, and i think it’s only right that i return the favor.” as she says this, ellie places her hand on your thigh, slowly moving it up as she looks into your eyes, waiting for a reaction. 

you raise an eyebrow at her, but once you smirk, ellie knows it’s game over. you lean in forward and lower your voice. “y’know, i think you might be right. i did, after all, save your grade in this class didn’t i?” 

you decide you’ll play along and see where this goes. after all, she was fucking hot. when she smirks at your response, you almost start drooling. 5 minutes ago, you were focused on integrals, but now all your brain can think is how fucking badly you want those long fingers to keep moving up your leg. 

“so how exactly are you going to repay me?” you ask, although you already had an idea of what she had in mind. 

even though ellie was hoping for this situation, she couldn’t believe you were actually down. when she realizes this, it goes straight to her clit. was she really about to fuck her hot tutor? 

ellie suddenly starts lowering herself under the desk.

“i think i can help you better down here.”

you just about come right in that moment, looking down at her mischievous green eyes from beneath you. your breath hitches and you look around to make sure that nobody is watching. 

“fuck. that’s so hot. okay… you just-you have to tell me if i’m being too loud, okay?”

ellie nods and can’t seem to wipe that smirk off her face as she crawls forward and positions her face so she could look under your skirt. you spread your legs slightly for her access and you can immediately feel her hot breath on your inner thighs, causing you to shudder. she looks up at you, making direct eye contact as she leaves wet kisses on your thighs, teasing you, even in this moment where she should be going quickly as to not get caught.

you bite your lip when she drags her middle finger over your clothed heat, then slowly rubs your clit through the pink fabric. you hear her curse to herself and you feel yourself getting wetter as each excruciating moment passes. after a few moments, she pulls your panties to the side to view your soaked pussy. 

“you’re already so wet,” she quietly groans. you almost whine when she brings her mouth so close to your center, looking up at you from her hooded eyelids and just holding herself there to tease you just a little bit longer. 

ellie takes a mental snapshot of your desperate expression as you look down at her, with your lips between your teeth and eyebrows furrowed. but she can’t wait any longer herself. needing to taste you, she licks a long strip from up your pussy and you immediately find yourself choking back a moan. 

ellie seems pleased by your reaction and starts leaving wet kisses on your clit, sucking lightly as she pulls away and alternating with gentle flicks of her tongue. its driving you absolutely crazy how gentle and slow she’s being, and you start to roll your hips to satiate her relentless teasing. she knows that it’s not enough but she’s also aware of how much more wet it’s making you. 

she sucks a little harder on your clit and your head falls back as you gasp in pleasure. then she pulls away, lightly smacking your thigh. 

“uh uh, keep looking at me. i want you to watch me while i make you feel good, baby,” she murmurs before she dives back in.

you pull your head back down to watch her with your mouth slightly agape and see her low-lidded eyes are clouded with lust. your back arches as you feel her the pressure of her tongue increase and watch her bob her head up and down under your skirt. ellie isn’t holding back and you can hear the messy, wet noises her mouth makes against your cunt in the quiet library. everything about the situation was borderline pornographic, and you almost feel dizzy from how much it was turning you on. without stopping her mouth movements, you feel her one of her fingers rub against your entrance before plunging deep into your cunt, causing you to let out a little moan. her eyes flick up back to yours, giving you a dangerous look as a warning. one of your hands clasps over your mouth to muffle your sounds as best you can. 

“feels good, doesn’t it?” she whispers, and you nod in response, causing her to tsk at you. “i want to hear you say it. tell me how good i’m making you feel,” she demands, slipping in a second finger. 

when you remove your hand, you accidentally let out another small whimper, and you respond as best as you can, “it f-feels so good. fuck, it’s too good,” you whisper, eyes rolling back into your skull.

satisfied with your answer, she reattaches her mouth to your clit and sucks harshly, forcing you to bite your fingers to hold back your sounds. her fingers speed up as well, and you can hear the lewd sounds of your wetness even louder now. you’re getting dangerously close, and she can tell by how your insides clench around her fingers. 

“s-shit, i’m close, ellie,” you half-whisper, half-whine. 

“i know, baby.”

she continues her assault with her tongue and fingers, doing her best to drive you crazy. she can feel her own wetness growing between her legs as she listens to your muffled sounds. when she sees your face, all fucked out and desperate, she nearly cums on that alone. “you gonna come for me?”

“mhmm,” you whimper, unable to respond properly as your mind and body are completely clouded with pleasure. your hands find her hair, needing somewhere to grab as the intensity became too much for you, causing her to moan into you, and the vibrations of her voice push you over the edge.

your body freezes up completely for a moment, then jolts as your release hits you, hard. you can’t help but moan and your legs shake as she keeps her pace, prolonging your orgasm for as long as she can. when the overstimulation becomes too much, you push her head away from you causing her lips to detach from you with a pop. you gasp for air and your body trembles as you come down from your high. 

when your vision unblurs, you see her still between your legs, lips and chin covered in a combination of your wetness and her spit, and watch her smirk before she cleans her fingers off with her mouth. it’s the most erotic view you’ve ever seen—you could cum a second time.

she helps you put your panties back on and slowy rises from under the table, looking around to make sure the coast is still clear. she chuckles when she sees you still slumped in your chair, recovering and wraps her arm around your waist to help you up. 

“how was that for repayment?” she teases.

you chuckled, still out of breath, and hoped that she’d be setting up more sessions with you in the future.

[thedevilspearl]

asking them stupid questions — all brothers

a/n: having a hard time writing smut atm so here’s some silly headcanons with the brothers. i was really tired when i proofread this so there may be some mistakes.

tags: 2k words, no gender specified, reader x lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub + belphegor. (belphie’s is a little suggestive).

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑

lucifer has had enough.

it’s been a long day and he wished for a quiet night in his office to relax with some tea while overlooking the bills his brothers have riled up.

but he’s quite distracted tonight.

peace and quiet is not an option. especially with you loitering, floating around his office and touching all the trinkets and décor. you’ve never shown interest in them before, but tonight, all of a sudden lucifer’s office is the most inviting place in the world.

“mc?”

“yes, honey?”

“is something the matter.”

there is a painstakingly long silence before you answer. “….no.”

letting out a little sigh, he asks, “are you quite sure?”

you hum with a subtle nod, barely looking him in the eye and he is now certain something is wrong.

“mc, please. if you aren’t feeling well, you can tell me about it. you don’t need to make this difficu—”

“would you still love me if i was a worm?”

“what?” lucifer’s voice croaks.

“it’s just that i felt sad thinking about how you might not love me anymore if one day i turned into a worm and couldn’t turn back into me.”

“mc, in what world would you ever turn into a worm?”

“most likely this one. remember that time mammon accidentally turned me into a sheep in spells class? i was cute as a sheep, so it was okay. but as a worm, i’d be small and slimy and gross. i’d be unloveable.”

“that is enough,” he rises from his chair, speaking with command but still gentle enough to not upset you further. “you shouldn’t think of such things. it is so silly of you to think i would ever stop loving you.”

“luci….”

“if i must spell it out for you, then yes. i would still love you if you were a worm and i would carry you everywhere with me to ensure you’re never lost or hurt. i would need something small and protective to carry you in, but yes. i will always love you.”

𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐍

“if there was a zombie apocalypse and i was bitten, what would you do?”

“hah?!” mammon’s face contorts at your random question. “what are ya talking about?”

“i’ve been thinking about that movie we watched….the zombie one. and just wondered what it would be like.”

“gave up on surviving already, did ya?” he chuckles, collapsing onto his bed beside you, his hand resting on your waist.

“no, but i wanna know! what would you do if i turned into a zombie?”

“well….what are the options?” his smirk earns him a playful smack on the chest. “hey! i’m serious. i’ll be so sad that i won’t be able to think straight, so ya need to give me some options.”

“fine,” you pout, scratching your brain for solutions. “i suppose the most humane thing to do would be to kill me. you know, to make sure i’m not forced to live as a mindless zombie eating other humans.”

“okay….”

“or you could tie me up, maybe chain me, and keep me alive by feeding me living people.”

“why would i keep ya around if you’re gonna stink like a rotting corpse?”

while mammon laughs, your brows furrow with annoyance, mostly feigned but there’s a small sense of hurt in there when you think about mammon not wanting to keep you after you turn into a zombie, despite it being completely logical and reasonable.

“hey,” his voice is soft as he leans over and kisses your cheek, “don’t worry. i’d handcuff us together and let you bite me. then we can be zombies together and never be separated.”

𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍

movie night always means one thing, and that’s you and levi curling up with tangled limbs and a hoard of cushions and blankets. a joint blanket burrito with little space between you but that’s a good thing.

the closeness makes it cosier.

tonight, you opted for a more emotional movie. a romance, but romances are always emotional for both of you. that’s why you try your best to stay away from the romantic movies and stick to action packed fantasies or sci-fi’s that are the furthest thing from romance.

but there was a new and popular movie making the headlines and levi couldn’t wait to watch it. you knew watching it was a lost hope, and now you’re sobbing in levi’s arms watching the struggles the love interests are going through to get to each other.

“i’m so glad it wasn’t that difficult for us to be together,” you sniffle, feeling a wave of gratitude take over. “i love you, levi.”

“i love you, too,” his voice trembles and he quietly wipes his own tears.

“hey, levi?”

“what is it?”

“can i wipe my nose on you?”

“what? no!”

too late. you buried your head into his chest, wiping your face clean and covering his favourite shirt in snot.

“gross!”

“i’m sorry. i wanted to get a tissue but they’re too far away. i didn’t want to leave the burrito.”

“it’s fine,” he grumbles, begrudgingly patting you on the head to tell you it’s okay despite ruining his shirt. “let’s finish the movie.”

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍

“would you still love me if i told you the truth?”

satan tries to hide his piqued interest, like he usually does. he likes to come off as the too–cool–to–show–i–care kind of guy but the truth is, he is more invested in this truth than anything else.

he nonchalantly turns the page of his book and with a swipe of his tongue over his lips, he asks, “what truth?”

“that i’m really a lizard.”

well, he wasn’t expecting that.

he watches you intently over the pages of his book. you stop pacing around the library and make your way to him, showing no expression on your face. usually, he would be quite good at reading your face but in all honesty, he can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

“a lizard?”

you nod. “a lizard.”

“you don’t look like a lizard.”

“that’s because i’m a lizard pretending to be a human.”

“a what now?” he shuts his book, sitting upright from his laid position. he tried his hardest not to give in to your silly but mysterious notion but he is far more interested in your explanation.

“you know about the lizard people, right?”

“i do not.”

“so i just exposed myself for nothing?”

“what in the devildom are you talking about?”

“it doesn’t matter. forget i said anything. if anyone finds out i told you, i could get killed.”

“please tell me that isn’t true.”

silence.

you refuse to even look him in the eye. surely, you are joking. there’s no way you’re really a lizard, let alone it be possible for lizards to be secretly living inside of humans. what kind of conspiracy would that be?

it’s unimaginable, even for demons. but whether the lizard thing is true or he’s falling for a joke, you still need an answer to your question.

“yes,” he pulls you into his side. “i would still love you if you were really a lizard.”

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒

“asmo,” you sing the demon of lust’s name, catching the attention that he would devote to you at any given moment. “can i ask you something?”

“go ahead, my dearest. fire away.”

he winks, hoping it would be something on the more flirtatious side, but instead you fill his mind with a grotesque image.

“what would you do if you could never touch me again?”

he immediately smothers you with a hug. “what are you talking about?! of course, that would never happen!”

“but what if?” you snuggle into him further. “what if you could never touch me?”

he hums, thinking of any solution to be able to touch you again.

“i’d cry,” he says simply. “i’d cry a lot.”

“aww,” you pout. “i don’t want you to cry.”

“and i don’t want to imagine a world where i can’t hold you like this,” he kisses your lips, “where i can’t kiss you like this,” he lifts up your hand and intertwines your fingers with his, “where i can’t hold your hand like this.”

“asmo….”

“i don’t know what would ever cause me to never be able to touch you again, but it would be the end of my world if it came true. i don’t know if i’d be able to live.”

“you’d still be able to see me and speak to me.”

“but not being able to touch you when i see you and hear you is the most painful torture imaginable. but you know what that means, right?”

“what does it mean?” you squeal and his hands tickle your sides.

“it means i need to do all the touching i can now to make up for it!”

𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐙𝐄𝐁𝐔𝐁

“hey, beel?”

“yeah?”

your quiet voices fill the dark path home from rad. beel always walks you home; be it in comfortable silence or deep conversations, you don’t imagine walking home any other way.

and the quiet air of the evening provides the perfect chance to ask him a question you’ve been waiting to ask all day.

“can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“if i had five million cheeseburgers and you could only eat them if you slapped me in the face, what wou—”

“i’d slap you in the face.”

“i didn’t even finish my question.” you yelp, brows furrowing in frustration.

“you don’t need to finish it. i’d do anything to eat that many cheeseburgers.”

your feet plant in the ground and beel doesn’t stop walking until your hand which holds his pulls him back.

“are you serious?”

“uhmm….i think so?”

you’re grateful for the fact that he’s rethinking his answer but it was a shock to hear him say he’d slap you so firmly in the beginning. it was a stupid question to ask in the first place, but you never imagined beel ever wanting to hurt you.

he tugs on your hand and you continue walking with him, picking up the pace to get home.

“mc….” he asks. “did i say something wrong?”

his obliviousness to his own words is a harder slap in the face than the slap he promised those five million burgers.

“you said you’d slap me, beel, and it makes me sad.”

“hm….we can go halfsies on the burgers?”

“huh?”

“i’ll slap you and then we can share the burgers.” he promises. “you’d feel bad because i slapped you. and i’d feel bad because i slapped you. so to make it better for both of us, we can split the cheeseburgers.”

you look at him, astounded because you don’t know if his explanation makes his answer better or worse.

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑

a cuddling session in the attic with belphegor is exactly what you needed after a long, draining day. you naturally made your way up to him as soon as you had some free time, desperate for his warmth.

but belphie had a different warmth in mind with all the kisses he litters up and down your neck.

“belphie, i’m tired.” you whine, but still urge him on to kiss you harder.

“then close your eyes. i’ll kiss you until you fall asleep.”

your heart swarms with the thrill of his words, the promise of being here and showering you with affection even on your worst days.

“is something wrong?” he asks.

“no. why?”

“you’re not falling asleep.”

“that’s because you’re kisses are keeping me awake.”

“they’re meant to help you fall asleep.”

“i hate to break it to you belphie, but they’re having the opposite effect.” you tease.

“is that so?” he nibbles you ear. “what about this?”

you arch into his body, sensitive from his kisses and now the more urgent movements of his lips ignite a fire in your belly. his lips graze you, teeth nip you and tongue swipe over your skin. he sucks hard enough to leave bruises, and kisses softly on every mark he leaves.

“belphie….” the soft whisper of his name catches his attention. “how many ghosts do you think are watching us right now?”

he ceases for a moment, then lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “what?”

“what if there’s ghosts watching us right now? and what if they keep watching us while we….you know….?”

“i never thought of that before.”

“it’s weird, right?”

“definitely. let’s never have sex again.”

[hyewka]

warnings. possibly unfaithful, switch!beomgyu, ex best friends, pull out method, drunk sex, not proofread

you’ve always felt big feelings towards beomgyu, after all he has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, its just never ever been lust, even as a teenage girl with rapidly changing hormones. you love beomgyu, but it was never romantic. and yet as much as it surprises you, in the moment, it feels so right. like this is exactly how its supposed to be. getting maniacally mounted by choi beomgyu in a bathroom with your sense overwhelmed with the soju and beer breath. yeah, that sounds about right.

you just hadn’t expected it to turn so sappy so quick, despite the alcohol in your systems.

“i missed you…i missed you, i missed you”

at some point, you would’ve guessed those repeated declarations would’ve faded into white noise had it been any other person—any other person but him. someone who’d you considered the most important being of your entire life, someone who you haven’t seen or heard from in two entire years when your entire relationship had consisted of seeing each other all the time, someone that you’ve also, terribly missed.

when you share the same sentiment, when you also feel the need to repeat it over and over again, the heartache you’ve felt and the utter devastating emptiness that you’ve lived with for so long now being satiated—the repetition doesn’t let the words turn into sounds of nothingness as it naturally would’ve. rather, it continues to ram against your skull every time he gasps and whines them. like it gains a deeper, more intimate meaning the more he whispers them against your neck, trailing his wet kisses along your jawline.

“what happened with him?”

it’s like he got worked up at his own question, gripping the plush of your ass so hard his nails painfully digs into your flesh, having you hiss. you don’t blame what you register as an involuntary response—your ex boyfriend was the sole reason for your fallout with beomgyu, it’s a sore subject to poke.

“we broke it off six—s-six months after.” after you and beomgyu fell out you would’ve said, but how can you when the prick’s practically ramming his cock in you.

“oh,” he groans speeding up his sloppy pace, finding more rhythm—all while wearing a dopey smile, the frown on his face returning to ecstasy. “why?”

“just didn’t work out.” you reply curtly, trying to move on from the topic of your ex. he lets you, humming contentedly.

there was a part deep inside him that urged him to be smug and petty with an i told you so, or get mad that you dumped him for a relationship so futile to your life, but he can’t find himself to do so as he gets lost further in the way your face contorts, reacting to each jerk of his hips. you’re perfect, he thinks to himself over and over again. you’re perfect.

he thinks he could cum right then and there.

but somethings on the tip of your tongue— in fact, the moment you had registered him inside your head when you went inside that damned karaoke room, you noticed the ring. you quickly dispelled your first thought—it doesn’t look like a ring for marriage, it looked far too casual for that.

but you had still eyed it practically the entire night curious if it held any meaning and you had so badly wanted to pry. then you finally concluded that beomgyu has always been into jewellery, rings no exception. an hour ago, you didn’t know why you were so curious of his relationship status. but now? now you’re being fucked. you have a reason, so you try to bite the bullet to satiate your curiosity. “what about you?” you choke out. however, your question immedietely evaporates from your head when he smashes his lips against yours again heaving.

you don’t question it, you melt into it, pulling him in closer to the point there’s absolutely no space between the two of you.

“missed you” he whines. it has you uncontrollably tumble out giggles between your smushed lips before he steals your breath away yet again. you feel like you’re on drugs, you’re so high off of the adrenaline you feel. never in a million years would you have expected the original deep set uncomfortable tension between the two of you three hours ago to turn into this. when you had been invited out to hang out with your old college friends to come in and be met with familiar faces—you just didn’t expect your joy to so quickly be replaced with suffocating dread when the most familiar looks you up and down.

you weren’t warned of his presence. and now you were crowded by it.

“i couldn’t,” you gasp, your hooded eyes flying open when he revisits a hickey, grazing his teeth. “i can’t, i can’t live without you. that’s what i’ve realized, i can’t do it.”

you nod over and over again along to his words, frankly out of it, rolling your hips pathetically in rhythm with his. “wh-what about you?” he asks, his vulnerablity on full on display. long gone was the confident, vulgarity that oozed out of him.

it turns you on so much, it’s wrong but it does—his teary eyes, imploring you to put him at ease as he drives his cock deep inside your cunt. it feels right, it feels natural to try it out with him. the moment your finger flick his nipples, beomgyu gives you an immediate, satisfactory reaction—a combination of a gasp and a shriek before his head just pathetically falls to bury his head into the junction of your shoulders.

“you’re sensitive,” you note, letting your fingers lightly lay against his chest. the faltering of his pace is extremely noticeable as he had been increasingly building up his pace. it gives you a rush of dopamine, enough of it to have you more confident with what you want.

“whyyy..why’d you touch..” his whines muffle into your skin.

you peel his head off your shoulder by a fist of his hair and for what feels to be the hundredth time this night, he knocks the breath out of you—he’s gorgeous. when you started making out earlier you had passively asked him to keep his glasses on, you didn’t expect him to make such an effort to keep them because it’s practically falling off the bridge of his nose, crooked and foggy. he looks like a perfect mess.

your ex boyfriend hated it—when you had introduced domming during sex it had immediately killed the mood even though he promised you afterwards that it totally wasn’t because of your risque play with his nipples. after a while, you believed him—you wanted to believe him so you tried to ease into it again, showing him some porn, he’d surely like it as much as you did. you were sorely mistaken. he didnt, he practically ridiculed you, basically implying you were a total freak. it’s one of the things that served as a catalyst for your eventual breakup.

but beomgyu, god, beomgyu.

he transcends even your wildest imagination—hes everything you’d wish to hear and more. when you experimentally let your finger twist his hard buds again as he attempts to pick up his rhythm he gurgles on his spit, moaning loud enough for you to completely lose it. he slows down again, almost completely stilling, looking like he’s about to sob with his face a shade of red and pink, as if hes asking you for mercy.

“what?” you slur, cocking your head. “who allowed you to stop? i was close.”

he shakes his head, bottom lip slightly wobbling, “i c-can’t. if you keep touching my-”

your groan cuts off his rant. “hurry up, my legs are starting to cramp up gyu.”

he flinches at your harshness, falling into a pout. it’s a habit that as long as you remember, had driven you up the wall. but right now, you can’t help but find the action adorable, in complete contrast to the dirty situation you’re in. “but what if i just…like, cum?”

you sigh, propping yourself up again, “when you feel it coming, pull out.” you say simply, which doesn’t seem to ease his mind but he doesn’t resist shaking his hips again. it isn’t long before he’s losing himself in you, slap of skin against skin no longer your concern, totally ignoring the semi public setting. the moment he feels like he has has the upper hand you do it again, playing with his nipples until you’re sure they’re pink and plump, sore.

he not once questions anything, which makes you feel so immensely comfortable. “he would’ve hated this,” you comment absentmindedly, more to yourself than beomgyu. you hadn’t even thought he picked up on it when suddenly he becomes a lot more vocal, moaning obnoxiously loud you would’ve definitely slapped him silly and hopped off his cock…had you not been completely trashed. your brain is turned off, only mustering up a wobbly smile as you drown in his outward display of pleasure. it makes you feel so powerful. he both exaggerates and at the same time actually fucking loses his sanity.

he says those words again, panting, eyes completely glazed over and mouth almost permanently hung open, his hand reaching down to shakily play with your clit, making you arch into his touch, absolutely out of breath. “can’t live without you,”

at that final declaration, you clench around his dick to which he immediately reacts, erratically fucking into you, having your tits jiggle lewdly. he thinks hes hypnotized, he thinks he would’ve probably just bust a nut inside you anyway, but he snaps out of it, getting a sense of clarity.

beomgyu's cock throbs one last time inside you, before he pulls out, giving his cock only one small pump before spurting his load, some of it landing on your stomach and legs, some dripping to the floor. he lets out a soft moan, his breath hot against your neck. after what you believe to be an eternity, your sweaty selves interwined with each other, wallowing in silence as you finally get your breathing controlled, beomgyu pulls away to look at you.

it’s like you truly are telepathically connected, something you’ve joked about for years due to the instance you’ve completed each other’s thoughts. but you’ve come to realize it might be closer to the truth than anything you’ve ever known to be true. your feelings were intertwined, scarily so.

so its to not to your surprise when he doesn’t ask for a round two, he knows. like he always does.

you just try to ignore the constant ringing of his phone.

[little-writers-posts]

Something More Between Us (The Milkman x GN Reader)

Author's Note: A short draft that was playing in my mind because of the milkman on TikTok. I hope you enjoy.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 781

The clock marked 9 p.m., marking the end of my shift as a doorman at the apartment complex where I live. I stretched out on the chair and sighed. At the same time, the other doorman comes through the door to take my place and start his shift.

“Hey, (Y/N), how was your day?” he asked as he started to unpack his things.

“A little tiring, to be honest. Had four residents, plus two without an entry request, and caught six doppelgangers, some more violent than others, but it comes with the job, I suppose.” I said as I packed my things.

“I’m lucky to be on the night shift” he smiled. “I only have three tenants on the list, and according to the DDD all the tenants are in the building except for those.”

“Don’t be careless. Our lives are at stake here.” I warned. “But, you’re right, you’re lucky.” I smiled.

I quickly scanned his list for the night and my heart skipped a beat. Francis name was there, I assume he left for his job as a milkman and, if I remember correctly from my night shifts, he was one of the first to arrive. 

When I started working as a doorman as well as living at the building, one of the perks was to get to know the people who lived in the same space. I always thought that Francis was good-looking, even with those tired eyes. However, even if we do chat a bit at the door or on the occasional bump in the corridors, we never really moved past that. He is a very reserved person and prefers to keep things private, I get that, plus he never seamed that interested in me.

As I was lost in thought, I heard two voices in the entrance lobby and realised my colleague was gathering all the folders to check the information.

“Mmm… Hello” I heard Francis say through the door.

“Good evening mister Mosses” greeted the doorman. “Let’s see…”

I resume my packing, picking up some final things left and reaching for the keys to my apartment.

“All good! You may go.”

“Perfect.”

The second voice reached for the window, “Good evening.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Looking good as always Mr. Gauss”

Once I had everything I left for my own apartment. When I reach the elevator, I saw that Francis was holding the door.

“Oh, thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, “Izaack is also coming so I thought I might wait for both.”

I joined in and backed up against the wall, standing next to him.

“Our prettiest doorman is joining us today, its always a pleasure walking with you” Izaack mentioned as the door shuts, “Did you think about my proposal?”

I sighed for what seems like the thousandth time today. “I am not interested in going on a date with you, thanks.”

“Oh, come on, (Y/N).” He insisted. “It’s going to be fun, I promise. And I’m not just talking about dinner, you know?”

He stepped closer to me. Suddenly, I felt slightly trapped in that elevator. I tried to move further back, but I was already up against the wall. Isaack started to raise his hand to grab me by the chin and possibly bring me even closer to him. However, it didn't come to that. A body came between me and the raised hand.

“Geez, Francis, relax” Isaack chuckled. “I was just messing arround.”

The doors to the elevator opened on the second floor. Isaack was walking out into the corridor, but looked back before the doors closed again.

“You sure can be scary when you’re angry Mosses” He gave that characteristic smile of his. “See you tomorrow.”

The doors closed and Francis moved out of the way.

“Thank you” I whispered to him.

“Hm.” He raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen, if he ever bothers you again liked that, let me know, ok?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Francis” I said while massaging the back of my neck “He's infuriating, that’s true, and persistent, but I can deal it him.”

The elevator reached the third floor.

“I mean it.” He said while leaving to his apartment. “I… I do worry about you.”

I was about to put the key in the door when I suddenly stopped and looked at him. He stared at me with his tired but expectant eyes.

"I didn't know..." An embarrassed but broad smile appeared on my face "Thank you, Francis, I care about you too, a lot."

He nodded and gave a small smile, turning and heading for his apartment. 

After all, there might be something more between us than I thought.

[hwathinker]

"aww, why are you crying baby? come on, i'm gonna take a break now can i?"

pairings ; best friend!yunho x fem!reader warnings ; i don't think there is.. (i'm joking.. there's cockwarming, blowjobs(?), petnames) just yunho being a tease and annoying.. i really love the cocky + nerdy concept on yunho ;) wn ; hey! i finally got a free time today, so i decided to spend it on writing something. i'll be taking requests by the way! i'm hoping to see some smutty reqs from ya'll hahaha

"come on y/n, its not that hard to memories these shit." yunho said, poking your head which was buried to the book you were supposed to read. you had spent over an hour in his apartment, just for a study session. you also promised yourself to study for real this time but i guess the tiredness and laziness in you held you back. you shook your head aggressively, making him stop touching you. "y/n, we have a really tight schedule and i know you know that. plus our presentation is in 3 days. spend your time studying so you won't have to struggle to go out with me." you shot your head up as soon as yunho mentioned about going out. your parents doesn't really let you go out unless you do something great in school. but with pleasing them by doing house chores, you know you could get out easily. well, not every time.

"ugh.. how many times do i have to read these?!" pointing at the open book, you looked at him. "if you really want me to memories this then how about you?" you held the book up close to your face, shooting your eyes up to him then at the book back to make sure he isn't peeking. yunho sighed, letting go of his pen and turning to you. he looked at the book title, making a face to remember something. "well, physics huh.. what page are you in?" he asked, shifting his body and putting his arm on the table so that he can rest his head on his fist with his cheeks. you quickly went to the first page, knowing that he doesn't pay that much attention on a first page of a book. "uh.. page one. i'm not telling you what it is though." you said, burying your head to the book once again and shifting you gaze between the book and yunho every 4 seconds. yunho smiled, pretending to remember what was on the first page. "physics is the natural science of matter, involving the study of matter, its fundamental constituents, its motion and behavior through space and time, and the related entities of energy and force." you read what was on the page along with what he said, your eyes slowly going wide as he do.

"the fuck?! how in the earth did you remember every damn word in this one ass page?!" you slammed the green book on the table, going up close to him with rage in you. "i don't know, maybe i started to pay attention to the first page now. or maybe not, because i'm smart." he said, going back to his position and continue his revision. "or maybe.. you could help cover for me?" you said, leaning your head on the table as you puppy eyed him as you smile. yunho gave you a silent answer, which was a no. "come on yun, i know you like obeying me." you teased again, smiling ever so widely. "how about you study or i fuck that mouth off." he shift his gaze to you, placing down the pen under his palm.

you pouted, covering your face with your hand. yunho let out a small chuckle, grabbing you by your waist to get you more close. "i've never seen you this shy, y/n. you always fight back my teasings." he said, laying head head on the table too, close to your covered face. "i'd rather have a cock inside me for long enough than having to suck one that has a possibility of piss on it." you mumbled, hoping he won't hear a single thing when he's just right there, in front of you. yunho took your hand away from your face, meeting his eyes that was already staring at you. "do you want to try?" he bit his bottom lip, smiling lightly. you think, furrowing your eyebrows and pouting your lips. "i don't know. so you're hard?" you looked at his reddening face as your hand quickly went to his.. harden clothed dick. oh he is. yunho slaps your hand away quickly, holding them in his big ones. "suck it." he ordered, watching your smile grew wider. "why so needy? were you already planning this all along?" you said, shifting closer to him so there's no more space between the both of you. "sure. i'll do it. but you'll have to do a favor for me, too." you said again,getting up from the table and wait for him to strip. he stood up, sliding his sweats down and place them beside the table. but this time, he went to the sofa, sitting on it then leaning comfortably back while manspreading.

you looked at him with lust, his tongue going over his bottom lips, wetting them then biting them afterwards. he watches you walk towards him, your knee purposely hitting his crotch as you lean in to give his jaw a nice lingering kisses, to his lips. "how long have you been keeping this from me, hm?" you mumbled in the kiss, enjoying his taste. "ever since you appeared like a damn angel in front of me and decided to become my friend." he held your jaw with his hand, caressing them. you ran your hand from his bicep, down to his chest. gently touching every part as possible to make him shudder. you pulled away from the kiss, going down as he watches your every move. your tits, holding onto its dear life in the top you had. it looked like it want to pop out in any second you make a risky move. and your tight low rise jeans. ah, don't mention it anymore. he loves it when you wear that kind of clothes.

after you had took off his boxer, his dick sprung out, precum leaking to his base. "fuck, who are you going big for? me?" you said, grabbing his cock gently, kissing the pink aching tip. he hissed in pleasure, throwing his head back. "who else do i have to keep this dick for? of course it was for you, angel." oh god, that nickname has you every time. you licks his cock slowly, going down and fitting the whole base in your mouth. as you suck him off. him, on the other hand are sweating, tears started to form in that boy's eyes. he had his hands placed prettily under your chin so he has a better view while the other caress your hair ever so sweetly. he is this sweet when receiving a blowjob? oh you could do this everyday if it means he is. "mmh, such a good girl. other boys must not be this thick, right? i know you enjoy this so much, baby." he said in between moans, grunts. you swirl your tongue, making a popping sound when letting his cock go. he felt empty, and cold.

yunho pouted, watching his dick being held and watched by you. "y/n.. why did you do that? more please.." he begged, grabbing your free hand and holding them in his. "i want a favor back." you gently pump his cock, watching him biting his bottom lip. "what is it hm..?" he hummed, thinking about what you possibly want. you leaned and lay your cheeks on his cock, looking up to him. "i want you to cover for me for the presentation soon."

and that, you were being sat on his lap while he does his revision. your top thrown away even god don't know where, your jeans and red panties thrown at the sofa. now, you're being forced to sit on his dick that has cummed a few times because you moved a little. you were facing behind, hugging him so tightly, hoping to not make a certain move or he takes a break to play with your hardened tits again. i said, again. you shuddered at the feeling of his liquid constantly coming out and its touching your walls. "y/n baby, don't move please? i've said this a thousandth times already." as he put his pen down, he pulled you so that you're leaning on the edge of the table and facing him. "aww, why are you crying baby? come on, i'm can take a break now can i?"

--

hehe a small yunho smut for ya'll <3 i miss this man so much and have you seen his airport look? god damn i would devour every single inch of it. and have ya'll seen seonghwa's gianna boyfriend?? goshh if he's not putting a shirt on i'm gonna suck those tits LMAO lmk if theres any error guys.. and remember to drop some hot ass smut thoughts on my inbox please im beggin u

[ma1dita]

buddy system

a ‘partners in crime’ installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 4.2k

summary: (pre-established relationship) The one where he comes with you to rescue your twin brothers, Pollux and Castor. A weekend 'quest' teaches you a lot about Luke, and about yourself too. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader

a/n: um i cant apologize for this word count and ive been looking at this for too long so fuck. Anyways do yall think Luke felt bad when he found out Castor died in battle because of his army in this universe? just me?? okay :) also trouble gets a cool magic item that makes an appearance here, kinda works like polyjuice but with smoke

(posted 2/7/24 betad by lovely ellie @lixzey might edit again when i get some sleep)

—

“No. You might be my father, but you’re crazy, man!”

You’re standing in D’s office at the Big House, and what was supposed to be a short talk before the counselors’ meeting has turned into a full-blown argument. It’s hard to focus on anything other than the words leaving your godrent’s mouth.

You’re going to pick up your little brothers.

“Those two statements are both true, kid. You’re old enough to understand that!”

They need your help.

“You’re really letting your 16-year-old daughter drive down to Florida by herself to pick up some kids she’s never met? Won’t even send me with any quest companions, or like, Grover?” you say exasperatedly, before slumping down into a seat.

“Think of it as family bonding! They’re great from what I remember. You all need to get along anyway.”

Whether it was jealousy or the sudden urge to be petty, you impulsively grab your dad’s Diet Coke and chug it, crushing the can with your fist as a tiny act of rebellion. 

Another one appears on the desk and you chuck it over your shoulder. Mr. D sighs as he conjures another one, to which you do the same thing.

“I can do this all day, kid.”

“So can I, and you know if I do, we’ll be sitting here until I’m 40,” you say expectantly, tapping your fingers on the hardwood surface of his desk.

“What do you want?”

The keys to his car are a start, as well as extra pocket money—but there was something, or rather, someone missing to make sure this weekend goes as smoothly as possible.

Your smirk widens at your father, and he wonders when you’ve gotten good at playing his own game.

It’s like looking into a mirror but his worst nightmare manifested as a teenage girl.

—

There are only two things Luke can think about when he hears the sound of your laughter.

The first is that, unlike your angelic singing that could rival the Muses, your laughter takes after the sound of a maniac, an incredulous crescendo that only something curated by Hades in the deepest pits of Tartarus could produce. It was almost madness-inducing, and it went off in his brain like you were a siren (although he means the kind used for weather advisory, he too gets lured in by your laughter each time he hears it like he’s lost at sea).

Second, as he watches you storm down the lawn of the Big House, your anger brewing something comparable to a Category 5, he raises an eyebrow and thinks, well this ought to be good. Or entertaining at the very least.

“You,” you growl at him, guttural and sharp like the finger you jab into his chest, “we’re going on a quest!”

“Me?” Luke blurts, eyebrows furrowing at you.

A loud groan echoes through the grassy space between the house and the counselors as everyone looks up to see Mr. D dragging his hands down his face at the sheer thought of his daughter causing him more gray hairs. 

“That’s not what we agreed on, kid!” “If you want any of your children to come back to this hellhole in one piece I need backup!” “There’s more of you?”

Both you and your dad glare at Luke now, like he’s interrupting a private conversation.

“Since when do you like asking for help, princess?” 

Mr. D’s arms are crossed over his chest as he speaks to you. Though your height severely differs due to the wooden steps of the Big House, the air is palpable with fear only an Olympian could invoke, reminding the counselors that the man wearing the ugliest Hawaiian shirt known to humankind, is in fact inhuman. You, however, are standing tall in the freshly-cut grass in your combat boots with wrath that could rival Ares’ as you stare your father down like the rest of them wouldn’t get struck into the next lifetime due to your impertinence, as Annabeth loves to call it. She looks up at Luke, with her eyes conveying that she thinks you must be clinically insane, but he knows that already so he shrugs.

“I’m not asking for it, I’m demanding it. Besides, he’s like my ESA,” you say, then taking Luke by surprise as you grab him by the wrist and drag him off the front lawn. You think you can hear Beckendorf and Clarisse bite back chuckles.

“Someone tell Rodriguez he’s in charge of 11!” you yell into the air, and words of affirmation and good luck are muttered in response.

“Don’t I get a say in this, trouble?” Luke says playfully, tugging at your arm lightly but unresisting as you sigh and pull him along. Who in their right mind says no to a long weekend away from this place? Monsters and demigods be damned.

“No. Besides, they’re gonna need more luck than we do.”

“Liam, I don’t know why she trusts you, but if my daughter dies, I’ll make sure you’re next!” Mr. D yells out to your retreating figures, and all of the counselors turn to face him realizing that without you, well… that means he actually has to be in charge.

“So what’s the meeting supposed to be about, Annabelle?” Mr. D says, looking at Annabeth only knowing that she’s supposed to be the smart one—and the small girl sighs.

This is gonna be the longest weekend yet.

—

You’re speeding down I-95 with the windows down and the wind brushing through both of your hair. While Luke watches you from the passenger seat with the road signs blurring past his periphery, he also notices that it’s the first time in a while that he’s seen you this carefree. With both of you taking up counselor positions a few months ago, and your dad appointing you to be in charge of all of them (because why have a counselor for a population of one), there’s a lot about you that’s grown up in the two years you two have known each other. But what type of demigod gets to enjoy their childhood anyway, right? Luke can only remember bits and pieces of his.

“How do you even know where we’re going? I can barely read the signs,” he asks.

“Cool blessing from my stepmom. Ariadne’s chill. We talk sometimes and she likes that I keep D in check, so now I can never get lost,” you grin toothily, violet eyes flickering to meet his.

“Was it true what your dad said? That you trust me?”

His voice is a bit louder than it should be over the wind tunnel that blocks out the sound of the radio as the air whips in and out of the car.

“Well, I wouldn't say trust,” you drag out, leaning back against your seat with your eyes still on the road, “More like if I got abducted by a harpy, I think you could cut its wings off and give me a fighting chance at living.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t invite Mason to come,” he mumbles, and you smirk.

“Who?”

His hands are clenched in his lap as a blush brushes his cheeks, windswept in the rays of the late summer sun.

“Your boyfriend. Wouldn’t he be a better companion?” 

Something about the older son of Apollo always ground his gears. It was even worse that you both would sing Broadway musicals together during his sparring sessions. Your harmonious voices echoing from the amphitheater aside, the repetitive grating feeling in his stomach reminds him not to go see Hamilton if he ever makes it out to the city.

“He’s not…” you huff, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel as you think hard on what to say next, “He’s nothing serious.” You pull the sun visor down as you squint, tilting your head in case he says something else, but you hear nothing. Luke’s staring at your side profile, unable to hide his grin at the new information, biting his cheek.

“Besides, he’s a fucking terrible shot. And you’re supposed to be the best, so I’ve heard. Who else would I want on this trip with me?”

He chuckles at this lightly, your words bolstering his ego.

“So you’ve heard.”

And for a second, the sight of his smile distracts you enough that the car swerves a tiny bit closer to the median. You both ignore it and keep driving.

—-

Hypnos increases his hold on your senses as you finally take a break somewhere in North Carolina, taking refuge in a dimly lit corner of a gas station parking lot. The old car reeks of greasy fast food and all the sugar Luke could get his hands on at rest stops (it was really cute to see him indulge in more normal things like sweets instead of swordsmanship), and both of your seats are leaned back, but it’s hard to get comfortable after having your butt in the same seat for several hours.

You readjust yourself again, making the car shake a bit as you turn over to face Luke. 

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles through closed eyes. His head’s banged against the window one too many times, and it was starting to get annoying.

“Sorry. Just can’t sleep. Thinking too hard.”

He sighs, reaching over to toss your pillow into the backseat, and as you sit up, he rips your blanket off of you too.

“Hey!”

You go silent when you watch him make a makeshift bed for you, turning back with tired eyes as he gestures, “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

“I feel bad, Luke. You’re taller than me and your knees almost hit the dashboard.”

He rubs at his eyes, looking at you impatiently, and you know his body is calling for comfort too.

“I’ve slept in worse conditions, you gotta remember that, trouble.” The stories Annie used to tell you about the both of them sleeping on the streets pull at your heart, and as you crawl towards the back, you move before you think rationally–tugging on his arm.

“Come on over here.”

“You sure?” “Before I change my mind, yeah.”

You both move around trying to find a place both of you can be comfortable in, first starting with your heads at opposite windows, legs tangling in the middle before he laughs a little too hard at your fumbling and you launch your pillow at his face. Awkwardly, you climb over his legs into his outstretched arms, slotting yourself against his side as he pulls your hair up from getting trapped between his shoulder and your back.

It’s deadly quiet, and Luke thinks if you could move any closer to him, you might hear his heart thundering in his chest.

“You smell like french fries,” you grumble into his sweater, and his laughter shakes you like an earthquake, uprooting the faint traces of sleep in your mind. 

“At least the monsters won’t find us. Gonna be harder when the twins get here. A lot of demigod smell to ward off.”

You don’t answer, and he thinks you may have fallen asleep until he notices your hand playing with the frays of his sweater.

“Trouble?”

“They’re really little,” you mumble, so low that he barely hears the hesitance in your voice.

“The monsters? Yeah, I fucking ho–” “Pollux and Castor. My…half-siblings, with really Greek names, and a mom that depends on me getting them to camp safely…” you trail off before your head jerks up to meet his eyes. It’s colder at night now, your bodies and the tiny throw blanket from your trunk providing ample heat even if his socked feet fight their way out from underneath.

“How old are they, nine?” He feels you nod against his chest before he continues, “I was nine when I left home.”

Your eyes get glassy at the thought of a smaller version of Luke, one who’s not all gangly legs and lean muscle—one much softer and innocent than the boy you lean your weight upon, running away from home to find a place he can belong. 

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, the arm propped against the headrest wrapping around you and resting on your hip, tapping you to continue your previous thought.

“I don’t know how to do this, I guess. I’m ripping them from their home and I—” “You’re not some kind of monster y’know? You put yourself down too much sometimes,” he sighs, and he watches the windows slowly start to fog up, “What don’t you know how to do?”

Ignoring his question, you change the subject hoping to talk about something lighter, and far less revealing to the thoughts inside your head.

“Do you remember all of that? Going to school and chalking up the sidewalks on the way home, hopscotch and ice cream trucks… I don’t want to take them away from that.”

Luke ponders, digging through his brain for anything happy from his childhood, but through the years his memories started to collect dust in the back of his mind.

“I don’t remember much.”

“Gods, I’m sorry…” 

Mason had told you of your habit of putting your foot in your mouth. You dealt in extremes, giving too much or too little, always saying the wrong thing—and it was the reason why things didn’t go further with the son of Apollo. As well as with the daughter of Aphrodite you saw briefly that told you you didn’t know how to love, not if you didn’t know how to share yourself with others (yeah that one hurt a lot).

Sharing. 

That’s what you’re hesitant about.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago now,” Luke mumbles, a beat of silence passing before he redirects the conversation like you did, “What don’t you know how to do, trouble?”

“How to share. Be a sibling. Someone likeable.”

Luke doesn’t mean to laugh at your expense, but he does, and you punch his stomach hard enough he gasps for air.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Everyone likes you.”

“Everyone’s usually scared of me because of D, or hates me because I take dessert privileges and write them up,” you say matter-of-factly, staring out the window above his head at the gentle shine of the moon on his features. It’s a crime for him to look so soft under the low light, and you realize you’re staring when he calls your name.

“No, you don’t get it—you’re the most selfless person I know. You give up sleep to sing to kids before bed, conjure juice boxes so they don’t pass out during training—I’ve seen you carry a kid almost as tall as you across camp because they broke their ankle. You’ve got a lot of love in that twisted heart of yours. I’d know… I mean—I have to share a lot… I’m basically an expert.”

You blink at him as if seeing him in a new light, and you realize then why you picked him to go on this weekend quest with you. Your heartbeat slows despite the show of vulnerability in front of him, and you understand now that Luke makes you feel safe. Biting your lip to hold back a sigh, you decide to just unload the rest of your thoughts, knowing that you’re in the hands of someone who wants to hold the weight. “I’m just used to being alone, I think. I mean who knows what we're like when we're alone but us, right? What a terrifying thought,” you deflect, and Luke closely watches the slope of your nose, down to the smoothness of your lips, unable to put the right words to how he’s feeling.

 I know you, he thinks, and it's not as all bad as you make it seem.

“We’re never truly alone, y’know. Besides, even if you are, you still have me,” he says nonchalantly, and the warmth on your cheeks could generate enough heat to run the car for miles. Chuckling lightly as your eyes flutter closed, you know you need to rest before morning comes since you’re the only one between the two of you that can drive. You reckon you’ll teach Luke by the end of the year if he wants to.

“We’re getting pretty terrible at this enemies thing, Castellan,” you jest with nothing hard to back it, and a smile falls onto both of your lips.

“We were never really enemies, trouble. I just like getting on your nerves.”

Your laughs fall silent, settling into a comfortable silence, until his next words send you off into slumber as you listen.

“I remember my mom singing in the kitchen as she put peanut butter on my sandwiches. She'd act like she left the dishes out for me to wash, but let me lick the knife clean every time and I’d put too much soap and the sink would be filled with bubbles. I don't remember much else but that. Her kitchen. She smelled like…chamomile.”

A wandering hand pulls his free one into yours, holding it until sunrise.

—-

You push Pollux and Castor out the door before the sun rises after a short stay at their mother’s house, and as the engine heats up, you and Luke watch them say goodbye to her with the both of you thinking of last words with your own. The both of you ward off the hellhounds biting off at your heels for a few hours like how you deceived the police the day previous, a purple Zippo lighter in hand whose smoke grants temporary illusions wafting through the car, and it smells like grapes (thanks D!). The kids sleep most of the way, none the wiser and heavy with sleep and their emotions of leaving everything they’ve ever known. Your eyes flicker to their sleeping heads in the rearview mirror, ready to take them home.

Hours later, Luke decides to make you stop at a diner to get you a bit of rest, get actual food, and let the twins pee, and your head is bobbing slightly in front of your plate of food once he brings them back from the bathroom.

“You wash your hands?” you say tiredly, both Pollux and Castor shaking wet hands in your face in response, making you giggle before sipping at your coffee. Luke cut you off from Redbull yesterday, saying he was scared for your liver and saying you needed to drink something else for a bit. He bristles at the sight of you drinking more caffeine, and you smile as the mug touches your lips.

“You’re gonna kill yourself one day. At least your dad drinks Diet Coke.”

“Not by choice, though what a way to go!” you joke, and the twins giggle as the both of them gulp down root beer like it’s essential to their being. Luke sighs at the idea of you having two minions under your belt, who you’ll most definitely train to raise hell on Camp Half-Blood now that you’ve taken more of the administrative side of things.

“Is he your boyfriend, sissy?” Pollux, or maybe it’s Castor pipes up, swinging his legs under the table and you smile at the sound of the nickname, noticing the dimple in his cheek. Luke chokes on his burger, coughing until you elbow him.

“He’s more of my ESA,” you remark, and he still doesn’t know what that is, so he raises an eyebrow like your brothers do as they peer up at you from across the table.

“What’s an ESA?” Castor, you realize, who has no dimples, spits out behind munches of a pickle.

“Luke’s my emotional support animal.”

He eats the rest of your fries despite your confidence in that response, grumbling exactly how a resistant dog would.

As you’re paying the bill, a large shadow looms over the sunny disposition of everyone at your table—and then Luke shouts for everyone to cover their eyes. Glass shatters over you, revealing a hellhound the size of a minivan, and it pounces toward the twins, large teeth bared at their throats. Before Luke can pull his sword out, you whistle sharply and the sound whizzes through the air like a bullet as you toss the Zippo lighter at him as he’s pushing the kids to the car. Though he’s reluctant to lose sight of you, he wards them with an illusion, locking the doors despite their cries and he runs headfirst back into battle, you with your thyrsus and him with his sword, back to back.

“They okay?” you heave, jabbing at the red-eyed canine between the eyes as Luke pulls around to slash it across the neck, coming out of the tussle unscathed as you both watch it keel over at your feet into golden dust minutes later.

“Yeah. Are you?”

Though you originally found it funny, Luke does perform his job well, getting you to calm down as he holds you to his chest until you can breathe normally again.

“Mhm. Just scared me.”

The two of you run out of the destroyed diner and into the warded-off car before the police show up hand in hand as you escape without detection. As he falls asleep, Castor dreams that you two are Bonnie and Clyde like in an old Western movie he was definitely not old enough to watch.

—-

You’re finally back on the Island now, only an hour away from Montauk and Luke is getting restless in the passenger seat. He pulls apples out of his backpack, wiping them off with his shirt as you sing along to a Taylor Swift song playing on the radio.

And maybe someday when we’re older, this is something we’ll laugh about…. Foolish one… you hum, tapping the wheel to fight off your exhaustion.

Pollux and Castor are using their fingers to pretend to hop over obstacles in the smudged windows, babbling about something they did in class last week. The son of Hermes pulls out a pocketknife he nicked from a gas station this morning as he starts to cut the apples into pieces, putting some into a ziploc bag for the boys to share, and you smile at him, wistful at your trip nearing its finish line. If you weren’t enemies before this like he said, it’s crazy to consider him your closest friend. But he is, isn’t he?

His knuckles nudge yours over the console, pressing an apple slice into your palm.

“You know, Castellan, you’re sweet when you want to be. Shame you and that sister of Annie’s didn’t work out.”

Luke scoffs at the reminder of his ex, slicing another piece off for you to eat. She did say he had wandering eyes…always looking for you. He’s not going to admit that though.

“I just know you like your apples cut. Saw you battling it out with a butter knife last week. Couldn’t help but notice,” he says lowly like it’s normal for people to be that considerate about others, normal for him to care about you like that, a constant push and pull between you two. 

“Hurts my teeth,” you mutter, and Luke chortles like you’ve told him something life-changing. Your hand bumps into his again, feeling nothing but his calloused fingers, and when you look up his cheek protrudes with the last slice.

“Tax,” he winks, and you’re delirious with this feeling that only he can bring you, almost comparable to being high.

The popstar’s voice continues to trill in the background, with my head in my hands, saying “How could I not see the signs?”

You both don’t realize you’ve stopped singing until Pollux pipes up asking for you to play Fireball by Mr. 305 himself.

—-

The car finally pulls into the driveway of the forest path and you’re all greeted by the campers holding blazing lanterns. Chiron, your father, and the nymphs are waving as the twins marvel at the fairy lights strung up along the way for a warm welcome.

“You’re alive,” your dad remarks, and this time he doesn’t say it in jest, sounding more relieved.

“I was in good hands,” you affirm, looking up at Luke amongst the noise of your cheering friends and the feeling that comes with calling this place home.

The boys are tucked in at your side, shyly looking at the crowd, Pollux holding your hand while Castor holds onto Luke’s, and Chiron calls your attention.

“I know you didn’t get your official announcement,” he starts, and you laugh at that, remembering the bubbles in the lake.

“Because I pulled a fast one on D.”

“Nonetheless, I would love for you to get recognized for your efforts. Dionysus. Storyteller, Herald of Chaos,” he continues by announcing your name, and then,” Pollux, and Castor– children of the grapevine, the God of Wine!”

The campers are kneeling and you look at Luke, who’s smiling from the ground beside you.

“Take a picture, trouble, it’ll last longer.”

“My children are home safe. And thank you, Castellan, for being a formidable companion. My deepest appreciation.” Mr. D sounds serious for once, pulling Luke up as he nods in respect.

It’s a crazy feeling to finally feel at home though you’ve been here for two years now. But you remind yourself quickly of why that is when you see Luke carrying Pollux on his shoulders as Castor latches onto his legs.

“You know, your family is a nightmare. You two hellions will fit right in,” he grins.

You can’t help but agree.

—

“I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you bathing in my eyes. I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you in my written words. The perfume of love cannot be concealed.” -Nizar Qabbani

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[seresinhangmanjake]

Jingle of The Bells

jake "hangman" seresin x reader

Summary: Your little girl is worried her father won’t make it home for Christmas.

Notes/warnings: this is the same family from the Oh, Baby universe, but it stands alone as well :) Mostly Fluff, a dash of angst.

This is for @sailor-aviator's Christmas Writing Challenge (my word is Bells)

Words: 2386

Your daughter was so much like your husband. You’d say too much if not for the fact that you loved them deeply. But there came a lot with their similarities. Double doses of determination, wit, and control. So, not unlike your husband, your little girl wanted to be the one to call the shots. However, circumstances didn’t always allow for that, and in those cases, Eve struggled the most.

---

“Mama, he’s supposed to be home!” 

Eve’s arms were wrapped tight around your neck as her wails echoed in your ear. You held on to her snuggly, her little legs tucked into the open space between your criss-crossed seated position on the floor. 

Until you’d joined her, she’d sat in the same spot all night, the teddy bear from her father settled in her lap as she stared at the front door. Despite the colored lights strung around your home, the pile of presents for her and her baby brother from Jake’s mother, grandmother, and team, and the cookies waiting to be decorated, Eve hadn’t moved. 

Every five minutes she would ask you the time, and each answer you gave her broke your heart right along with hers. She was too young to remember that Jake’s return schedule wasn’t always a guarantee. You were used to not making plans on the day you were originally told your husband would be coming home to you because promises in his line of work didn’t exist. There were no promises he would be gone only as long as he initially believed, no promises he would return on time, no promises he would return at all. But for so long Eve was spared all of that. The one time she remembered her father leaving, he did manage to come back when expected. She had never faced that disappointment. Until now. 

“Sweetie, it’s not Daddy’s fault,” you whispered. “I promise you he wants to be with us and that he’ll be home as soon as he can.”

“But it’s Christmas!”

Christmas Eve, actually, but to your daughter it was all the same. She had expectations. Cookie decorating, and milk pouring—a skill she’d asked Jake to help her perfect, not wanting to spill a drop for the reindeer. There was a letter she wanted to write to Santa, thanking him for bringing her Daddy home, which he had not, only adding to Eve’s bitterness. And it didn’t do her any good that before Jake left, she had also begged for a Christmas Eve pajama party where you all dressed in matching flannels, her baby brother included, and read a story before bed. 

Jake had done his best to promise those things to Eve, and in the same moment, with a single look at you, had silently communicated the very real possibility that none of it might happen. You knew it, expected it, and didn’t blame him for it, but it didn’t change that your little girl was in pain and her father wasn’t by her side to make it go away.

“I know. I know, Sweetie,” you said, gently rocking her back and forth. But your soothing could only be so effective, and for the night, she wouldn’t be able to take much more. “I think it’s time for bed now.”

“Why?” came out nasally, her crying having stuffed up her nose.

“Because you’ve been up for too long. You woke up hours earlier than you usually do and you didn’t take your nap today.”

She pulled her head back from the crook of your neck to look at you, and you wiped away the salty liquid from under her lashes. “But what about Daddy?”

“Daddy will be home soon. He’s just a little late, but that’s ok.”

“It is not.”

“It is, Sweetie,” you said, your own tears forming and beginning to blur your daughter’s face. “He’s trying so hard to be here, and that’s what matters.” When one of them fell, Eve’s finger rose to meet the droplet as it slowed its descent down your cheek. You grabbed her hand and rubbed the tear off her fingertip. “Come on, let’s go lay down.”

This time, with exhaustion setting in, she didn’t fight you, but she did wiggle from your hold to stand up on her own. Then she used the last of her energy to rush over to the coffee table where the small set of jingle bells she’d been dangling in front of her brother’s face to elicit his giggles was lying. Jake had bought her those bells last Christmas and immediately regretted bringing such incessant jingling into his home. 

Swallowing back your remaining tears, you watched as Eve wrapped her fingers around the velvet cord that kept the bells in a bunch before making her way into the hall and draping the cord over the knob of the front door. 

You nodded and stood. Her tears were not quite dried, and you knew she was desperate to keep her eyes on that door, but she still took your hand when you reached out for her. 

“I’ll tell you if I hear them,” you said before lifting her in your arms to carry her up to her room. 

---

In her weakened fight against sleep, Eve failed. When you finally had her tucked in her bed, passed out and releasing soft snores, you returned to the living room where you wrapped yourself up in a blanket and stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. 

You did your best not to fall apart in front of your daughter, but Jake being gone ripped you to pieces as much as it did her. It didn’t help that his return was no less anxiety-inducing than his departure. The occasional unpredictability allowed your mind to wander to undesirable scenarios that, at this point, you knew weren’t likely, but the thought of them still terrified you. 

Jake was fine, though. You believed it, knew it. He was safe. The next person to open that door would be him, it was just a matter of when, and hoping it would be before the holiday was over. 

---

The clock had reached midnight only a handful of minutes before your eyelids grew heavy and begged to close. You fought sleep but, much like your daughter, reached your limit and succumbed. The consistent crackling of the fire combined with the warmth of the blanket lulled you slowly but effectively. It was too quiet and peaceful to resist, until a jingle clanged against another jingle which together thumped against something thick and solid. 

Your body jolted as you heard a muttered “Why so damn loud?”

“Jake?” you called, tossing the blanket aside and running toward the door. He barely had his duffle on the floor and his key out of the lock when you slammed into him. 

His arms were around you in an instant, slightly lifting you off the ground as his nose tucked into the crook of your neck. “God, you feel good,” was muffled in his deep voice, vibrating against your skin. His arms tightened. “So good.”

Your feet met the floor again, and with your hands on his cheeks, you guided his head back so you could press your lips to his. Your moan greeted his. Then you sighed into the kiss and melted further into his hold. No matter how many times you said goodbye, you were always relieved to find him the same as when he left. The feel of him, the taste of him, the chills you got when his hands wove into your hair—he never returned as anyone other than your Jake. 

He gave you two more pecks, then one final long kiss before he broke it to breathe, allowing his forehead to rest against yours while his chest expanded and deflated and expanded again to take in the air you’d stolen. “I missed you, Honey.”

A tear forged a cold trail down the flush of your cheek and slipped into the seam of your lips. “I missed you, too.”

Jake pressed a kiss to your forehead before meeting your eyes. “How are the kids?”

“Needing you,” you said as he wiped away the wet river from your skin. “Eve thought you weren’t going to make it home in time.”

Knowing your husband, it took only the barest of shifts in his stance, his brow, his eyes, for you to see his heart was breaking right along with Eve’s. He turned his head toward the staircase that led to the bedrooms of your home, his daughter’s in particular.

Inching up on your toes, you softly kissed the line of his jaw and, somehow, for the first time, noticed he had a little bit of stubble. His last day or two must have been exhausting if he hadn’t gotten a chance to shave. Likely, everyone was in such a rush to get home to their families that some basic rules went out the window. Your kiss traveled up to his cheek. 

“It’s ok, baby,” you whispered. “You’re with us now.”

“Did she cry?”

“She’ll forget all about it when she sees your face.”

Jake lightly hummed, unsatisfied with the state he’d forced upon his daughter. Without letting another beat pass, he took your hand, led you to your daughter's room, and eased her door open. 

The glow emitting from Eve’s new plane nightlight—an early Christmas gift the Daggers had sent from overseas—highlighted her sleeping face, and her delicate features were so peaceful you’d never have known she was devastated a few hours prior.

When you had let her open the gift from the team, you of course told her who it was from right away with a huge smile splitting your face. She was so excited as she pulled at the bow and shredded the paper that she laughed louder than you had heard in quite some time. Her eyes went wide and she hopped up on her feet to fly the plane around the room. She giddily showed her infant brother—who received his own nightlight in the form of a train so the gifts would be unique to each child—before she plopped down on the carpet in your living room to examine every detail of the elaborately designed light. 

And then she began to sob. 

She sobbed for missing her daddy and aunts and uncles; for missing the many times Jake had taken his family to see the planes he flew, which closely matched the shape of Eve’s gift. She sobbed until you took her upstairs for bed, helped her plug in the light, and told her a story of her daddy seeing that plane and that train and immediately thinking of his baby girl and little boy. 

That was only three weeks ago, and Eve’s angst had grown with the passing days. But the little light helped her rest at night as long as she completed her ritual of crouching down in front of the radiating glow and whispering a soft “goodnight Daddy” before settling into bed. 

It did help for a while, but it didn’t cease the daily return of her tears. And this night, fairly so, was by far the worst. Her disappointment made the light its least effective since she’d received it. 

Jake stepped into the room and took a seat at the edge of her bed. “I shouldn’t wake her,” he said as he brushed a blonde curl out of her face. From that light touch, Eve stirred, but then she stilled again, releasing a soft breath.

Your husband sighed right along with her. You knew how badly he wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her tight. He needed that. He could see her in front of him, and from those inhales and exhales, could hear her, and he could feel the soft curls of her hair, but nothing compared to feeling her little heartbeat beating against his, or hearing her sweet voice, or seeing her bright smile. That he’d have to wait for morning to truly greet his daughter after months away was an ache you would never know. Yes, you ached for him when he was gone, and you knew he did for you, but it just wasn’t the same. This was his child, a piece of him that he’d gone without for so long. It was a powerless feeling. She was right there, but being the father he was, Jake wouldn’t disturb her for his own sake. 

Carefully, Jake leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “Would you like to go see our son?” Another one of his children that he’d undoubtedly refuse to disturb, no matter how much he wanted to see the little pair of eyes that matched yours staring up at him. 

Jake nodded, gently squeezing Eve’s tiny hand. He was about to stand when you both heard a soft, “Daddy?”

Your heads whipped in Eve’s direction to find her fists rubbing at her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered as her vision adjusted to the darkness, but when she saw the darkened figure sitting by her side, Eve didn’t second guess herself. She kicked at her covers and leapt across the bed with the speed and agility of a bunny rabbit. 

“Daddy!” 

Jake chuckled as he caught her. “Hi, baby girl.”

Little hands reached up to his face to verify his realness. They ran up and down the scruff she’d rarely ever seen, making Jake’s cheeks contort in funny shapes, and then she grinned. “You came home.”

You couldn’t see all of Jake’s face, but you heard his sniffle as he tugged your daughter closer to his chest. “Of course, I did.”

“Mama said you would.”

“Well, Mama’s usually right, isn’t she?” he said, turning to look at you and confirming the redness that was brightening the green of his irises. He winked before returning his attention to his daughter.

Eve nodded vigorously then threw her arms around his neck, squeezing with all of her might. “I like Santa again.”

“When didn’t you like Santa?” Jake asked as he rubbed his hand up and down her back.

Eve pulled back. Her smile was still in place as she patted the tops of his shoulders with both hands. “Today," she said. "But you are home so he’s ok.”

---

A/N: so i have another christmas challenge fic coming that is Rooster x reader, which is my very first Rooster fic so hopefully I do alright. Then my focus will be on The One I Want and some Thorn (Expendables 3) fics :)

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @eloquentdreamer @jessicab91 @rosedurin @novagreen04 @memeorydotcom @purplevortexx @sgt-barnesveins @books-are-escapes

[honkytonk-hangman]

How It's Done – Oneshot Version

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Aviator!Reader

Originally posted by unicornships

Summary: “Like me? I didn’t even think you wanted me as a squadmate, let alone–” you stop speaking, but only because Hangman cuts his eyes sharply away from you to glare out at the ocean. “Well, I do.” He says kind of indignantly, all things considered, and eyes you almost sourly. “You can just say no if you don’t–” “–No, I do!” you quickly cut him off, because at the end of it all, you’re a little too much of a hopeless romantic to let this moment pass you by.

Warnings: erm maybe just some references to sex? jake being jake? language? minions. big warning for minions xD

Notes: Originally I intended this to be a two-parter series, but I wanted to change how it went, so I rewrote the parts I didn't like and made the entire thing into a oneshot instead!!! This fic will replace the 'part one' already on my blog, but I will keep this part up, linked at the very bottom of my masterlist! thank you everyone for being so patient! Thank you @hangmanssunnies, my love my biggest support <3

Words: 11.6k!

“Well, I’ll be damned…”

You pinch your eyes shut and steel yourself at the sound of the all too familiar Texan drawl, hanging on to the hope that perhaps he isn’t talking to you. You’re out of luck though, and moments later Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin slides into the open space next to you at the bar, already posed in a casual lean as he looks you up and down appraisingly.

It makes your teeth grind.

It makes your face hot.

“If it isn’t Mirage. Would have invited you to play with us if I’d known you were here earlier…” Hangman cocks his head, and his lips tip up in an infuriatingly perfect smile. “But one can never really be sure if you’re around or not… and that's before you get in a cockpit,” he grins, but when you meet his eye at last, he looks away from you, toward Penny who seems to approach in the nick of time, saving you from needing to respond.

You blink down at your drink, and finish it quickly, unnerved by what you think might have just been a compliment of sorts from Hangman. You’d been stationed together previously, though you weren’t friends, so you’d been expecting something a little more acidic in nature. You’d heard him interact with other aviators, knew he liked to push and poke them, usually got away with it too. For some reason though, he’d never really gone there with you and frankly you’ve always just chalked it up to not being worth his time. In fact, you’re pretty sure the only times you’d ever actually spoken had been in the sky. To be completely honest, you’re more than a little surprised that he remembers you at all.

You didn’t exactly go out of your way to stand out…

You were naturally quiet, which wasn’t helped by your social anxiety, resulting in most people describing you as extremely shy. They wouldn’t be wrong, you suppose, you did tend to keep to yourself, the idea of having too many eyes on you all but unbearable to you. But if you’d thought a roomful of people singing happy birthday to you was bad, somehow being under the unwavering stare of Hangman is approximately one thousand times worse.

“Penny, my dear… I’ll have,” he stops to glance pointedly down at your now finished beer, adjusts his stance to lean even more and unwittingly makes the muscles in his bicep bulge.

“Five more on the Old Timer,” Hangman says, nodding to the man who sits on the other side of the bar.

Internally you blanch, but externally, you say nothing and give even less away, feeling a little ping of satisfaction that apparently, you know something Hangman doesn’t. Before he’d come along, you’d been carefully watching the interaction between Penny and Captain Mitchell. You’d never met the man before, but you knew how to read military insignia, which at this point, was more than you could say for Hangman, who dismisses him quickly.

You wonder if Monday morning you’ll be able to work up the nerve to tease him about it.

You’re distracted from your thoughts when Penny returns with the requested drinks. You had no real intentions of going and hanging out with Hangman and the others, but before you can excuse yourself, your empty beer is smoothly plucked from your hands, replaced quickly with a brand new one.

“Help me carry these back?” Hangman asks then, jerking his head in the vague direction of the pool table. You frown when he immediately takes off walking, not actually letting you help him at all, all four beers still slotted between his fingers. You find yourself following him anyway, as if he’d placed some kind of spell over you.

Hangman stops ahead of you at the ancient jukebox, looking back over his shoulder at you, nodding in a pleased manner when he sees you trailing behind. He waits for you, gaze never leaving your form, even as he nods to the space next to him. You awkwardly step up to the spot opposite to him, and look past the glass and at the selection inside. Hangman, once more, takes up a lean, this time against the rickety machine.

“Would you be so kind as to select track number…” he trails off as he checks the list of songs, but quickly flicks his gaze back to you, and smiles bright, tauntingly, again. “Eighty-Six?” he asks, but it's barely a question. You nod, and swallow, shifting from holding your beer with two hands to holding it with just one. You carefully tap the chunky ‘eight’ and ‘six’ keys as he watches. The machine’s little analogue screen confirms that your song is next up, and nervously, you look back up at Hangman, horrified to find he’s just been staring at your face for the past however long.

“S’been a while, Mirage.” He drawls, making you blink rapidly and look away.

“Has it?” Is all you can manage meekly in reply, surprised when he lets out a genuine sounding laugh. He hums warmly, and you practically feel it in your chest.

“And yet,” he lifts hand, two beers held expertly between his fingers, but he extends it to tap your nose, almost making you almost flinch.

“You haven’t changed at all.” Hangman grins Cheshire-like down at you, before his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he leans in even closer while flicking his eyes up and down your form again.

“I don’t bite you know,” he tells you, his voice sounding serious, but his somberness lasts mere seconds.

“Well, not unless you ask me to first, sweetheart,” he winks and his smile grows large as your eyes grow wide and you splutter, flustered.

Your face grows hot with slight embarrassment, a wave of inner resentment at his teasing washing through you.

Hangman laughs, seemingly bored with you now, and he turns to walk back toward the pool tables. Without even looking, he beckons you to follow with one finger on his still occupied hands. For a moment your pique prevents you from doing so, certain that if you were to dip into the crowd now, he’d not care enough to seek you out again, let alone notice you were missing.

You know he didn’t mean it, you know his flirting is just to get a rise, but you also know that he’d never do it to Phoenix, or Halo, and a little bit of you hates yourself for being such a marked pushover. You make the decision now that you won’t let him do it again, if you can help it.

Your eyes travel past Hangman then, towards the pool tables where you can now see another figure has joined the other gathered aviators, and for the first time all evening, you don’t feel nervous to go join them.

You follow after Hangman, but quickly diverge from his path, cutting around a gathered group of Navy personnel to get there faster. As you approach, you take a moment to shake off any lingering anxiety, before gently laying a hand on the faded Hawaiian shirt in front of you, doing your best to keep yourself from bouncing on your heels.

Rooster half looks ready to wave off whoever is trying to get his attention, but when his shaded eyes land on you, he spins his whole body to face you, grinning widely in unguarded excitement as he gathers you up in his arms.

“Miri!” he exclaims warmly, and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you when he briefly lifts you off the ground.

“I was just about to ask Phoenix if she’d seen you yet.” Rooster informs you. 

“Seen who?” Phoenix steps around him, frowning as she quickly glances you over, though it disappears quickly.

“Yeah, that about tracks…” Rooster mutters mostly to himself.

“Nat, this is Mirage, you know her right?” Rooster introduces the two of you, and while neither of you make to shake hands, you only feel friendly energy radiate off the other woman, even as she openly looks you over now, nodding at Rooster’s words.

“Right, I have heard about you… I guess there's no real mystery behind your callsign… I didn’t even realise you were here… Sorry,” she tells you bluntly, but you appreciate her straightforwardness.

“They said ‘Wallflower’ was too long.” You joke lightly, and the other woman smiles. A moment passes between you, and you get the distinct feeling that Phoenix has become determined to never let you go unnoticed in her presence again.

You aren’t sure just yet if you appreciate that, but you are sure that you’ve just made a friend.

“Mirage?” Another voice joins then and you look to your left, smiling again when you see another familiar face.

“Bob!” you move to embrace him too, not seeing the look shared between Phoenix and Payback who watch you in surprise.

“Huh. Figures.”

-

Neither you or Hangman have moved since Rooster and Mav went down. The rest of Dagger had returned an hour ago, mission complete. There was no reason for either of you to be on standby.

And yet.

When the call came through that Dagger Two had been hit, both you and Hangman had separately requested to be launched, to help, but you’d been denied.

As a rule, you made yourself easy to work with, even if those around you were less compliant, and you’d experienced plenty of that, flying alongside Hangman the past few weeks. Whether it was him leaving you to get shot down in training, or refusing to fly as a team during simulations. And yet, despite his habit of ‘hanging you out to dry’ being the reason behind his callsign, deep down, you’ve never once doubted flying alongside him in the real thing like the others seemed to.

You’re glad for that lack of hesitation now, glad that it only takes a single moment of eye contact from across the tarmac for the two of you to understand one another perfectly. Glad that when you got word that somehow, Rooster was supersonic again, you already know his answer before you even ask.

“Hangman? Hondo’s cleared us for take off with the ground crew, against orders. You with me?” you ask quietly, looking over at your wingman, knowing that when you return you’ll most certainly be court marshalled, but unable to sit and do nothing any longer.

“To hell and back, Mirage,” comes his immediate reply.

You see him move in sync with you, both of your canopy’s lowering at the same time.

You ignore the panicked voices ordering you to stand down, long enough for Hondo and the others to get you on the catapult, and by then it’s too late.

In two seconds you’re propelled from zero to over a hundred and sixty, and in your ears you hear Hangman right behind you.

-

“Do you want to get a coffee with me?” The question makes you jump, your drink almost sloshing everywhere. The sudden voice, as well as the person it belonged to, takes you completely by surprise, but you’re thankful he doesn’t draw attention to your startling.

Up until moments ago, you’d been peacefully watching the ocean toss and turn, burying your feet in the damp sand and thinking about what you were going to do with your upcoming two weeks of post-mission leave.

Most of Dagger were a little further up the shore, a bonfire crackling away, although you weren’t the only one to have splintered off. Mav and Rooster were currently standing in the shallows talking, and you think Halo and Phoenix have moved to sit apart from the others as well. You had managed to sneak away easily enough, content to just sit on your own for a while, though your efforts appear to have been mostly in vain, if the man now plopped in the sand beside you is any indicator.

You blink at each other.

“What?!” you blurt out dumbly, not completely certain you really understood what he’d said. Hangman’s lips press into a thin line, and he looks away from you, linking his hands together around his knees, and staring out at the rolling waves.

“Coffee. Would you like to get one with me?” He repeats, sounding only a smidge impatient, but it still doesn't clear up much for you.

“I… No, I heard you the first time… I… I just don’t understand… why?”

Over the past three weeks you’ve been forced more out of your shell than you ever have before. It was torture. It was wonderful.

Part of you pats yourself on the back for being able to ask him so starightly, but another part of you slaps yourself in the face for questioning him.

Hangman turns to look at you apprehensively.

“Are you asking why coffee or why am I asking you?” He speaks slowly and carefully, his face blank and devoid of any hint he was teasing, though you think he might be anyway.

“Why… Why are you asking me?” You push, shuffling your feet in the sand, drawing his attention for a moment. He looks back at your face and frowns slightly, cocking his head.

“Because I like you? And that is usually what somebody does when they like someone. Ask them.” He answers, and this time you definitely get the impression he’s politely trying not to laugh, but for once, you don’t feel like you’re on the outside of the joke.

Still, you find yourself taken somewhat aback at his confession, admitted so easily and freely, as if it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, which confuses you.

“Like me? I didn’t even think you wanted me as a squadmate, let alone–” you stop speaking, but only because Hangman cuts his eyes sharply away from you to glare out at the ocean.

“Well, I do.” He says kind of indignantly, all things considered, and eyes you almost sourly. “You can just say no if you don’t–”

“–No, I do!” you quickly cut him off, because at the end of it all, you’re a little too much of a hopeless romantic to let this moment pass you by. Especially when for the past three weeks you haven't been able to get rid of the odd heart skips you got whenever Hangman acknowledged your presence at all.

And besides, you weren’t blind.

Hangman was ridiculously pretty, and not anywhere near as much of an asshole as he wanted people to believe.

He looks at you blankly for a moment, processing your words, before his face breaks out in a smile. It isn’t one of his usual smirks or tauntingly pearly grins, though. It’s softer, sweeter, and you stare mesmerised as he looks away from you again quickly, and down at his linked hands, nodding.

Two days pass, and even when you’re sitting across from him in a small, niche little coffee shop you had no idea existed, you feel like you’re in a dream.

You’ve never seen Hangman out of uniform, you realise, and it’s a whole new experience you’re forced quickly to process when he stands to go get your drinks.

Dark jeans, white shirt, casual jacket. It’s a simple outfit, but goddamn does he make it look good. Nervously you have to wonder if your white and blue sundress, sneakers and bomber jacket were having the same effect on him, though you highly doubt it.

He returns quickly, attentively, placing both your coffees down, before folding himself into his chair once more. You both look at each other awkwardly before you distract yourself by taking a sip of your coffee. Hangman seems to do the same, but instead of drinking, he begins tearing into several little sugar packets, and emptying them into his coffee foam.

You huff out a tiny laugh before you can stop yourself, and his eyes quickly snap to you.

“What?” he asks defensively, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

“I just… I guess I never figured you for a sweet coffee kinda guy…”

“Oh, and why is that?” his twitching lips turn into a full smirk, but it isn’t his usual Hangman smirk. You chew on the inside of your lip, and sip your coffee once more before answering.

“I’m not sure. I guess you just don’t seem like the type of guy who…” you trail off, unsure of what exactly you’re trying to say and even more; how to say it.

“Listen, I may have rippling, glistening abdominals, but I have a sweet tooth,” he says, putting on the defensiveness now, leaning toward you and pointing at himself. You pinch your brows together and purse your lips, nodding vehemently.

“I know how to have fun,” he tells you, tipping a third sugar into his coffee.

“Of that I don’t really doubt, Hangman,” you say, but his gaze snaps back to you again, almost sharply this time.

“Jake.” he corrects you.

You pause.

Of course, you knew his first name, but you’re fairly certain you’ve never once used it. Hangman has just always been, well, Hangman. But you weren’t in a cockpit right now, he’d asked you out, this wasn’t the time and place for callsigns. He wasn’t Hangman, and you weren’t Mirage.

“Jake,” you say slowly, carefully, as if he’ll tell you any moment he’s just kidding around. But he doesn’t.

“Miri,” he replies, slow like you, but softer, and it’s silly, but it sounds so nice coming from him. You shake your head and swallow.

“Jake, if you don’t like coffee, why did you ask me out for one?” you ask him, watching as he blinks slowly at you, before his gaze slowly drops to the latte in front of him.

“If I asked you for a drink, you might’ve got the wrong idea,” he starts, speaking carefully. “If I asked you for dinner, it could be too formal, too awkward–”

“–It’s already awkward,” you point out, making him grimace slightly, so you shrug.

“Coffee just seemed like– I just wanted to–” he cuts himself off and drops both hands to the table.

“Look– I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding about what this was. I like you. I know you like coffee.” Jake admits all in a flurry, his voice quiet, and his eyes flickering around as he speaks.

For as long as you’ve known him, you’ve never seen Jake unable to maintain eye contact, actually it seemed to be something he took immense pride in, and it always made you slightly uncomfortable, but right now he appears completely incapable, and it's not a side of Hangman you’ve ever seen before. You realise you might be meeting Jake properly for the first time.

You decide to let him off easy, with all the newfound courage Dagger had been feeding into you the past few weeks, and you change the subject.

“You know, when you came up to me at the Hard Deck that first night, I was kinda surprised you remembered me at all,” you say slowly, sipping your coffee and eying him evenly. Jake frowns then, but it smooths out into a cool grin, and he leans back in his chair, cocking his head.

“Are you kidding? I’m always clocking possible threats.” he tells you, making you cough lightly.

“How am I a threat to you?!” you ask in disbelief.

“Oh, I could name a few,” Jake teases, nodding at you, but flicking his eyes away, almost making a show of clocking an incoming group of customers behind you.

You weren’t clueless, you knew you were a part of Dagger for a reason. You were damn good at your job, but still, Jake was Hangman, not only was he an aviator you respected, he was an aviator with very high personal standards, and for him to see you as comparable to him… well truthfully, you find yourself rather humbled.

And then flustered, at his clear unabashed flirting.

“I always thought you flirting was just you messing with me,” you admit, and he grins wider.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks, leaning forward again, and clasping his hands together. He seems to have no problem maintaining eye contact now, you note. When you cold-stare him, he simply shrugs.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered and nervous, what can I say?”

“Literally anything else.” You grumble back.

You finish your coffee and push the cup to the side, crossing your arms on the table and leaning forward like he was. Jake mimics you, pushing his own coffee away, clearly with no intention to start, let alone finish it. You aren’t as good as him with eye contact though, no matter how much you’d come out of your shell, so you take the opportunity to glance sideways out the window, only for your gaze to catch on something.

Your heart thumps loudly for a moment in your ears, and you wonder briefly if you should act on the thoughts popping around your brain right now, or if you should just stay put.

You lean forward even more, and flick your eyes back to Jake who is staring at you curiously.

“Hey, I have an idea…” you start, chewing on the inside of your lip, before standing up. You only hesitate a little before offering your hand.

“You with me?” you ask without thinking, the words the same as the ones you ask time and again to your wingmen while in flight manoeuvres. Jake stares up at you for a moment, before he too stands, your heart skipping when he takes your hand. With a tiny squeeze you almost don’t notice, Jake grins, and nods.

-

“Oh, hey! Stop! That’s not fair!” You elbow Jake in the side, but it’s already too late. The hand he’d shot out to block your light gun had done its job, and where you’d previously been neck in neck for score on the dual Time Crisis cabinet, Jake’s character was now cheering in victory, while your screen was asking you to insert more coins and try again.

Jake chortles and you both slot your plastic guns back into their plastic holsters at the front of the machine.

“We never agreed to no interference,” he says proudly, and you sock him in the arm only half as hard as you can.

“I didn’t think it needed to be said!” you exclaim pointedly. Jake grins down at you, and collects his tickets.

“Quit complaining, all these are gonna go towards whatever stuffed bear or whatever the hell you want anyway.” He rolls his eyes, and gestures to the shoddy ‘rewards’ counter of the arcade you’d spotted from the coffee shop.

“I want the Minion.” You state firmly after glancing at the redemption counter for three seconds, and spotting the big ugly yellow creature on the top shelf. Jake sighs in a put-upon manner and shakes his head.

“See, this is how you know I really like you. I’m willing to ignore that,” he says, and you actually think he might be serious this time. You grin up at him as he takes your elbow, and begins leading you toward the back of the room.

“What are you going to cheat me out of kicking your ass at this time?” you glance around you, goosebumps trailing up and down your arm as Jake lets his hand slide from around your elbow, down your forearm and into your hand, which he squeezes as if in warning.

“I didn’t cheat, I simply used black ops tactics,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. You purse your lips at him and narrow your own eyes back.

“Cheat.” you say again, pronouncing each syllable deliberately.

You come to a stop then, and you look up at the old photo booth machine. Jake pulls out a fistfull of tickets, squinting his eyes at the label with instructions, before looking back over at the redemption counter. He seems to run some numbers before he looks back down at you with a grin, and waves the strings of crumpled tickets.

“My cheating means we can use the booth, and still have enough for a Kevin plush, so I don’t wanna hear no more complaining outta you,” he waggles a finger in front of your nose, and you blink up at him sheepishly.

“Jake– I don’t really want the Minion…” you say, before your voice turns suspicious. “Anyway, how do you know which one is Kevin?!” you lift an eyebrow, only for Jake to roll his eyes and push you into the curtained booth.

You orient yourself in the tiny enclosed space, looking around you as Jake takes a moment to feed several lines of win-tickets into the machine before he follows you. He’s forced to duck down real low, making the space even smaller, and you both stare for a moment at the small seat barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

“Well, either you can sit on my lap, or I can sit on yours, darlin’, but I know which one I’d prefer.” Jake intones lowly, and for the first time in an hour or so, you feel yourself get all flustered again. Honestly, you’d kind of forgotten about the explicitly romantic tone of this meeting until now, and more than that, your stomach begins to flip and flop like the first time you’d gotten in a jet when he eases past you and drops himself onto the bench before patting his thighs.

“Jake, maybe if you just move over a litt–”

“No can do, honey,” and he’s not even trying to tease you, he demonstrates the spread of his legs, and the tight fit into the booth, before looking back up at you expectantly again.

“Okay… Okay…” you say more for your own sanity than anything else, and turn, quickly perching yourself on his leg before you can really think too hard about what you're doing.

Your efforts are for naught though, because the moment you’re sat down, Jake’s hands are tugging you against him further, sitting you more comfortably on the thick expanse of his thigh, and you barely repress the noise that nearly escapes you at the feeling of his fingers digging into your hips.

“There we go, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost to himself, and moves his hands to wrap around you completely. If he notices your little noise, which by his self satisfied smirk he definitely has, he thankfully chooses not to say anything. Your face grows warm, not only at the hold he has on you but at the pet name too.

“Did you just call me ‘sweetheart’?” you ask, sounding half bewildered, half incredulous, forgetting for a moment where exactly you were and why. As you look over your shoulder at the man behind you, Jake stares back, his smirk still in place even as his eyes seem to search your face, his own expression mostly unreadable.

“Would you prefer ‘honey’?” he almost purrs, his voice distinctly amused, but you notice that he doesn’t back down, doesn’t apologise or step back.

It makes your stomach twist up in knots. It makes your heartbeat skip like a record.

You turn away from him, shake your head.

“It’s fine,” you tell him bashfully, wanting to grumble slightly when against your back you sense what you think is him puffing his chest a little. Quickly, you add: “Not at work, though…”

Jake chortles, but as you peek over your shoulder to look at him again, he’s relenting, his smirk gone and replaced with a far softer smile as he nods.

“Not at work, though.” he repeats lowly in confirmation, almost making you jump when he shifts one hand to steady you around the waist, his other reaching out to begin fiddling with the controls on the lit up screen in front of you.

“Alright, let's get this show on the road shall we?”

By the time you’re exiting the tiny cubicle, Jake’s hands still attached to your hips as he follows you out, you’re both laughing quietly to yourselves. You’re amazed to find just how much Jake can affect you, either setting you at complete ease or sending you into a tizzy, depending on what he’s said or done. Usually you wouldn’t be surprised by other people’s effects on you, you were jumpy and anxious by nature, but it was rare that somebody who put you on edge as much as Jake did, could also give you such comfort.

When he detaches his hands from your sides at last to survey the sheets of photos spat out by the booth, you marvel at how much you start to miss the contact. With all the subtlety you can muster, you inch closer to him, under the guise of getting a look at the photos as well, though really, you’re only hoping that you might prompt him into reaching out for you again.

Jake chortles and points at a set of two pictures. In one, you’re both grinning madly, pulling silly faces, and in the other, you’re wearing softer smiles, and you notice now, that Jake had pushed his face a little closer to yours. It makes heat rise in your cheeks, not just at the seeming intimacy of the photo, but truthfully, of how much you like seeing the two of you like that.

“You won’t mind if I keep these, will ya?” Jake asks, looking over at you. You simply shake your head, and he grins a little wider, carefully tearing off the two pictures before pulling out his wallet and tucking them inside, for sake keeping, you assume.

Jake lets you keep the rest, and absently, you fold them into the zipper in your purse, too distracted by the fact that he does indeed take your hand again, before quickly releasing it to instead wrap his arm over your shoulder. You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little as you blink dumbly up at him, and he grins down at you, ducking his face even closer to yours.

“Now sweetheart, I believe I was instructed to win you a minion plush.”

-

You try to avoid Phoenix’s hard stare, and focus on wiping down your helmet.

“You’re acting weird,” she finally announces, still managing to make you jump despite your anticipation. You then immediately proceed to do yourself exactly zero favours, proving her point by refusing to look up at her, choosing to instead hurriedly continue with your current task.

“What? No I’m not. I’m fine. You’re being weird,” you argue, wincing at your clearly abysmal attempts at behaving like a normal adult human. You start re-cleaning the pristine surface of your helmet, your nerves conjuring imperfections you logically know don’t exit.

Just before you completely lose yourself down the spiral of unhealthy compulsive behaviours, A hand, Nat’s hand, stops your own. Tugging the cloth out of your hands and taking your helmet away from you, she places it down on the workbench you stand on opposite sides of. Chewing your lip, you at last meet her eye.

“Miri, it’s okay to have a crush–”

“–I don’t have a crush!” You blurt out both far too quickly to be believable, as well as in sheer panic. Your face grows immediately hot, and you can tell Phoenix is trying not to laugh at the show you’re putting on so poorly. Her lips twitch, but her expression softens from amusement into something softer, mixed with traces of pity. Just when you’re starting to debate the pros and cons of sprinting out of the room, getting in your jet, and then flying away never to be seen again, she relents, releasing you from her eye contact and making herself busy as she tidies up bits and bobs littering the workbench.

You swallow thickly, and stay watching her, your heart rate only spiking higher as your anxiety builds once more at her sudden apparent indifference. You follow her movements without moving an inch, sharply aware that not only was she still very much focused solely on scrutinising you, but even more mortifyingly, that this conversation was far from being over.

“Nat,” you say with surprisingly more strudiness than you believed possible, pausing to swallow the dryness in your mouth. “I don’t have a crush, okay?” You wait for her to look back over at you, nothing but disbelief rolling off of her faux-casualty, giving you a bullshit shrug and a smile.

“Okay.” she says. You had hoped that would be enough, but you should have known better. You clear your throat again.

“Nat,” you say, only making yourself louder, as if that was a sign of nothing going on. She looks up at you somewhat blankly. You know you’re totally screwed already as her eyes dip to watch your finger begin quickly tapping on the bench before you with barely any acknowledgement from yourself. “There’s nothing weird going on,” you say, pleading with your voice and face and every atom of your being that she drops it.

She drops something, unfortunately it’s not the subject though, but you still feel some semblance of stress leaving your body as her fake lack of care dissolves, and she leans back to rest against the cabinet behind her. She crosses her arms and shrugs again while letting out a soft, pitying sigh, which this time doesn’t raise your non-existent heckles as much as it had when it first showed its face.

You stare at one another, at what you think is an impasse and wordless agreement to now never talk of this episode in your friendship ever again, but once again, you should have known better.

“If it’s any consolation, I think he has a crush on you too, so it's not like it’s a total waste of energy… despite all evidence to the contrary,” She says conversationally at first, before muttering out the last part under her breath.

“He doesn’t,” you state with so much certainty you almost forget for a moment that it’s not even a little bit true. Instead, crossing your arms too, you feel like a middle schooler having a much too serious fight with her friend at lunch. “We’ve just become closer, like all of the squad have. You’re just noticing it cause you want to!” you’re a little taken aback by the sound logic of your own reasoning, all points earned to your side then immediately becoming forfeit when you can’t help yourself from stupidly continuing to speak. “Why? Has he said something?!”

Your outburst of near-giddy excitement destroys all chances of you walking this back, and you find yourself with only one option left available. But your prior readiness to exit out of this failed interaction at roughly 300 kts/min becomes soberingly not so fun to fantasise about when you sheepishly remember the current charges against you, for the theft of the $70 million dollar military aircraft you’d technically stolen when you and Jake had taken a joy ride to pick up Mav and Rooster.

You're snapped back into the present as Natasha Trace regards you unreadably and slowly lifts one perfect eyebrow at you. You cover your face and hang your head, you reason with your now permanently mortified brain that if you just admitted to the thing she already believed to be true, she’d stop looking any closer, possibly finding out something actually secret.

It helps that your embarrassment for the flurry of extremely obvious questions is very real, and you groan into your palms. You hear before you see Phoenix laugh, listening to her chortle at your outing yourself, but you notice that he demeanour is warmer now, and she pushes herself up to sit on the top of the bench between you, crossing her legs.

“He’s not said a thing, but he doesn’t need to,” she tells you, seemingly glad to just be able to share her findings and observations, which you uncomfortably realise have been going on for a lot longer than you realised.

“It's what he’s not saying,” she explains, and you blink up at her in genuine curiosity.

“Huh?”

Phoenix turns her gaze upward as she thinks.

“He doesn’t make fun of you… or snipe at you, not really,” she begins, resting her head in her hand. “To be honest when we first met, I was expecting to defend you. You’re a good pilot, a great one, but Hangman isn’t exactly known for recognising that in others…”

You frown up at her, unsure of anything to say to abate her suspicions.

She’s not exactly wrong, even when the two of you were first stationed together, he’d never poked fun at you, never really called you out. To be fair, he hadn’t really acknowledged your presence at all, but these days you knew that was more to do with the fact that all this time, Hangman had liked you, had seen you were shy, and didn’t like crowds, and as you’d found out recently, often made more of a spectacle of himself to draw attention away from you.

You have to stop yourself from smiling dreamily at the thought of him.

“And I mean, he disobeyed direct orders for you, he knew what you were doing, and he went with you anyway… I’m just saying Miri, I don’t think you’d be disappointed if you were to say something–”

You quickly cut her off.

“I’m not saying anything to him!”

At last, given your already clear admittance of your supposed ‘crush’, Phoenix relents, holding up her hands and shrugging.

“Just think about it alright? It’s even sort of… cute, in a weird, Hangman-y way.”

You grumble at her, but thankfully she doesn’t bring it up again for the rest of the afternoon. Still, you leave the workshop with a sparkling helmet, cleaner than you think it ever has been, and with a pressing matter to relay to your boyfriend, most of which involves playing it much, much cooler in front of Phoenix the next time you all hang out.

-

You know you’ve made some personal growth when you answer the door in your matching Star Wars X-Wing PJ’s and slippers, and aren’t immediately mortified.

Jake stands there, already grinning back at you, and looking like a greek god sent to earth in his dark jeans and plain white shirt.

“Red Leader Mirage, your rescuer has arrived!” he announces, doing what you judge to be a surprising spot-on impression of Lt. Porkins from Star Wars, shooting a lazily salute down at slippers

Unfortunately, you aren’t given the chance to ask him more about his perfect Red Six however, as he’s almost immediately pushing away from where he’d been leaning against the side of your door, posing for your perusal you assume, and holds out a brown paper bag for you to take. You swipe it, and shoot him a thankful smile.

“Thank you, Jake, really…” you side-step his self-congratulatory jokes, but he doesn’t seem phased, simply shrugging, and taking a step closer to you, letting one hand rest gently on your shoulder, before he hooks it and tugs you into him.

You’d started getting all-too familiar with just how physically attentive Jake seemed to be, something you would never have guessed about him several weeks ago, but had come to terms with now. Clingy was never a word you would have used to describe him before. He hugs you briefly, then pulls back to look down at you, his brow furrowed and his expression filled with genuine concern, another thing you’d been getting more familiar with.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, inviting himself in by walking you backwards and kicking your door closed lightly behind him. You’d come not to mind this sort of thing either, but mostly because you know if you asked him to leave again, he would, no questions asked. That was another new thing you’d been learning about Jake Seresin.

In comparison to how Hangman could be up in the sky, Jake was entirely understanding, one hundred percent supportive, and almost a little too observant when it came to your particular anxieties. It meant he often knew without you saying when to push you, and when to not, and on the occasion that you did need to say, he always respected those boundaries.

It was starting to make you nervous, how much you were growing to like him.

“Cramps are kicking my ass, but other than that, mostly fine. Thank you for these,” you try again, hoping that he really understands just how much you appreciate him coming over for you tonight. Never in your life would you have imagined feeling comfortable enough to ask Hangman to stop by the pharmacy and pick you up sanitary products, and never would you have imagined he’d make no issue of it.

“Sure,” he says, again with a shrug. “You want me to head out?” he asks then, tipping his head back at your door, even as he inches his face closer to yours, brushing his nose tip against yours. Your lips quirk, then break out into a full smile when he grins before dipping low enough to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your stomach somersaults and pulls at least ten G’s for sure as he continues to brush his lips against yours teasingly.

This hadn’t taken much getting used to at all. Jake was a good kisser, and had proved it after your second date, almost in the exact place you were now, both his hands cupping your cheeks and his lips full on yours, hungry and insistent. That had been almost four weeks ago now, but after his hands had tugged your hips flush to his, you’d quickly put the breaks on.

You were still slightly uncertain about going further with Jake so soon. The fact was, you worked together in a high impact, high stress job, and if anything should happen between you, it would be easier to keep things professional if you took it slow

Jake had, to your slight surprise, though you aren't sure exactly what you were expecting, nodded slowly and taken a step back. He’d told you that the only thing he wanted more than you, was for you to want him too. You’d had to explain that your position wasn’t because you didn’t want him, which had led to more making out, but he hadn’t pushed to go further and he’d left that night with the affirmation that however long you wanted to wait was alright by him.

“No, you can stay,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck to stop him from pulling away too much as you try not to full-on pout. Jake smiles against your lips and presses into you further, moving to push you against the wall, where he crowds your space entirely and stops teasing you, capturing your lips with his at last.

You’re about to experimentally slide your hand up his shirt, a thought that had been lingering in your mind more and more these past few days, but your kiss is over too soon, and he pulls back, leaving you breathless.

“Weren’t you waiting for me, so you could do chores?” he prompts, nearly making you grumble. Instead you nod, and gently push back against him, heading towards your bedroom just down the main hall.

“You can wait in here if you like,” you suggest, feeling a little nervous about the idea, but it was something you’d been thinking about for a while now. Even if you and Jake weren’t sleeping together, that didn’t mean the two of you couldn’t sleep together, did it? It was something you’d wanted, specifically with him, but not really something you’d ever experienced before. You were ready to move out of these early stages of your relationship, eager to push yourself and your limits just a little, so you could settle into something more comfortable with Jake, something where you weren’t always a little surprised when he touched you, or called you by one of his innumerable pet names.

Jake shoves his hands in his pockets and nods, clearly thinking through what this invitation could mean as he follows you quietly.

“Um, I feel like I should say ‘excuse the mess’, but you know–” you cut yourself off and gesture around your bedroom when you both have entered. Jake snorts.

“Well that’s what being in the Navy gets you. I won’t judge if you say it anyway,” he tells you lightly, and you scoff.

“Yes you will!” you insist, and are met with a confident, familiar cheshire-grin.

“Mhm, but only a little. Have you changed your mind, honey?” he steps toward you again then, almost closing the distance in one stride, his hands still shoved in his pockets, but his gaze locked intently on you in a way you haven’t felt since that second date. Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he must be able to hear, but he doesn’t mention it, just waits for you, crowding your space again.

“Oh, I– No… not… I didn’t… I’m sorry…”

The moment you speak Jake is stepping back, pulling his hands from his pockets to hold them up, his expression losing the intensity again.

“No need to apologise, my mistake.” Jake’s words are sincere, but he looks away from you.

You let out a little sigh.

“It’s just so soon, and with the trial–”

“–You don’t have to explain yourself, honey,” Jake pulls his hands from his pockets at last and places them at your waist, drawing you in. You fall quiet as he lowers his face to yours, though he teases you again by not kissing you, simply looking you over, and then smirking when you pout. “You want it when you want it, and that’s when I want it, okay?”

He makes you nod, before he at last lowers his lips to meet yours and kisses you, slow and sweet. You finally get the chance to test the waters a little, easing your hand carefully underneath the back of his shirt, making you giggle against his mouth when he jumps slightly at the feel of your skin on his. Jake doesn’t say or do anything about it though, thankfully just letting you explore a little as he tips your head back further to deepen your kiss, and you brush your fingers up his spine.

After a short while of this, he must feel the urge to tease you again, because with little to no hesitation at all, unlike you, he slips his hands beneath your shirt, his warm palms gripping onto the bare skin just above your PJ shorts, almost making you moan. You’re glad you’re able to hold back the sound, mostly, but your own surprise doesn’t go unnoticed by the blond currently kissing you.

He only continues doing so for a short minute longer, before he’s eventually pulling back, lips pink and kiss swollen. You can’t help but frown at the parting. He squeezes your waist, and nudges your nose with his own.

“What do you want to do, honey?”

You groan at the apparent lack of making out in your future, not because you don’t think he’d agree, but mostly because you’re not quite ready to ask him for more, though a part of you senses he’s not willing to let you off the hook for those chores you’d told him about earlier.

“I need to fold this laundry,” you point past him, to your walk-in wardrobe and the basket that lies within. Jake looks over at it and lifts an eyebrow, which you choose to ignore. He nods then, and takes a step away from you, making you frown even more when his hands fall from your body.

“I’ll help,” he says, making your eyes widen, and you quickly step around him to block his path, where he is clearly about to make for your basket.

“No! Um… It’s okay, It’ll be easier if I just do it…” you trail off, wondering if you sound insane and neurotic, but Jake simply raises his hands again and nods.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he prods, and you realise, he’s come inside thinking you want him to help with your chores.

“I was thinking… I was thinking it might just be nice for you to just… be here?” You cringe, and narrowly avoid making a face at yourself. Jake blinks at you as if he doesn’t understand.

“You want me to… sit around while you do laundry?” he asks, tone confused, but equally unimpressed. You nod. Jake shifts, then clicks his tongue. “I was not raised to let somebody work while I sit and watch, especially not my girl. My mother would tan my hide.”

You’re a little surprised by the seriousness on his face, despite the humorous inflection in his voice. You suck in a breath, mulling over how to explain to him what you had been thinking when he came inside. Jake’s eyes flicker over you for a moment before he shifts again, crossing his arms and lifting his chin at you.

“Alright sweetheart, just say what you gotta say, I can hear those cogs turning from here…”

“I… I like that you want to help me, I think that’s really sweet…”

“But…?” Jake prompts.

“I find this kinda thing hard, and I was hoping we could just try and do something… domestic…? Together?” your face goes hot at your admission, and when Jake doesn’t immediately respond you wonder if using the word ‘domestic’ was too much, too soon.

“What is ‘this kind of thing’? I get the other part honey,” again, his voice is playful, but you see the seriousness behind his eyes and it lends you even more comfort. How is he so good at this? It’s almost like he’d read your teenage diary entry all about your perfect guy… it's the sort of attention, care, and behaviour that you’ve never actually gotten from a guy you were seeing before, so you aren’t really sure how to compose yourself.

“This kind of thing,” you gesture between you and him, before clearing your throat. “I don't know what to call it– us, but–”

“–a relationship.” Jake cuts in firmly, and you pause, heart thumping. You hadn't actually had this discussion yet, but you guess you’re having it now.

“Right. I mean, I’ve been in relationships before, but they’ve never really worked out and I feel like I never get to the point with boyfriends where I feel fully comfortable, so I–” you clamp your mouth shut, both at the use of ‘boyfriend’, and at the fact you were rambling, and you’re pretty sure it's too early to start telling him about how all your prior relationships failed.

“Right. So, let me get this straight; you were going to come back in here and put your laundry away, regardless of me being here?” Jake holds up a hand as he repeats back the information.

“Yeah…”

“And you just want me to keep you company?”

You nod, and clear your throat.

“Yeah.”

Jake stares at you, a level of understanding crossing his face, before his eyes flick to your laundry behind you, then back to your face.

“... And you’re sure I can’t help you?” His resolve sounds weak, and you think he’s already made up his mind to do as you asked, but his upbringing requires him to triple check. You smile, and this time step toward him, gingerly resting your hand on his arm, which he immediately raises, and flips, sliding it so now you’re holding his hand.

Again, you can’t fathom how he got so good at this sort of thing. Your knees go wobbly.

“I have a bunch of lacy unmentionables in there, so…” you try to lighten things, but it's not a lie. Jake picks up what you’re putting down, and gives your hand a squeeze. He tips his chin at you and lifts an eyebrow.

“Now why’d you have to go and say that honey? You sure you’re certain I can’t help?” his hands slip from yours to rest at your hips again, completely bypassing your top this time and your heart stutters.

You bite your lip, and nod your head, trying not to laugh him off fully, because while that may be your instinctual nervous reaction, you didn’t want to discourage him entirely. You liked that Jake acted as if you were a pretty girl, like you were desirable, and not like the awkward dork you actually were. You didn't want him to stop doing that.

His expression turns a little softer, and he leans down, moving slowly as to give you time to process, and he presses his lips to your cheek, lingering for just a moment before he taps your sides with his fingers, then steps away.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks back at you, pointing at what looks like one corner of your bed.

“Can I?”

You nod, and gesture at the whole mattress.

“Make yourself comfortable!”

–

You can feel the pounding music of the club in your whole body. The lights flashing and dancing in different colourways in time with the music give everything around you an ever changing aura, and maybe it’s all the drinks you’ve had tonight, but in front of you, Natasha seems to glow.

Her hands grasp your forearm firmly and you giggle, uncharacteristically carefree as you almost slip again.

“Alright! Okay, let's get you seated!” she says. She’s had a few too, but not nearly as many as you, and you’re glad for it now as she steers you toward the bar and grabs a paper cup to fill with water from the nearby water station toward the end. You find yourself drinking it without prompting, but miss the taste of the fruity cocktails you’d been downing all night. “I’ll call us a cab,” she says, beginning to pull out her phone, but you hastily stop her, placing a hand on her arm and shaking your head rapidly, making the colours spin even more.

“No! My boyfriend said he’d pick us up!” you insist, ignoring the way her eyebrows shoot up, then stitch together.

“You boyfriend?” she asks, but you miss the real question behind her words, instead you simply nod, and begin to fumble around in your own purse until you find your phone. Nat watches you expectantly as you open your messages, quickly tapping ‘call' on the top icon, and pressing the phone to one ear, and your finger to the other.

It rings less than once before it connects.

“Heeyy!” you sigh in relief down the line, happy to even just hear his voice after all night going without. “Yeah, no, everything’s alright, you just said to call you when we were done!” you say in reply to his amused questioning. You look up at Nat briefly, and if you were more sober, you might’ve been able to tell that she was leaning in slightly to try and hear the voice on the other end, but you aren’t, so you don’t.

“Okay, I’ll meet you out front!” you tell him excitedly, before adding on; “Is it okay if we give Nat a ride home too?” there's a short reply, and at last you’re smiling wide and nodding, even though he can’t see you. “Okay, we’ll see you soooon!”

You hang up and stare back up at Natasha, who's giving you a funny look that you ignore. “He said he’ll be here in ten, he’s been at the sports bar in town waiting!” you tell her dreamily, like she might understand what it means to you that Jake would choose to remain only a short distance away in case you needed anything, in the knowledge that you didn’t always enjoy nights out like this.

Nat simply nods and after making you drink one more glass of water, you begin making your way through the crowds and out of the club.

The air outside is warm, but refreshing and you take in as much of it as you can, not realising how stuffy the air inside the club had been until now. It was getting late, and bars and restaurants around the club are lit up and busy, the streets all around full of people either on their way to their destination, or lingering as they talk.

It doesn’t take long for you to spot Jake’s car and he pulls up close to the curb, allowing you to beeline for the passengers side door, not realising that Natasha follows with more confusion and trepidation. Jake jumps out of the car to greet you, rounding it to quickly steady your wobbly walk with a hand on your hip, and with the other, he pulls open the car door and helps you inside, leaning in to help you buckle in, grinning even as he murmurs quietly.

“You had a good night, sweetheart?” he asks, clicking your seatbelt into place for you, making you giggle at him. You lean forward for a kiss, but he dodges you, somewhat more aware than you are of your present company, and instead rests his hand so he can squeeze your knee. Your good mood isn’t spoiled and you barely notice the dodged kiss, so you simply nod your assent to his question vehemently.

“I had a lot to drink!” you tell him, before bursting out into giggles again, the soft, sweet smile Jake gives you going unnoticed as he squeezes your leg again.

“Yes you did,” he says with clear, fond amusement, and at last moves back so he can shut your door.

Unlike you, on the other hand, Natasha may as well be sober as a judge, and she eyes Jake somewhat distrustfully as she steps closer, lifting her chin up at him as she talks.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks accusingly, making Jake cock his head at her, only half as annoyingly as he can. He gestures back at you in the front seat of his car.

“Miri called, sounded pretty hammered,” he tells her as if that explained it. Natasha narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

“Yeah, but she said she was calling her boyfriend, what’re you doing here?” She dares him to reply with anything but the truth, however luckily for Jake, unlike most men caught in her crossfire, he’s able to brush her off with an infuriating grin.

“I guess she dialled the wrong number, do you want a lift home or not?”

At his ultimatum (however hollow it really is, he wouldn’t leave her on her own in the middle of the night), Natasha frowns darker at him, but accepts the door he opens, waiting for her to get settled before he closes it behind her and returns to the driver's side.

When Jake checks his rearview he notes in amusement that Nat has situated herself in the middle seat, giving herself a perfect view of the two of you in the front. You don’t, nor do you seem to have any weariness in the bloodhound you’ve just set upon the both of you, but if he’s honest, Jake had known from day one that the second Natasha Trace suspected anything, your little secret was over.

He drives back as normally as he can, but it's strange to him now to have you sitting right there in his passenger's seat, and not have his hand in yours, or on your thigh. It’s strange to him to be in this space where the two of you are usually so open with your affection, and have to suppress it. Jake does not like it.

The car ride home is quiet, you seem content to look out the window, the tiredness hitting you now, but every so often he and Nat make small talk about whatever football scores interested them in the past week or two, and before too long, he’s pulling up outside her home.

Looking over at you to find that you’re slumped over asleep on his window, Jake follows Natasha out of the car with a simple offer of making sure she gets in alright. The congeniality doesn’t last very long, and once they’re standing on her porch she turns to him with a frown.

“You don’t really think I’m that stupid, do you?” she asks, for once not sounding angry or scolding, but seemingly subdued, maybe even a little upset. Jake sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Looking back to his car to make sure you’re still alright, he levels his squadmate with a serious expression.

“No, I do not,” he tells her sincerely. “But it’s Miri’s choice to not want to be public yet, all I’m asking is that you respect that,” he goes on after a moment. He doesn’t really believe she would say anything, but he feels the need to get her agreement, if only for your peace of mind in the morning.

Nat hums to herself and briefly looks away to fish out her keys. Once she has them in hand, she looks up at him again, a little grin on her face this time.

“How long?” she asks. Jake rolls his eyes and can’t resist the urge to mess with her just a little.

“Few years,” he states matter of factly, waiting for her eyes to pop wide before he lets out a victorious laugh and shakes his head. “A month or two,” he admits truthfully, accepting the hard sock in the arm as Nat scoffs at him and moves to unlock her front door.

“Something, something, I’ll kick your ass if you hurt her,” she grumbles as she steps inside, immediately kicking off her shoes. Jake straightens up and gives her a mock salute.

“Yes Ma’am,” he says, chortling to himself as he receives a middle finger for his efforts and the door is closed and locked again.

Jake feels a little lighter on his walk back to his car, and when he climbs in, he leans over to carefully adjust your crooked neck and make sure your belt is still strapped properly. You wake a little, confused at first, and blink up at him in happy wonderment.

“Hey!” you mumble, like it's the first time you’ve seen him tonight. Jake chuckles and leans closer to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s get you home baby.”

–

You awake the next morning with nowhere near the headache you’re expecting, but with an array of distinct memories that cause a pit to open up in your stomach. The pit then begins to growl as you register the warm, homey smell of food, and with little effort, you force yourself up and into the kitchen, where you immediately attach yourself to Jake’s bare back.

His skin is warm and feels so comfy against your cheek, and the soft little laugh he gives makes your belly flop around. He lets you stay like that for a few moments more, moving slowly but smoothly so you can move with him, and at last when whatever he’s doing with his hands is finished, he reaches around for you and rests his hands where he can.

“Did I really call you last night? While with Nat?” you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’d just imagined it all, but another soft chuckle lets you know you hadn’t.

“Never thought you’d be the one to let our little secret slip first. I underestimated you baby.”

You groan into his back, and try to hide your face, but before you can complain or dodge him, Jake has turned himself around, letting you instead smoosh your face in between his gloriously golden pecs, and you think things may not be so bad.

He wraps his arms around you properly, and for a moment you just stay like that. You wonder if you can convince him to come around shirtless more often, the warmth radiating off his skin feeling heavenly, not to mention he looked almost as delicious as the food he’d made. You wonder if he’d already worked out this morning, or if you can join him after breakfast.

One of Jake’s hands moves away from your back and cups the back of your head tenderly, making you mewl slightly, and you look up at him to give the attention you know he’s asking for. Jake stares down at you with a soft little grin, and readjusts himself slightly, so he’s able to drop his lips to meet yours briefly.

One kiss becomes two kisses, becoming three kisses and after that any semblance of chastity is given up on and he kisses you full and sweet, deliberately slow like he’s teasing you to ask for more, but for now you’re simply content to wash away all of last nights worries like this.

Coming up for air, Jake barely breaks apart from you, his lips still brushing yours when he speaks.

“I asked Nat not to say anything, she respects you enough to do that I think,” he says, dropping a few more soft kisses to your mouth when you crane your neck up for more. He goes no further this time, though, and leans back from you to gauge your reaction after several moments, and you force yourself to open your eyes and pout.

“It’s not that I think she’ll tell anyone…” you say to him, scrunching up your features as you recall your lack of playing it cool the first time she had brought Jake up to you. The memory makes you grumble to yourself, and you once more attempt to hide your face in his chest. Jake laughs, and makes you jump when he pokes your side.

“What is it?” he asks, like he already knows. You tell him, voice muffled in his skin, but clear enough for the details of your embarrassing inability to throw the scent off to be heard. Jake’s body shakes with more laughter as you relay the information, but instead of trying to make you stop hiding away, he simply cups the back of your head again, and holds it nearer, allowing you to wither your embarrassment away in the safety of him.

“I think we both know that the minute that woman suspected anything, it was game over,” he tells you once you’re done, still holding you close, but you feel his lips press to the top of your head sweetly, and you do your best to snuggle yourself closer.

After the bulk of your mortification has eased away, Jake makes you detach from him, but only so the two of you can eat your breakfast while it’s still hot.

“You know I don’t want to keep it quiet, like, forever, right?” you ask out of nowhere, your memories of last night replaying over in your head while you ate. Jake looks up at you and cocks his head.

“I’m happy to do whatever you’d like to do, for as long as you’d like to do it,” he says matter of factly, but despite the sweetness of his words, you can’t help but frown at him.

“No you’re not, and we both know it,” you push back, grateful for his always tender manner of going at your pace, but you’d likely never have been with him in the first place if he hadn’t thrown you out of your comfort zone that first time.

The only difference is, now you are with Jake, and you understood these things about yourself, and how they weren’t always as scary as your mind might make them seem. Jake frowns back at you, clearly ready to protest.

“I know you pretty well too, you know,” you cut him off. “I know you like PDA, and that you wish you were able to be more open when we’re out with people. I know you like to show off, and part of that includes me,” you tell him adamantly, because you know you’re right.

Jake huffs out a sigh and leans back in his chair, looking at you dead on, you know him well enough to know he’s a little annoyed at you calling him out, but you aren’t doing it to annoy him or just for the sake of starting an argument.

“Okay, so what if I do? That doesn’t change the fact that until you want something, I’m not gonna go for it,” he says, still frowning at you like he doesn’t understand what the point of talking this through is even about.

You change tack and, with your heart beat thumping a little wildly, get up from your seat and move toward him. Even in his annoyance, Jake makes room for you, pushes out his chair and wraps his arms around your waist when you seat yourself on his thigh, your own arms linking around his neck.

“Well maybe I’m giving you permission to go for it,” you say softly, quietly, because the idea still does make you incredibly nervous. But you like Jake, no scratch that, you think you’re in love with Jake, and you think he’s in love with you too, and something about that feeling for once in your life makes you want the same things he does too, including the PDA. You want him to sling his arm around your neck, you want to be able to kiss his cheek or hold his hand or whatever it is you two want to do, not just in the comfort of your own homes, but out at the Hard Deck with your friends, too.

Jake blinks up at you, like at first your words don’t even register, but then he’s tightening his hold around your waist, and grinning wolfishly up at you, all cocky and infuriating if you didn’t find it utterly charming. If you didn’t completely adore him, even this part.

“Permission granted, Lieutenant?” he asks mischievously, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling, like you’re drunk all over again.

“Permission granted, Lieutenant!”

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. &lt;3

[hitlikehammers]

to die by your side (is such a heavenly way to die)

rating: t ♥️ cw: angst with a happy ending (which is actually kinda fluffy?), limbo/near-death experiences, post-S4/Upside Down-heavy, falling in love ♥️ tags: falling for each other in the space between life and death, happy ending

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-six: Love is a fire that never goes out (@sidekick-hero)

this is because of 1) this song being too close to the prompt for me to disengage it in my head, and the chorus therefore dictating this plot line, and 2) @hbyrde36 picked it and, again, I am very susceptible to people indicating they like a thing and would enjoy more, so @hbyrde36: I hope you enjoy what this became ♥️

“Oh fuck, not you, too.”

Steve looks up—when did he sit down, he doesn’t remember sitting down, he doesn’t remember how even got here, and hey, actually, where is here—

“What?” Steve looks toward the voice; familiar. See the wreath of curls around a pale face.

“This is death, right?” Eddie’s crossing over to him, crouching just beside; “I’m dead, like, I am very sure I’m dead, but you’re here, so—“

“I don’t,” Steve breathes in sharp—tries to get his bearings, tries to see but it’s just black in every direction, his lungs feel like they’re halved in size all of sudden, everything feels tight and painful and hard like inhaling isn’t something guaranteed, and his heartbeat feels like it’s dragging the carcass of something with it when it pumps, laborious and—

He’s is breathing, though, even if it’s kinda half-assed; he’s got a heartbeat, even if it feels like it’s about to fucking give out.

That doesn’t…that doesn’t sound like death.

“I,” Steve licks his lips; his mouth is so fucking dry but swelling kinda hurts and…he’s not as fucked up as he has a feeling he should be, he needs to think harder than he’s ready for just now to figure out what the last thing that happened between where he was, and where he is but: he thinks he should be more fucked up on, like, an instinctual level that knows he should be pretty fucked up, basically, and he’s not.

But again: he still hurts, and that…also doesn’t sound like death.

He swallows anyway; not that it helps.

“Max said there was this, black void,” Steve works through the first thing that comes to mind slowly, processes as he speaks; “with water,” and he looks down and sees the ripples in what he’s sitting in, moving around him but…but the reflections are right, and there’s no light so how are there even wrong reflections; he wasn’t good in his science classes but he feels pretty sure you need light to see anything in a mirror, plus—

“Water,” he flicks his hand from the standing pool around him up at Eddie without warning: “that wasn’t wet.”

Eddie splutters, but it dies down quick: it’s supposed to be wet. He expects it to be.

But it’s not. His eyes go so fucking big.

“It’s attached to the Upside Down,” Steve pushes on; “Eleven can like, come here, but,” he shakes his head and Eddie grimaces: she lost her powers.

“So it’s almost-death,” Eddie surmises, and drops into the not-water next to Steve.

“I guess so,” Steve shrugs, and draws his legs up; hugs his knees.

“Fucking great,” Eddie huffs, sneers, and it’s…Steve not sure why exactly, but it feels…targeted. Directed at him, because one, yes: he isthe only other thing here—as far as he can tell—but the words Eddie’d no-greeted him with float back into his consciousness:

Not you.

“Sorry to rain on your parade, man,” Steve bites out and shoves his head down between his thighs, maybe to breathe, maybe to think, maybe to hide, maybe to fucking cry, maybe to…fuck, he doesn��t even know.

He thinks he’s in the middle of trying to split the difference of every possible thing when Eddie’s voice breaks the still in the dark: “I didn’t,” and honestly, Steve’s never heard that voice sound so soft, so small; “that’s not what I meant,” and it’s an apology even if they words don’t add up exact, Steve feels it clear like a blow to the solar plexus. He turns to Eddie, who’s staring out at the nothing.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Eddie whispers, and his lip trembles, Steve can see that despite the lack of light.

Steve can see tears on that face, too, despite the lack of any light.

“But I hate that you’re here,” Eddie’s voice catches on kind of a whine, and Steve maybe would startle, when a hand reaches out and covers his; Eddie still does look at him, but he flattens his hand over Steve’s like a squeeze:

“That you’re here, too.”

And, oh. Okay.

Okay.

They’re here, then. Together.

Here.

___________________

It takes a while—he thinks; he thinks it’s a while, but one of the first things that makes itself plain in this godforsaken place is how times means absolutely fucking nothing, so; he think it takes a while to remember the vines.

They were coming back for Robin, and Steve would die before he let her get hurt so: that’s the last thing he remembers.

For Eddie, it’s the bats; Steve grimaces, hates even imagining like…swarms of them. More of their bites.

He’s the one who reaches for Eddie’s hand, this time—he wants to say it’s just a little comfort for the particularly bad things that are coming up as they sit here, as they draw patterns in the not-water and blow against it to make little waves just for shits, mindless and stupid: he wants to say that when it gets too much, and then keeps going, when it’s the worst, they’ve started to reach because what else can they do? Who else can they lean on?

Who’s gonna fucking know?

Actually: no. He doesn’t want to say that.

He wants to say the truth: the truth being they touch a lot. They reach a lot. They reach because it’s quiet. They reach because it’s dark. They reach because they’re frustrated. Or they’re scared. Steve could map Eddie’s calluses blind if he was asked to. Eddie traces his veins without being able to see close enough to know that he’s right.

He wants to say the truth: that he wants to touch. He craves it. And not just from anyone.

He craves this.

He doesn’t know what that fucking means.

But he’s the one who reaches, and covers Eddie’s hand, presses down to keep him when Eddie remembers the bats.

And he’s the one who leans, who rests their shoulders together and holds his breath.

But Eddie is the one who doesn’t move away, who leans in too, he tips his head onto Steve and breathes out slow so Steve can feel the warm damp of it on his skin and…

Steve’s heart’s fucking pounding, but then also it’s kinda like fluttering, and either way:

That’s not death.

___________________

Steve likes that the not-water is…not water, because lying back in it doesn’t fuck up his hair. Which…feels cleaner than it should be he figures maybe that’s just the same as both he and Eddie not being riddled with the wounds they should be rights be covered in—he can run his hands through it and that’s really all he wants, his hands, or like, you know if other hands wanted—

Whatever; he’s not going to question the not-water. He’s happy it doesn’t make him a wet dog just for trying to lay back and pretend there are stars.

Which he’d still be doing, if a weird…flapping noise hadn’t started up over to the left.

He has to squint in the no-light to see what the fuck’s going on, something in Eddie’s hands, oh shit, flapping, is it one of those fucking bats—

“What the fuck?”

Eddie freezes, and turns. And Steve sees what’s in his hands.

Doesn’t change his question.

Eddie just blinks at him. And runs his thumbs over the desk of cards he’s holding, flicking them one by one: flapping.

“Where the hell did those come from?”

Eddie shrugs. “Pocket.”

Steve gapes a little.

“You’ve had them the whole time?” because again, even if the feeling’s shifted: what the fuck

“Lots of pockets, man,” Eddie grins cheekily as he shakes his jacket out, like Steve can see any pockets.

Then he’s walking over to Steve on his knees before dropping cross-legged and shuffling the deck before he taps them out on his thigh and leans in:

“Pick your poison.”

And Steve’s played his share of cards, is actually pretty decent at poker, but, like…

“I don’t,” he bites his lip and stares at the predictable red pattern of the face-down cards;“I don’t want to think,” he finishes, kinda fucking lame, but Eddie’s not deterred, flips a few cards off the top with a thump before balancing the rest on his knee, offering half the cards he’s still holding to Steve with a little wiggle of his eyebrows:

“Go Fish?”

And Steve, he, like—

This is not-death, right, but whatever it is, it’s probably not good, and yet here Steve sits, with five cards in his hand and…Jesus.

He feels his lips stretch and he doesn’t think he’s smiled like this in…

In a while.

___________________

“Three Musketeers,” Steve answers when they’re lounging in the not-water, heads lined up so sometimes Steve feels the tickle of Eddie’s curls.

“The fuck?” Eddie huffs a laugh; the question was just things they’d miss if they never get out of here; like, it’s a little morbid and also a little hopeful all at once.

They’ve been working deeper in the category of food for a bit now, and so it’s candy bars. And Steve does not see what’s controversial about his choice, honestly.

“I love those, shit,” Steve waves his hand in the air, dismissing Eddie’s very wrong opinion, here; “they’re just,” Steve hums, tries to figure out the best way to defend a genuinely fucking excellent snack food:

“They’re simple,” and that sounds like a weak defense but look at where they are, look at their lives, that is fucking high praise. “Not too sweet and like, light and airy and,” Steve tilts his head, imagines the mouthfeel:

“Kinda delicate when you bite into ‘em,” he feels himself grin a little: “like bubbles or something,” because…yeah.

They’re awesome, but then he looks over at Eddie, who’s already turned to look at him, his gaze…something. Weighty but not oppressive. Piercing but not painful.

“Sorry,” Steve feels himself flush and it’s no the first time, or the worst time, but he’s grateful just like he is every time that there’s no fucking light and whatever lets them see at all doesn’t give away a blush; “sorry, that’s—“

“That’s adorable,” Eddie says with something…equally undefinable in his voice as much as his eyes, but this thing makes Steve feel, like, warm and tingly, a little, under his skin, in his chest; “you’re right, they’re…” and Eddie reaches for his hand, which they do a lot, yeah, but not…not so often for good things and this feels…like a good thing.

“They’re really good,” Eddie presses his hand over Steve’s, like a blanket, all encompassing—Steve has broad hands but Eddie’s fingers are longer than he’d ever noticed and he—

Steve likes how they fit.

“Under-appreciated, I think,” Eddie’s voice has lowered, softened, and it kinda feels like he’s saying something that has nothing to do with candy bars at all: “because people aren’t looking close enough to see how amazing it is.”

Yeah, for how Eddie’s staring at him, and for how Steve’s pulse has ramped up all of a sudden: Steve doesn’t really think Eddie’s talking about chocolate at all.

___________________

“You’re really good company.”

Eddie turns and blinks Steve’s way.

“What?”

Steve swallows; he’s not sure what made him say it. Except that it’s true.

“I’d have liked it,” he starts, like, expands on the point rather than revisiting the simple part; “if we could have, y’know,” and he gestures between them; “hung out.”

Eddie tilts his head, and he doesn’t smile exactly, but it kinda feels like his whole face, maybe his whole body, is a smile.

“Well,” he huffs a little laugh, like a disbelieving sound; “we’re hanging out, now.”

And Steve smiles the normal way, which is probably lesser to look at, but he wishes really hard that Eddie could, like, slip under his skin and see how it feels on the inside. “Yeah,” Steve grins at the darkness for a second, chews his lips a little, suddenly kinda…bashful, fuck:

“Yeah we are,” and then he breathes in deep, and makes himself be brave with something he doesn’t wholly understand:

“I like it,” and that’s an understatement.

And then Eddie hums, and covers Steve’s hand as he murmurs:

“Me too, sweetheart.”

And Steve’s heartbeat catches on that word, or more, reaches for that word, that name, greedy and wild and it pounds out that same desperate mantra blood-in-blood-out unwavering:

not-dead, not-dead, not-dead, not—

___________________

Eddie’s smile is so fucking pretty.

He didn’t know what Speed was, like the card game, so they’ve each got a pile balanced on a knee as the flip and they’re pressed up tight at their crossed legs to make a little table from their limbs for the discards and Eddie’s just…

It’s not just his smile.

“My grandpa taught me to play,” Steve comments idly, mostly just for something to say when it looks like they’re stuck and need to flip from the sides.

“It’s chaotic,” Eddie looks up and meets Steve’s eyes, his own fucking glittering when the lack of light should make that impossible but Steve thinks Eddie is kinda impossible so probably it fits.

“I like it,” he proclaims, as he reaches for another card to start the momentum back up, raises an eyebrow at Steve and waits for him to follow suit like he’s the expect, like Steve didn’t fucking just show him this game—

“You would,” Steve snorts and Eddie?

Eddie just beams bigger, and that catches in Steve’s pulse, nudges it to sing something that’s more than just not-dead; that’s more…

That feels more

___________________

It’s the more-feeling that breaks him, in the end.

“You called me big boy.”

Steve doesn’t really have control over his mouth, when it happens. Or else, like, he doesn’t think before the words tumble out, and the lie in the not-water and stare at the absence of the starts in the not-sky.

His heart’s jumped up to his throat, now.

Eddie’s quiet, for a while, even if time doesn’t mean anything here; Eddie’s quiet, and Steve’s heart wants to jump out of his fucking mouth but if it does than it’s got two destinations: it can’t drown in the not-water so that’s fucking useless, and then there’s Eddie, Eddie’s hands, Eddie’s chest and—

“I,” Eddie finally speaks, and his voice is rough, far away;“I, yeah.”

Steve doesn’t know what he was expecting. He wasn’t planning on saying anything so there weren’t any expectations built in.

“You looked at me,” Steve’s whispering, but it wavers, it moves with the force of his blood; “like you…” Steve licks his lips, swallows a whimper because what is he doing, what is he doing—

“Being almost-dead is really going to take the thunder out of your backlash on this, Harrington,” Eddie cuts into his panic and Steve’s head snaps over to look, to try and read Eddie’s expression: scared. Bracing for impact. Like Steve would, like Steve could ever—

“No, no, I,” Steve raises himself up and scoots over to Eddie, grabs his hands and presses them together in his own, never once looks away from Eddie’s eyes as they stretch wide.

“What did you mean?” because Steve’s started this, and Eddie’s anxious for it and…he needs Eddie to understand he’s not upset, he’s confused, his heart’s all swollen for it, he just, he—

“With the, with calling me that, and with leaning in like you did in the woods,” his breath’s shaking on the exhale: “with all the looks,” and he tries to leave it all in his eyes, on his face, open and clear for all that he doesn’t understand, but also for all that he…that he hopes.

Eventually, Eddie sighs, and squeezes his eyes shut tight, almost like a wince.

But he doesn’t pulls his hands away.

“You’re not stupid, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head, even if Eddie can’t see it.

“I’m very stupid.”

And Eddie’s eyes fly open, look wrathful, look offended on…Steve’ behalf, what the fuck?

And yeah, yeah, he’s opening his mouth now to fight him, to fight Steve about Steve and…no. No, that’s not the point.

“I’m stupid,” Steve says again, but quick so he can get it out; “about like,” he tries to find the right words and remembers Robin’s point on it once:

“About, you know, matters of the heart.”

Eddie’s features slacken, and his mouth drops open as he blinks at Steve before he eventually chokes out:

“Heart?”

But Steve can hear it. He can hear the confusion, like his own, but also just like his own:

He thinks he can hear the hope.

“You held that bottle to my throat and all I wanted was for you to lean closer,” he confesses, and it feels amazing, like he can breathe again, or see in color even though there’s so little color, here.

“And slit it?” Eddie croaks, incredulous, still a little slack-jawed and Steve laughs, because he can breathe, and—

“And kiss me, you dick.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes somehow get bigger, and his chest’s heaving and Steve wants that not to be for fearing, he wants Eddie to be anything but scared, he wants Eddie to be hoping—

“Stevie,” Eddie barely breathes and…it’s not scared, or else, not like it could be. It’s hesitant. It’s…full, of something Steve thinks might be incredible.

“You call me sweetheart,” Steve leans in, pushes the point, leans more until he’s close enough where he can feel Eddie’s breath on his face; “here. Now.”

Eddie nods immediately, doesn’t try to hide from it.

“Yeah, I do,” he breathes, and watches Steve so careful, unblinking.

“What does it mean,” Steve pushes, angles his lips without even thinking, without making the choice but Eddie?

Eddie makes the choice, and he kisses Steve so fucking sure and sweet and still wild somehow and Steve never wants to not be here. Never wants to not have this mouth under his, never wants to not have Eddie’s hands in his own: he doesn’t wholly understand it, where it comes from or what all it means but…his heart’s fucking dancing, the joy’s almost sore for it’s size and when Steve breathes between them, when they break for half a second to breathe and stare and marvel and Eddie looks like he’s entranced, like he’s overjoyed, and the only other thing here is Steve?

Fuck. Fuck.

If this ends up being death, that’s okay. That’s okay, as long as there’s also this.

___________________

He’s on top of Eddie’s chest, curled so so close, when it starts to feel…different. In his body. Like something pulling him.

The dark is still absolute but it almost feels like they’re on the brink of something, like dawn could come.

Steve fucking hates it.

“I don’t want to die alone,” Eddie whispers against his head, kisses at his hair.

“I don’t want you to die,” Steve grits out, almost violent, because isn’t this how it started, wasn’t that what Eddie meant, that he didn’t want Steve here, too—but Steve won’t accept that.

He cannot fucking accept that.

“I don’t want you to die at all.”

Eddie drags the tip of his nose back and forth against Steve’s hair some more as he breathes, breathes, breathes—

“To die by your side,” Eddie murmurs low; “would be my privilege,” and Steve chokes on a whine, a sob—it’s too much. It’s too much, and he needs this man, he needs him so much, he think he fucking loves hi—

“Maybe it’s not dying,” Steve tries, looks out into the abyss and he can’t see what’s on the way but he feels it; they both feel it: “maybe we’ll,” and he grabs Eddie’s hand and brings it to his lips.

“Maybe we’ll wake up.”

Maybe. Maybe.

“Kiss me,” Eddie exhales and Steve pulls back, slides up Eddie’s chest and hovers over him, makes to claim his lips but then Eddie lifts a palm, pauses Steve as he presses it over his racing heart and blinks at him, makes the tears fall from his lashes:

“Kiss me again when we wake up.”

And Steve will, he will, but.

He’s gonna kiss Eddie now, too. He’s going to kiss Eddie always.

He thinks his heart’s going too fast to beat out words but that, in itself, has to mean something that isn’t…death.

So he pours that conviction, and all the hope he’s got left, into Eddie as he devours him, breathes into him like they can melt together, like if Steve’s air lifts Eddie’s lungs they’ll be one person, one living soul and whatever happens…

Whatever happens will take them both.

___________________

Eddie splutters, clutches his chest; his heart’s racing, it feels like his blood’s on fire because every beat fucking burns, and the tear of his shirt where it’s stuck to his skin—dried blood, fucking hell—all up his side is absolutely disgusting, Jesus fuck—

“Eddie!”

He turns and that, that’s Henderson, and he squints; that’s Henderson running toward him, less than a minute away at that pace and Eddie doesn’t know if he can sit up but he’ll try, he digs his fingers into the mud and makes to lift—

And then something crashes into him, pins him right back down.

Covers his hands. Presses.

And he can’t get a word out, can barely fucking breathe before his lips are covered, before he’s being kissed so fucking desperate and giddy and all these feelings being fed straight into him, his heart leaping up in his throat to steal a taste but it doesn’t need to, it doesn’t need to because he feels…he feels it all everywhere, and he looks up and he shakes, he laughs, he’s gonna fucking cry—

“You woke up,” Eddie whispers, marvels, thinks his whole face is going to split open with, with joy and Steve, Steve is here, and he’s smiling back, and he’s breathing and they’re, it’s—

There’s light here. Steve’s eyes are like molten copper, they flicker, they shine.

“Promised,” Steve murmurs close, his lips moving Eddie’s lips with each syllable and the taste is, is…sweet and soft and light and perfect and Eddie almost doesn’t ask because it feels so right, so unquestionable but also he wants, something fierce and unwavering, and he needs to be sure where the water’s real, and the ripples mean something when you shift the whole fucking world, when you feel this big you know it’ll move the earth breathe your feet, so he has to ask:

“That the only reason?”

He still feels the hope from wherever they were, though; he feels it still, here, and he believes in it more in the light, he thinks, and he looks at Steve, takes him in, sees his chest rising and his pulse at the neck: real. Real, and so beautiful, and so, so—

Steve leans and kisses him hard, almost painful but it’s divine, Eddie will bask in the sting of it for the rest of his fucking life if he’s allowed, and then—

Then Steve pulls back and pins him with his eyes, now, fierce and on fire and they steal Eddie’s breath with feeling, with intent as Steve grabs at his shoulders, pulls them flush together and growls against his ear, like a vow almost:

“Only reason?” Steve huffs, shakes his head. “Not even close,” and he drags his lips over Eddie’s skin, catches Eddie’s hair, weaves into Eddie’s heartbeat:

not-dead, not-dead, not-dead

in-love, in-love, in-love—

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 

♥️

divider credit here

[charmercharm3r]

hershey kisses

LFX

7/8 of the Sleepwear Series

Masterlist

wc: 4.3k

Synopsis: Sugar, spice, and everything nice. And a little salty.

warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, sub!Felix x softdom fem!reader, alcohol consumption, they're both tipsy but not drunk and everything is consensual!!, unprotected sex (wrap it up), oral (m receiving), lots and lots of kisses! (literally used the word 17 times I counted), overstimulation, creampie, very lovey dovey until it isn't

No, you weren’t surprised when you came home to the smell of warm chocolate filling your apartment, though you never got tired of it– Felix had a habit of forgetting to crack a window whenever he was baking. What caught you off guard was the bottles of alcohol taking up space on your kitchen counter. There were tall bottles, short ones, cans of foreign drinks you had no idea what they were. That with the big mixing bowl filled with something chocolatey, you were as confused as ever.

“Hi baby!” He cheered excitedly, beaming a bright smile and waving with enthusiasm. You greeted him back, lightly jogging to where he stood in the kitchen and giving him a kiss.

Licking your lips, you could taste the faint traces of alcohol, looking around to see what he was having. “Without me? You’re having your own party,” you joked, kissing him one more time. Felix chased after you when you pulled away and whined for more, which you couldn’t ever refuse.

“‘M making chocolate whiskey. Had to test run the drinks before putting it in,” Felix went back to mixing the bowl as you found the open bottle of whiskey nearby, lifting it to your nose and cringing back at the smell. 

Finding a clean spoon, you dipped it into the bowl and tasted his concoction. The taste of the alcohol overpowered the chocolate by a mile, “baby, you’re not supposed to be getting drunk off chocolate whiskey.” You tossed it into the sink and grabbed two clean glasses instead, opening the new bottle of rum that sat nearby. There were litters of chocolate packets in addition to whatever other ingredients he’d bought.

“I just thought the more, the better.” Felix opened his mouth for you to put a piece of chocolate on his tongue, drinking it down with a sip of the young rum. He chewed it for a few seconds before his eyes went wide and let out a pleasantly surprised, “mmm!”

You laughed as he opened his mouth for more and cleared a space on the counter so you could sit to watch him. It didn’t take much for either of you to start feeling the effects of the alcohol, the combination of it with the sugary chocolate was addicting. By the time the chocolate whiskey was ready to be chilled, you and Felix were a giggly, tipsy mess. He may have left the bowl in the fridge for a bit too long because he was glued standing between your legs, letting you feed him a piece, kiss his lips, then take another sip. It was tough for him to scoop out of the bowl so you could help him in rolling into a ball, they were almost solid.

It was a nice moment to share, him laughing at anything and everything you said as he attempted to dig the chocolate out of the bowl, still standing so close that your legs brushed his torso. Common was that when the two of you were home together, rarely were you ever not touching one another in some way. Though, it wasn’t always like that. Perhaps his need for skinship rubbed off on you to the point that you don’t remember a time where you hated his invasion of personal space. Your bubble is his bubble.

Eventually, you both grew tired of his little cooking project and decided to let it sit to thaw. Without missing a beat, Felix enticed you into sitting on the floor of your shared living room with the seemingly endless bags of chocolate and a few more bottles of alcohol. The two of you were testing how the different liquors tasted with the sweets.

His back was against the couch and legs spread for you to sit cross legged between them. Felix mindlessly traced patterns on the tops of your knees, watching intently the dainty way your fingers unwrapped the chocolate and made its way into your mouth. He didn’t seem to notice his tongue poking out and licking across his bottom lip. It was cute, you couldn’t help but poke his tongue back into his mouth, though it didn’t make him stop staring.

Felix was never afraid of eye contact, in fact it’s why you were attracted to him in the first place. He made you feel seen, like he was always listening to whatever you had to say. Even if the things you said didn’t make sense, he contributed to it and always played along, like now.

“Do you ever get tired of drinking alone with me?” You didn’t think as you asked the question, taking a small sip of rum. Felix had stolen the bottle from you, rapidly shaking his head, no.

“Never. It’s more fun when it’s just us. Why do you ask?” He bent his knees, encasing you between his legs like a makeshift shield.

“Just ‘cause… I worry sometimes.” Shrugging and popping another sweet into your mouth, you didn’t raise your head to meet his eyes.

“That I’m not enjoying myself?” Felix held your chin between his thumb and forefinger and brought your face up. The slight fall of your shoulders made him coo, “oh, baby. You know I’d rather drink warm alcohol with you than be overstimulated in a loud, crowded bar with overpriced drinks any day of the week.”

Wise choice of his words, your ears perked, “overstimulated, you say?” You looked at him now and wiggled your eyebrows. Felix’s laughter echoed throughout the room as he dazedly fell forward into your arms, swaying the two of you back and forth. He was incredibly warm, that boy could’ve baked cookies on his abs if he laid out in the sun long enough. 

“But seriously, babe,” he nuzzled into your neck, placing soft, uncalculated kisses, “I could never get tired of being with you. Besides! We’re the fun ones.” His hands slipped down to your ass, cupping handfuls to pull you flush against his chest and crotches pressed together. No matter how small the action, you could feel the slight twitch in his pants.

You shifted to straddle him more comfortably and thread your fingers through his hair. “See, I know that you’re right but I still feel like I’m keeping you from hanging out with your friends.” The change in mood had him looking at you in the eyes, particularly sad about the pout on your lips.

“Why do you think that?” Felix brushed stray hair from your face, keeping your cheek in his palm and the other firmly on your ass.

“I dunno, guess it’s just lingering insecurities. Most guys use it as an excuse to break up with their partners, ya know.” Your tone wasn’t accusing, but rather matter of factly.

“Don’t you know by now I’m not like most guys?” raising an eyebrow at you, Felix smirked.

“Mhm, poetic and cringey. Gimme kiss.”

He caved without another thought and melted against your lips, tongue tasting like chocolate and alcohol and love. He loves kissing more than anything else, claiming it makes him feel so close to you. He’d do it anywhere, anytime and all you had to do was ask. It made him get a little dumb sometimes and get a bit too lost in the plush of your lips.

Though, he pulled away before that could happen, “was that sarcasm?” You raised an eyebrow. “I can be poetic, forreal.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” you laughed.

“Listen, listen,” Felix let go of you for a second to suck on another piece of chocolate, letting it melt. “Kiss me once,” the tone of his voice was as soft and deep as it’d go, he pecked your cheek, “and kiss me twice,” on the other side, “then kiss me once again.” Goosebumps covered your skin as the bass-like vibrations of his words drifted through you like a melody, pressing his lips to yours once more and immediately followed by the chocolate flavor. His tongue coated yours with the sugary treat and you felt hungrier than you’d had all day. Though, with the flush on his cheeks and gentle way he kissed you, Felix looked more than fit to eat.

Keeping you tight against him, his hands tangled themselves into your hair as he broke away to speak again breathlessly, “it’s been a long, looong time.” He took his time to say the words, smooth, sultry, dragging out each syllable. “Haven’t felt,” peck, “like this, my dear,” smooch, “since can’t remember when. It’s been a,” nuzzle, “long,” caress, “looong,” kiss, “time,” and a deep, gasping lock of your lips together. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion, yet all too fast. The effects of the alcohol were blanketing both your already intensely present arousal and desire to make the two of you a needy, desperate mess, grasping and groping one another as if either of you’d disappear at any second.

As you grind harder into him, Felix’s hips cant up and he can’t help but moan into your mouth. The fondness that fueled you was the same thing that caused you to pull away and say, “that sounds a lot like a song I know.”

“Nope, came straight from my humongous brain.”

“If your name is Louis Armstrong, then yeah, I believe you.” He gripped the undersides of your thighs and lifted you off the floor, headed for your shared bedroom.

“I was thinking more like Kitty Kallen’s version.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and sat you on his lap again, pulling you down with him as Felix laid back. The pink decorating his cheeks as a result of all the drinking made him glow, charming eyes glossed over ever so slightly and looking up at you so warmly. You reached down to cup his cheek, run your thumb over his bruising red lips. They fell open, parting just a little for you to push the digit in. He stuck his tongue out before you could and guided it by the pad of your thumb, immediately closing his lips and sucking gently. “Pretty kitty,” you whispered, simply admiring him.

Neither of you spoke for a little while longer, just looking at each other with alcohol induced gazes and hearts in your eyes. Then you pull your thumb away, a string of saliva following as you stick it in your own mouth to taste the chocolate and rum mixture. Felix watched you with doe eyes and tongue poking at the corner of his mouth once again. “Mmm, sweet,” you say as you peck his lips one more time. “How’re you feeling?”

Felix just tugged you in again, groaning against your lips louder. Pushing him back lightly, “answer me, baby.”

“‘M perfectly tipsy, ‘nd I want you,” he pawed at the waistband of your shorts and underwear, tugging and letting the elastic snap against your skin.

Giggling when you dove down to kiss his cheek and scatter them around his face, Felix couldn’t keep his hands from continuing to roam, squeezing and caressing every part of your body firmly and lovingly. It was his way of appreciating you, telling you without telling you how infatuated he is. You traversed beneath his jaw, down his neck and occasionally biting his skin to feel his hands grip you tighter. It took a bit of coercing to make him pull away long enough to get rid of his and your shirts, even more so to get you both naked seeing as neither of you were able to keep your hands to yourselves.

But when you finally did, Felix propped himself on his elbows as he watched you, ogled your naked body from top to bottom until he met your eyes. He tilted his head down, waiting patiently for you to make a move. You cock your head to the side, “feeling a bit lazy tonight, pretty kitty?”

The slightly calm yet authoritative tone you took made Felix bite his lip and shake his head, no. “Oh? Just wanna be taken care of then?” His cock twitched at that, a bead of precum dribbling onto his abdomen. “I know you do, sweetheart.” You spread his knees wider and kneeled between them, then tucked his heels in tight to either side of your body. “Just relax, okay pretty kitty?” Felix whimpered in return, unable to look away as you peered up at him.

Keeping your eyes locked, you stuck your tongue out and ran it from the base, all the way up. His entire body shivered, goosebumps spreading along every inch of his skin. When you flattened your tongue to taste more of him, Felix let out a long sigh accompanied by his thigh muscles tensing and hands attempting to restrain themselves. While some might be put off by his intense stare, it was enthralling to you, especially the way he slowly blinked and rolled his eyes back when you did something he was particularly sensitive to. His hips kicked up and shallowly thrusted when you took him in your mouth, his own jaw completely slack and on the verge of drooling.

Felix was always a sucker for that, the messy, wet, lewd feeling that came from doing anything with your mouth. When you began to bob your head up and down his tip, occasionally dipping your tongue into his slit, he cried for more. You gave it to him because his pleas were just so cute, and took more, just holding him in your mouth. When the saliva started to build under your tongue, then you moved. The slurping noises and his whines sounded so good together that you were afraid he’s cum from that alone, it wouldn’t be the first time. Both of you were already worked up, the alcohol made you hazy enough to not feel the soreness in your jaw from keeping it open for so long. Felix was growing closer and closer with each down stroke, nothing but your mouth, drool, and watery eye contact edging him along.

Just as he braced himself tighter to start bucking up, you pulled off with a loud gulp and sat back. Loudly he groaned a high pitched whimper, rutting into the air and cock slapping against his stomach. Sighing, Felix’s body twitched at the loss of contact while you kissed up his abdomen, gently guiding him to scoot further up the bed and lay down. “Wanna try something new?” You say against the skin of his chest and teething lightly at his collar bones.

“New?” he murmured back only half paying attention because of how hot he felt now that you soaking crotch hovered over his.

“In a way. I think you’ll like it though, don’t worry baby. Trust me?”

Felix nodded rapidly and bit his already swollen lips, “trust you.”

Just to keep him on his toes, you crawled back down his body again and planted short but sweet kisses to the inside of his ankles, all the while looking up at him through your lashes. He kept wide eyes in anticipation, growing curiouser and curiouser with every touch of your lips up the length of his skin. As you hiked his knees up to his chest, Felix’s breath hitched. You didn’t dilly dally much longer as your own growing need was becoming overwhelming, simply licking a long, fat stripe from the rim of his ass to his balls, sucking them in for a second and moving to tower over him again. Felix had no idea what to do other than moan at everything you did to him.

He felt exposed with how you looked him up and down, was this how you always felt being below him? Either way, he loved it. He loved the excited glimmer in your eyes and how your nails were already digging into the bottoms of his thighs. He loved how soft your skin felt, the slight dizziness of the alcohol, and how that made him have tunnel vision for you and only you, more than he already did if that was even possible.

You opened his knees up, instructing him to keep them there as you took his cock in hand, giving him a few slow strokes. “Relax, pretty kitty. Gonna make you feel good, okay?”

“Hurry– need you,” he mewled even more, growing impatient the longer you teased yourself with his red, flared tip.

Laughing lightly, you raised yourself higher and positioned him at your entrance and sunk down, slowly until your thighs pressed against the bottoms of his. The unconventional position opened up a whole new world of pleasure, not just for you, but him as well. Though usually he leaned more on the submissive side, Felix always loved to prove himself to you by doing most of the work in bed. 

The tip of his cock fit snug against your sweet spot, not even having to try to aim for it this way. The both of you were already losing your voices moaning, but as you lifted your hips back and slammed back into him, Felix’s eyes rolled back and you knew he was done for. You felt like you were floating despite continuously ramming your body against him.

How brainless he felt, getting fucked without actually getting fucked, and getting fucked hard. The only thing that could’ve made this better was if you were kissing him. Though, he understood why you couldn’t, too lost in your own pleasure to think about that right now. You made up for it by just continuing to use him, disregard him as if he were just a cock to fuck and get yourself off on. That part was unintentional, however, you didn’t stop there.

You pushed your body weight forward, leaning onto him by the backs of his thighs and using gravity to rock into him with every upstroke. If the sound of your skin slapping together didn’t give away what was happening, his moans sure as hell did. And Felix not so silently loved every second of it. He felt vulnerable and filthy and sweaty and intoxicated and so, so enamored. Together for who knows how long and you still never fail to amaze him.

Just that in mind, along with how pussy drunk he was, he was reaching his end much quicker than he’d hoped, but you just felt too good not to blow. You were creeping towards your own and well on your way, clit grinding up and down the top of his cock every time you rolled your hips.

Initially, you were afraid he’d reject your idea, seeing as it might’ve been uncomfortable and he had every right to say no, which you were prepared for. But oh how far from that you were now. Now, even if you weren’t so much focused on his pleasure as you were yours, you could see his belly contracting and attempting to force the high down just to keep up. “Go ahead, baby. Cum. I won’t be mad,” you say with as much brain power as you can muster, seeing as it’s getting harder and harder not to cum, yourself.

His voice, having been whiney and high all night, suddenly dropped into the lower register and bounced along with your tempo, along with his tongue drooping out the corner of his mouth. You took it upon yourself to stick two fingers in your mouth and then pop it into his, his tongue loving the weight and even more that you shoved them in and out in time with your hips. That must’ve been the cherry on top, having something to suck on, Felix attempted to say, “cum– cumming, ah– fuck!”

He let himself go with an extraordinarily loud cry, cum coating his entire dick as you ceased to slow down insearch of your own orgasm. Overstimulated and exhausted, Felix shuddered and was on the verge of tears but couldn’t stop moaning. He held onto your wrists that pinned his knees in place, needing something more to ground him. It burned so painfully good, for both of you. You, with your high on the tip of your tongue and Felix, teetering of either passing out or crying but loving it so much.

But he did neither of those, when you reached your orgasm, it somehow strung one more from him as well, dry and white hot. Your cunt clenched and pulsed so tightly around him that Felix felt like he was almost suffocating within you and if he were to die now, he couldn’t have been happier. It didn’t feel as though your orgasm subsided when you looked down to find your boyfriend with his eyes rolling back, sweaty and red in the face that bled down to his chest, something straight out of a porno.

Letting his now flaccid cock keep you plugged, you leaned over and sweetly kissed his lips, close-lipped and gentle and all too chaste for the events that just occurred. You guided his legs back down and maneuvered to straddle him, somehow doing so without spilling any of his cum and laying your body weight onto his chest. Felix immediately wrapped his arms around you and tipped your bodies over to lay more comfortably.

The room was quiet aside from the both of your heavy breaths and the occasional smack of your lips coming together and breaking apart. “I think I had a sugar high,” Felix muttered into your hair.

You laughed at the random comment, “I think that was more than a sugar high.”

“No, really! How the fuck did you do that?”

“I told you that you’d like it.”

“We need to do that again. I’m so, so serious.” Felix peered down at you, eyes big and suddenly wide awake.

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long, baby.” You consoled him, reaching up and stroking his cheek to ask for another kiss. The deep rumble of your belly made the both of you break out into giggles. “Hungry,” you mutter against him.

“Me too.”

“But I’ll be cold if I get up.”

“I’ll come with you.”

You hummed happily, slowly pulling away so that he fell from your pussy as gently as possible but both winced anyway. You were going to get up, but just had to take one last look at him in his post nut glow, “pretty kitty,” you whisper and give him another quick peck.

Digging through his dresser, you stole a pair of his clean boxers and slipped them on, tossing one his way before he followed you. You were about to open the door when you felt the dripping feeling of his cum and ran to grab a napkin to catch it. Felix took it upon himself to leave the room first, not thinking anything of it when he walked into the living room with you on his tail. Then he stopped and you ran face first into his bare back.

“Ack– what the fu–”

Felix was suddenly spinning you around and quickly pushing you back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him. “What are you–”

“We can never show our faces in public ever again,” he said with a straight expression.

“Why?” You raise your eyebrow.

“Because there's seven of our friends in our living room drinking our alcohol and eating our chocolate and I don’t know why.”

“So why can’t we show our faces in public?”

“Because I’m 100% sure they heard everything we just did.”

The choked gag you let out had you falling back onto the bed, laughing away the embarrassment until he chucked a t-shirt at you with giggles of his own. “They’re your bandmates! You go talk to them,” you encouraged.

“I can’t! I can never look them in the eyes ever again.” Felix slid another shirt over his head as he paced back and forth. “If you go out there, then they can’t say anything because then it’ll be like they’re the weird ones for listening.”

“Okay, okay.” 

Confidently, you shrugged on some sweats for extra decency out of embarrassment and let yourself out into the living room where the seven pairs of eyes avoided your gaze entirely. “Did you at least order food if you’re gonna drink all my alcohol?” You sat yourself on the floor, stealing the rum you were drinking earlier from Jisung– who looked even more disgruntled as you took a sip.

It was silent for a moment before Changbin, leaning into an uneasy Hyunjin on the couch, “Chinese.”

“Nice. I’m starving.”

“How did you get him to make that noise?” Minho on the other side of the coffee table spoke up, seeming genuinely curious. Suddenly all of them seemed interested.

“I think I’d rather die than share that information.”

“At least tell us the position,” he pressed, “for educational purposes.”

It didn’t look like any of them were going to drop the matter. “Why are you all in my house?”

“Felix texted the group chat earlier this afternoon to come over… for game night…” Chan murmured and held up his phone with the group chat, acting a shield for Seungmin and Jeongin to avert their eyes. As you looked around the room, you saw the board for monopoly on the coffee table and all the pieces scattered about. You raised an eyebrow, confused as to when he did that and how they all agreed that tonight of all nights would be game night without bothering to tell you. Then, you turned back to the room to see your boyfriend standing in the doorway, face red as an apple, and not the glowy kind. "I do not remember doing that..."

You could tell he knew he was guilty just by the way he stood, shoulders shrugged and eyes round. Looking back at the group, you deadpanned, “on his back, his legs up and dick pointed do–”

He ran to pick you up and carry you back to the bedroom, echoes of laughter filling the apartment as the doorbell rang, “my Chinese food!” But Felix had already locked the two of you away for who knows what punishments to come.

-

A/N: if someone could enlighten me and tell me the name of this position id actually really love to know...research purposes

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @aliferousminho @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @hamburgers101 @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @angelica-erin-caelius @dazzlingligth @lvrmin @alexis-reads-fics @linaliskz @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @mercurezed @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44

[maelialuv]

oh my god. can i pretty please get a part two to Call It What You Want (steve harrington)? steve fails to disregard his feelings towards the reader after sleeping together, but how long can he go until he breaks after seeing she’s completely neglected his existence. smut! (rough sex, but very passionate cause why not lol, perv!steve, jealous!steve and pls add anything if you’d like! thank you love :’)

So It Goes, Steve Harrington .

(part two to Call It What You Want)

Sumarry: Hooking up with your old bully was never on the cards. But Steve Harrington has a habit of getting in the way of plans.

Warnings: SMUT! this is FILTHY! slowburn! breeding kink! perv!steve (a teeny bit), angst! steve is hopeless with women, fluffy ending <3

Word count: 9.5K (ohmygod)

It had been one week since you'd done it. One week since you'd done the most reckless thing in your whole life. Seven days since you'd lost your head and slept with your old bully. Seven days since you'd slept with your, supposed, best friend's ex-boyfriend. Just seven days since you'd slept with Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High.

The morning after replayed in your mind like a broken tape, in torturous clarity thanks to not having a hangover. The way you ran from the Harrington residence played behind your eyes without end. The walk home, unkindly long and silent with nothing but your thoughts - memories of him, and the way he touched you- to keep you company. The way you ran to your bathroom, stripping down and tossing his clothes in your hamper as if they were toxic waste, and the way you scrubbed your body in the shower as if the soap would somehow remove the feeling of his hands on you from your head. You didn't know if you were more disgusted with yourself for doing it. or for the fact that somewhere inside, you wanted it to happen again.

You felt different, like someone else, as you got ready in the mirror each day that proceeded the party. Felt guilty as you looked at the arch of your neck, the feeling of Steve’s lips there still as strong as they were that night. You felt a pit in your stomach as you looked at your nose, remembering the way Steve had placed a delicate kiss there , feather light, as he washed your skin in the shower. You now saw yourself as a reckless idiot, driven by some unknown desire for what? Closure? Or was it power that your subconscious so desperately wanted?

You only hoped your mindless scrubbing in the shower, skin red as you zoned out, would tell you the answers. You found no solace in the space between the tiles, only lime build up.

You wouldn't tell a soul. Your parents were none the wiser, as were your friends, to the battle your brain was at with your heart.

An aggression had settled over you, a dark looming cloud any time he was mentioned. You became snippy, unjustifiably short. Chrissy assumed you were pissed off about the party, still reeling from the belittling interaction with Carol and Tommy, as well as Steve.

She had apologised relentlessly in the days following. On and on, despite your reassurance, Chrissy swore she would never let "the redheaded witch and her flying monkey" talk to to you ever again.

The week had gone that way, Chrissy sending you an apologetic glance any time Harrington, the party or anything relating to them was mentioned. You felt guilty that she felt guilty, but you could never tell her what happened. You already felt like a massive hypocrite, you couldn't bear to have another person know it too.

You'd been stood by your locker, thankful for the lack of a certain basketball player in the halls, having had been able to avoid him for the full school week, when Chrissy bounded over to you. Without a word, she grabbed your hand and - with surprising strength- dragged you into the nearest bathroom.

"Did you hear?" she said, voice a mix of shock and curiosity. Immediately paranoia spread over you like hives, certain that Chrissy was doing damage control. "Steve and Nancy broke up at the party on Saturday." Her voice was even, no hint of suspicion or knowledge or anything, or anyone, that you had done.

"Woah," you said, hoping only you heard the waver in your voice as you tried your best to keep your face void of guilt, "what happened?" you asked, knowing that any account you heard would never be as accurate to the front row seat you had to the argument.

You hardly heard Chrissy as she spoke, her animated words falling on deaf ears as you realised that nearly every person was going to be talking about Nancy and Steve. The It Couple, King and Queen of the school, had fallen apart. Every girl was going to be fawning over Steve again- not that Nancy had stopped them, now they would be more overt- and Nancy would be the One that Got Away. You felt angry when Chrissy mention there were whispers that Steve was holed up in his house, heartbroken over the split. You felt even worse when she told you that Nancy was already dealing with a rehash of last years cheating rumours.

Nancy had to hold you back from ripping Steve's head off last fall over the, now, infamous 'Nancy 'The Slut' Wheeler' graffiti.

This wasn't part of your plan. You'd made such good friends, come out of your shell, cemented yourself as a somebody. Nancy was happy, you were happy and everything was fine just the way it was.

And Steve Harrington was messing it all up.

Your first classes went by in blurry seconds, your attention focused on the cracks in your desk or the clouds outside as you thought about the whole nuclear explosion of a situation. You wished you'd never agreed to go to the stupid party. You wished you'd just shrugged out of Harrington's grip and run downstairs and gone home. You wished you hadn't kissed Steve back when he leaned in, wished you'd pushed him off instead of tugging him closer.

You wished you could rewind time and not allow him to touch you, make time stop and slap yourself for loving it so much. You hoped you would forget how he made you feel; the white hot burning on your skin as his lips travelled across your stomach, the gentle touch of his hands as he dried your hair and dressed you in his clothes.

You hoped you would forget everything about Steve Harington.

Deciding on a healthy dose of ditching, you made your way out to the school's parking lot, intent on walking home and enjoying the empty house whilst your parents worked.

Then you saw him sat on the hood of his car, a cigarette dangling from his lip as he brushed a frustrated hand through his hair. Your feet felt as though they were glued to the floor as his eyes met yours, unable to move like his gaze willed you to stay there. It was the first time you'd seen him since then. It was only when he raised the carton to you - a peace offering- that you were able to move your limbs and walk over to Steve. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans, and your mind was cast back to the sweatshirt sitting in your hamper getting buried under clothes like that would make it disappear. When you took a cigarette, Steve held the lighter out and lit it for you. An entirely too flirtatious gesture given the gossipy climate.

"You took off on Sunday," he said, a statement and not a question. His voice was indifferent, but his brows furrowed as he spoke. "Left your clothes behind."

"Yeah, I did." You took long drags, hoping the edge in your voice was a clear enough message to Steve that you didn't need to talk about that. He scooted over on the hood, an invitation to sit. You remained standing, and Steve pursed his lips.

You didn't need to be told to relive the awkwardness you felt when you'd woken up. The way Steve was already awake , tall silhouette in the doorway as he brushed his teeth in the bathroom. The room was suddenly too small, Steve's clothes suddenly suffocating. You heard the shower turn on, sensing time for escape. You'd thrown on your shoes, crept out of the room and booked it out of the Harrington house. Steve had watched as you disappeared down the street from the bathroom window. You'd caught a glimpse of his figure as you threw a nervous glance over your shoulder, fearful of prying eyes seeing you do a walk - or run- of shame from the house.

"Been looking for you, you know." He said, almost shy as he squinted into the sun.

"Not very hard, clearly." you scoffed. When Steve just looked at you, eyes soft, you went on. "Why?"

"Why do you think," it was Steve's turn to laugh, though his was not mocking. It was sincere, too kind. Real. "I want to talk to you."

Knots formed in your stomach, and your brows knit together in a tight line. "What is there to talk about?" you said harshly, feeling a pang of guilt as Steve recoiled, "we slept together, Steve. It happened, cool. End of story." You said, turning to walk away when Steve reached for your elbow.

"Well, hang on there a second," Steve said, stubbing his cigarette out and standing, hands on his hips, "I think there's some stuff to talk about." He looked around, nervous for prying eyes. "Like the fact that that," he said, astounded, "was the best I've ever had." He took a step closer to you. You shrugged him off when he rested a hand on your arm. "There's clearly something between us, here."

You hated to admit it, or agree with him in any way, but Steve was right. You'd had your share of guys, but Steve was unlike any of them. The sex was incredible, as was the chemistry. You'd had to re-live it, in excruciating detail, most nights since the party. But Steve was not a good guy to get involved with, and not someone you could forgive yourself for forgiving. So you remained stand offish, cold, to the boy.

"Sex is sex , Steve, you'll find another 'best' in a month." You dismissed, wishing you'd ignored him and gone straight home. His face was pleading, and it made him look younger, like a lost child looking for their mother. “Look, it was a one time thing. Go back to Tommy and Carol, and forget it ever happened. Got it?”

Steve’s face contorted, a mix of frustration and confusion and a little bit of anger. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. He was meant to find you the day after, be there at your door with a speech prepared about how truly sorry he was for how things went. But he was so taken a back by your escape, the only proof that you had been there being your clothes strewn about across his bedroom floor, that he just sat by his pool staring into space. He was meant to call you, convince you to come over so you could talk it out. But then he couldn’t find your number - and god forbid he call Nancy to get it.

Steve was conflicted. He was heartbroken about his breakup with Nancy. He loved her , or thought he loved her, with everything he had. But this part of him, this nagging part that wouldn’t shut up, was more hurt by you leaving. Upset that he couldn't drive you home or kiss you goodbye or convince you to stay just a little longer. He regretted not saying more in the moment, because maybe then you wouldn't have skipped out on him. If he'd just talked more, maybe stood up for you a little, then perhaps you would have stayed.

"Can we just go somewhere and talk?" he said, eyes pleading and a little desperate. "Please?"

His begging made your stomach churn. You had to get away from him, before whatever magnetic bullshit he had on you went into full effect and you threw yourself into his arms and agreed to hear him out. You stubbed your cigarette out with your shoe.

"I'm going home, Steve."

You hoped that your curtness would deter him. A nagging part of you felt bad, worrying that maybe - just maybe- you should have heard Steve out, that you were robbing yourself of some kind of closure both for your past and for that night. The other, more logical, half felt firm and strong. Finally, finally, it was you making Steve Harrington feel defeated. For once it was him feeling wronged.

You threw his clothes in the laundry when you got home.

It was seven thirty when Chrissy called you, and you were laid back on your bed. Her sudden excitement caught you off guard. "Woah, Chris, slow down," you said, "in English please."

"We're going to a pool party tomorrow!" she all but yelled, and you could imagine her riffling through her dresser for swim suit options. "And before you say no, it's the last pool party of the season before it gets so cold that we have to look like artic explorers for the next three months." There was a clunk, and then Chrissy let out a euphoric squeal. "Found it!"

You rolled over on to your side, twirling the phone cord in your hand as you laughed at your friend. "Okay, okay, I'll go. Who's throwing a pool party this close to Halloween?" you asked, face screwed up at the thought of the late October breeze on bare legs.

"It's Steve Harrington!"

You sat right up in bed, almost dropping the phone off the side of the bed. Of course, of course, he was throwing another party. And of course, you'd already agreed to go. "Oh," was all you could say.

"Look, I know Saturday was pretty intense," Chrissy argued, not realising just how correct her statement was, "but you can just stick with me, and even Eddie is going so he'll be there if you feel the urge to kick Harrington into the pool."

The knowledge that Munson - a long time friend and supplier of party materials for you and Chrissy- would be in attendance made the nausea somewhat subside. But the thought of going back to the Harrington residence, the thought of seeing Steve there again after the way today had gone, made bile rise in your throat. "Okay," you said to Chrissy, knowing you would be able to show your face for twenty minutes before convincing Eddie to let you smoke in the back of his van before getting a ride home, "I'll see you tomorrow."

You fell back on the bed, wishing the mattress would swallow you. It was like you were an alcoholic going into a bar, or rather a masochist for allowing yourself to relive what had caused you significant pain. You didn't even know if you had swimsuit still.

Digging through your dresser, finding sparkly denim from middle school, you thought your search was over. But then, in the very back of the bottom draw, you found your old prized possession.

The red sports illustrated bikini from 10th grade.

You'd bought it as a joke on a hot summer's day in 1983, a mall trip with Nancy on one of the many days you spent together attached at the hip. The poster next to the rack of bikinis had Brooke Shields, posed flirtatiously on a rocky beach, in the red suit. "You should get this for the pool!" Nancy had suggested, picking up the material and holding it to your chest. "It would look amazing!"

Your eyes practically bulged out of your head as you looked at it in Nancy's hands. "Are you kidding?", you exclaimed, holding the flimsy bikini in your hands, "it looks like an eye patch!" You fought with Nancy over it, citing that your mother would have a heart attack if she saw you wearing it. In the end, Nancy bought it for you, told you that you should save it for "knocking boys dead in college." At the time, you agreed with her. Looking back, it was a put down.

Nancy was an expert at the accidental back handed compliment.

Holding the suit in your hands, your senior body much more equipped for the top than your 10th grade self, a sly smirk etched its way on to your lips. You were going to knock the boys dead, after all.

You had arranged with Eddie that he would pick you up the next night at 7:30, parked down the street near the pay phone. The Munson boy called you at 7:25, letting you know he was on the corner of your cul-de-sac, ready to roll. When you walked to his car, Eddie rolled down the passenger side window with a slack jaw. He looked you up and down without shame, eyes wide. You were wearing a pair of denim shorts, the red bikini top and a denim jacket.

"How much for a ride around the block, sweetheart?" he smiled wolfishly, fishing his wallet out of his jeans.

You smacked his shoulder as you buckled your seatbelt, though you knew he was being tame. "Careful , Munson, before my mother hears you from the house." Eddie let out a hysterical chuckle.

"Oh, I think we both know you can drop the innocent act, sweetheart. Let's not forget I've seen you dance on bars after some Special K." He started the engine, music blaring through the speakers. Turning the corner of your street, he looked at you. "You're not fooling anyone."

You hoped you would fool some people, as the ride to Steve's house seemed impossibly shorter than the week prior. You gripped the seat next to you as Eddie found a spot on the street to park. You felt worse than last Saturday, entirely out of your depth and swallowed by nerves. Eddie cut the engine, a worried knit in his brow. "You good?" he asked, waving a hand in front of your eyes.

"Eds," you said, worried waver in your voice. "What...have you got on you now?" You said, eyes speaking the words the nausea prevented you from saying. "I think I need a boost."

The crinkle between his brows deepened. In the years that Eddie had known you - both loner and in your party days- you had never asked him for supplies before a party. There was a small, but concerned, frown on his face. "What's going on man?", he asked, turning completely toward you, "you freaked or something?"

You wracked your brain for any excuse other than the obvious. You'd known Eddie a long time. If anyone was going to let you spew your guts, without judgement, it was Eddie Munson.

"Listen," you started, " I did something really stupid at that party last week. Like, catastrophically stupid." When Eddie stayed silent, you went on. "I'm going to tell you something, and you have to swear you won't tell anyone."

"Who am I gonna tell?" He laughed, cutting himself short when you face hardened. "Okay," he said, "I swear. Girl's Scouts honour."

You told him everything. From the interaction with Carol and Tommy, to hearing Steve and Nancy break up. You told him about the kiss, the bathroom counter.....the shower. You told him how you'd run the next morning, how you'd been so sick from guilt. You told him every last excruciating detail. Eddie's eyes were wide, in an unreadable mix of shock, confusion and almost pride.

"What....the fuck," he whispered, a teasing smile on his face. "That's intense, and I'm not judging, but," he leaned in close, whispering to you. You leaned in as well. "You let Steve Harrington shoot his load in you?"

The way he said it, unforgiving and entirely true - making you realise just how reckless the entire thing was- made you cringe inward, hiding your face in your hands. "Eddie!"

"Hey, no judgement....," he grimaced a little, another laugh causing him to smile, "except maybe a little judgement here, the dude's a tool!" When you continued to hide your face, Eddie pulled a small bag out of his pocket. "Just a little alright? Lord knows I'd need it if I were you."

That's how you ended up doing a few bumps off a Motley Crue CD in the passenger seat of Eddie's van. You were raring to go, the nausea lurking back into its hiding place as you went through the side gate to Steve Harrington's back yard. You called Chrissy's name from the pool steps when you saw her playing chicken with Jason and a few of the other cheerleaders. The moment Chrissy locked eyes with you across the pool, her own jaw went slack.

"HOLY SHIT."

Her exclamation made almost every head turn your way. You'd taken off the jacket, giving Eddie the job of holding your things - which he begrudgingly excepted-, your red bikini top now on full display. Several eyes on you at once, the buzz of Eddie's special K and the continuous thrum of the music made you feel exceedingly alive. What's more, you felt a certain someone staring daggers into the side of your head, having noticed him in the corner of the pool the very second you stepped foot into his back yard. You kept your eyes forward, looking anywhere but at him.

This was a party.

Chrissy jumped off of Jason's shoulders, sending him flailing back into the water as she swam over to you on the side. Hoisting herself up, she enveloped you in a dripping wet hug. "Just where have they been hiding, huh?" she said, eyes darting to your chest and back again. You laughed at her candour, her inability to hide her every thought. "Don't just stand there, come get a drink! Mind if I steal her, Eddie? Promise I'll give her back." She said with a giggle, swaying your connected hands between the two of you.

"She knows where I'll be," he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Come find me if you need me, alright?" He said. You smiled at him, thankful that he had been there for you. You felt tons lighter now that someone else knew your secret.

Chrissy dragged you to the make shift bar on a table by the grass, coolers of beer and the notorious punch bowl calling your names. She grabbed you a glass, giving you a generous ladle full of punch that was so strong it had a resemblance to the smell of paint thinner. "So," she said, getting herself a drink, "what's going on with you and Eddie?" You nearly choked at her words.

"Me and Eddie, no way," you said, turning to look at the boy. He was wearing dark swim trunks and his guitar pic necklace. His chest full of tattoos was on full display, earning him the attention of several girls. "There's nothing going on there." Chrissy was watching you intently, the way your eyes travelled down Eddie's toned chest, lingering on the ink closest to his hip bones, pool lights accentuating their v shape. "No way."

"His eyes are up there, babe." She said, giggling as you turned back to her with a face the same colour as the red solo cup in your hand.

Eddie and you had been friends for too long, seen each other in every awkward phase, to be anything more than close friends. Sure, you both found each other attractive. That much was clear from the occasional oggling you each gave each other. You had even kissed once in 9th grade, the memory of said interaction haunting you both so much that any thought of being anything other than each other's friend sent a ghostly shiver up your spines. You'd been denying dating accusations from your mother and Eddie's Uncle Wayne for years. Uncle Wayne still had his suspicions, citing that no two teenagers needed to spend that much time in Eddie's room with a locked door. He just didn't know you were doing Special K and not each other.

"No way," you said again, taking a large swig of your drink, "way too much history there." Beside you, Chrissy smirked. With a quirked brow, she looked from you to the Munson boy, then back to you.

"Whatever you say," she said , tone full of disbelief. She bumped your shoulder with her own, prodding a teasing finger into your still flushed cheeks. "But I've got a radar for these things."

You held back a laugh, self deprecating and and entirely inappropriate, as you thought of how off Chrissy's radar was last weekend, how you and a certain brown eyed boy had completely forgone her so called sixth sense.

The party was in full swing by the time someone suggested a Keg Stand. You were in the pool with Chrissy and the other cheerleaders, laughing as the boys - including Eddie, which made you smile as he'd never gotten along with Jason and the basket ball players- relentlessly splashed you. All the while, you continued to feel a pair of eyes on the back of your head. You hadn't spared him a glance , enjoying the water and the company and the drinks without the reminder of the pit in your stomach. A circle was gathering round the edges of the pool as Tommy was picking his contenders for the Keg Stand, always too much of a coward to attempt and embarrass himself. "Jason, my man! Come on, show us how its done!"

Jason rolled his eyes at Tommy's antics. "I don't know man, someone's gotta be a designated driver."

"Come on, don't be such a pussy, Jase."

A serge of confidence - maybe down to the heat of the moment, or maybe the two bumps in Eddie's van- made you raise a high hand.

"I'll do it. I'm not driving." You were already hoisting yourself over the edge of the pool as Tommy stuttered over his words, trying to find a reason to say no, or a way to put you down. It was every guys fantasy - a girl in a dripping wet bikini on a keg. You may as well have been the sports illustrated cover you bought the swimsuit from.

"Alright, then. Steve!" Tommy called, and a cold jolt rain through you, "we found you a competitor!"

You felt him stand next to you, felt the heat of his body radiating toward you. You didn't dare look at him. An awkwardness threatened the air, looming. You risked a word.

"May the best man win."

You were hoisted up on to your keg by Jason, the rest of the basketball players gathered round and cheering you on. Steve was thrown on by Tommy, Carol next to him, and a gaggle of girls had come to watch. "Alright, " Tommy began, "two minutes for the whole keg. No breaks. Loser has to leave the party."

"It's my party, dip shit." Steve barked, frustration clear through his gritted teeth.'

"Guess you better win then, Harrington."

Your hands tightened on the side of the keg, knuckles going white with nerves. Tommy counted down from three, blowing a whistle to mark the start of your time. You were never a beer girl, but in the face of loosing to Steve Harrington in front of a crowd of people it could have been mistaken for your favourite drink. You chugged the cheap booze like you were a desert explorer stumbling on an oasis. The cheers of the crowd were silent on deaf ears, your only focus being the tube in your mouth and your grip on the keg. Your eyes were closed, the world drowned out. You were definitely going to puke, and you were definitely going to loose. Your brows scrunched in anger at the thought of the humiliation. Steve Harrington, getting the glory again. It made your eyes burn with the threat of angry, embarrassed tears. It made you question why you'd even agreed to come tonight.

The tug on your legs brought you back to earth, jovial cheers from both Chrissy and basketball teams as they pulled you down before lifting you on to Eddie's shoulders being the first indicators to your short circuiting brain. You'd finished your keg in one minute and thirty two seconds. The pool was alive with celebratory splashing. The crowd around the kegs began chanting your name, following Eddie's lead as he cupped his hands and heckled.

"All hail the new Queen of Hawkins!"

You caught Steve's eye as he glared at the scene unfolding around him. He tossed his cup on the ground - you had to hold back a laugh at his childish antics- as he stormed off, disappearing inside the open door at the edge of the house. A smug grin stretched from one ear to another as Eddie let you down to the ground. "You showed him who's boss, that's for sure," he chuckled, eyes following Steve's retreating figure. "Who knew he was such a sore loser."

"Maybe I should go and talk to him." You said, the beer telling you it was a fantastic idea. The devious smile on Eddie's face told you otherwise. "Oh yeah, because there'd be so much talking going on," he said, making an O shape with his hand before shaking it, "so much to talk about, isn't there."

You nearly ripped his arm off. The look on your face was murderous, and Eddie's laughter only grew louder.

"I'll be back in ten minutes."

"Ouch!", Eddie cried, devilish grin driving you nuts, "Lucky boy!"

You made your way to the kitchen of the Harrington house, which was the last place you saw Steve go. He wasn't there, no body was. The whole lower floor was desolate, every room a ghost town of empty cups and discarded shoes. You braved a peek up the stairs, craning your neck to see if he was lingering on the landing, to no avail. You crept up the stairs, foot steps leaving damp spots on the carpet and creaking on the old wood. Just as the rest of the house was, it was deserted.

All doors were shut tight. Harrington clearly did not want to be found. You would allow him space to wallow in his loss, already missing the glory and attention of the pool. You were reaching for the banister when a warm hand grabbed your shoulder and dragged you back into a linen closet.

With a yank of a light, Steve's face was illuminated. His face was stony, annoyed, eyes dark. It would have been scary, had you not just seen him throw a tantrum like a toddler.

Your hair dripping water on to the floor of the closet was the only sound other than the both of you breathing ragged, laboured breaths. There was a long silence before either one of you spoke.

"You sure have a flare for the dramatic," you said, gesturing to the light and the confines of the closet. "You couldn't fit in the pantry?"

Steve just looked at you, jaw set in a tight line. His eyes, however, darted all over your face; your eyes, lips, nose, cheeks. Bored of his silence, you tried for the door. He stepped in front of you., You got a dreadful sense of deja vu. "Okay, we're not doing this again."

"Hell yes we are," Steve finally said voice gruff. He had a brooding stare in his face, eyes frustrated and a little desperate - fearful. It looked as if he were worried you'd skip out on him again.

You glared up at him, irritated beyond measure.

"I came up here to see if you were okay after your little outburst out there, but you're acting like a real entitled douche here, Harrington." You pushed his shoulder - a little harder than you intended, only meaning to move him. He stumbled back a bit, the stacks of towels on the shelves cushioning his back. "Get out of my way."

He finally stepped to the side.

You were twisting the door knob when he spoke, barely above a whisper and muffled by the sounds of the party. "I cannot, and I mean cannot - as hard as I try- stop thinking about you."

Your head was screaming at you to go. To run down the stairs, say goodbye to Chrissy and find Eddie to drive you home. Every part of you was telling you to go. The door was open a crack, you could hear the voices of people outside more clearly now.

"You're all I can think about," Steve continued.

'Move', you thought. 'Move, god damn it.'

You felt Steve behind you. You could feel the warmth of his skin brushing against yours, feather light in touch, as he stepped closer to you. When you didn't move away, not an inch - part of you electrified at the scene unfolding before you- Steve's arm came over yours, hand resting on top of your own. "Close the door," he said, lips against the shell of year as he spoke. You shivered as his breath tickled your skin. With deliberate slowness, his hand on yours closed the crack in the door, shrouding the space in the warm glow of the singular lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

It was as though your whole body was on fire. Every nerve in your body on full throttle, tingling with anticipation.

"I tried to stop," Steve began, "thinking about you, I mean." His voice was quiet, soft. Ridiculously alluring. "Tried going back to how it was before. Tried to hate you again." He looked down at this feet, as if the words he was so desperately trying to say would be written in the carpet. "But I just couldn't stop thinking about it. Us."

"Steve-"

"Then you show up here with Munson? Of all people, to what, rub it in my face a little? Make me feel worse?" He raised his voice a little, his sudden and overt jealousy making your stomach flip. "Felt like my chest was gonna explode, I was so pissed." He sighed, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall. "Munson, of course." He muttered.

"There's nothing going on with Eddie, Steve."

"Oh, spare me," he said, "I saw you two together. The way he touched your shoulder? Earlier, by the pool?"

"Oh god, not my shoulder." You said, voice mocking.

"Come on, I see the way you guys watch each other." Steve argued, arm waving up in annoyance. "He looks at you like you're his girl!"

"And that bothers you because?"

Steve was silent after that, unable to speak the words he really wanted to without sounding like a jealous lunatic.

You took a step closer to him. His eyes met yours, frustrated and wide and even a little tormented. In a strange way, you liked it, that he was so beaten up over you. It made you feel a little better about being so haunted by the encounter, as well. Another part of you was revelling in the knowledge that Steve Harrington was hung up on you, after only one night. With a gentle hand, you grabbed Steve's wrist. "Steve," you said in a low voice, "there's nothing going on between Eddie and I. Okay?"

"How do I know that for sure?" he whispered, insecure.

You lifted his hand, eyes on his, and placed it on your shoulder. When you let go, his hand remained there. "Because," you said, " a shoulder means absolutely nothing."

Steve visibly relaxed, his shoulders became less hunched and he took a big sigh of relief. All the while, his hand remained on your shoulder.

You took another step toward Steve then, brain screaming at you to run, but the fire in your stomach telling you to stay, stay, stay. You leaned up on your tip toes, lips an inch away from his ear. "Besides," you said, "my shoulder is reserved just for you."

Steve sucked in a ragged, deep breath.

"You really shouldn't have said that." His voice was hoarse, gruff. It fanned the flames in your stomach to a blaze.

"And why's that?" you taunted, head cocked to the side as you looked up at Steve. A wicked, wolfish grin had stretched across his lips. He backed you into the wall, almost no space between you as his nose brushed against the shell of your ear. "Because," his lips grazed over your temple, "if you thought before was good," his hand grabbed your chin, making you look him in the eyes. "We're just getting started."

It was as if a switch flipped inside him as Steve crashed his lips to yours. While he was passionate before, now he was animalistic. He was all teeth as he kissed you, nipping your bottom lip in a way that said 'this is something only I get to do', and it made you groan aloud. Your hands crept up to his hair, only for him to grip your wrists and pin them above your head.

"Uh uh," he said, teasing and with entirely too much enjoyment. "Those stay right there."

You panted, out of breath, staring into Steve's lust blown eyes. You were completely shocked by this side of him. It was, quite possibly, the hottest thing you'd ever witnessed. In the brief pause, the quiet catching of breath, Steve's face came closer to yours.

"Is this okay?" He said, concern on his face, realising he may have been too intense. His brows were knit together in a soft V shape. You nodded, slow and sure. You were perfectly content to have Steve do anything he wanted to you. "Yeah, it's okay." You whispered. The teasing smile crept back on to his face. "Alright then."

And then he was kissing your neck, most definitely leaving marks as he sucked and nipped the skin on the hollow of your throat. You bit your lip at the thought of having to hide them, of being marked by him, thankful for the approaching cold season and the invention of turtle necks. One hand on your wrists, Steve's free one crept up your sides and found purchase on your hips, gripping them tightly. "God," he groaned, "do you have any idea," - a particularly hard bite on your collar bone- "how much I've thought about you this week?" His grip on your waist was impossibly tighter in the moment, pulling your hips into his own. Your only response was a breathy moan as he bucked into you.

He loosened the grip he had on your wrists, allowing your arms to slide down the wall and into his hair - he fell apart at the way you touched him, having thought about it all week. "I thought about you," he dropped down to your chest, placing kisses there. "Every," - a kiss to your torso- "single"- one to your stomach- "night." He sank down to his knees, staring up at you with swollen lips and blown out eyes. "It's like I was haunted by you. Couldn't get you out of my head." He kissed his way back up to your lips, his fingers tugging on your bottom lip with a twisted smile. "Thought about you so much, had to throw out your panties."

"You pervert." You said against his mouth, but the thought of Steve, bent over in pleasure, as he jacked off into your panties made you throb.

His hands toyed with the strings on your bikini bottoms, the flimsy material begging to be ripped off. He raised an eyebrow at you - a silent ask- and you nodded hurriedly. He pulled the knot free at an agonizingly slow pace, taunting you as your chest heaved in anticipation. He was torturous. Devilish, even. You loved it. He ripped the other knot open off hastily, making you gasp. Your lower half was completely exposed. "Do you want me?" he asked, and though his voice was hoarse and undeniably confident, his eyes wavered as he looked into your own with the slightest hint of uncertainty. You nodded, breathless and a little desperate. Steve tilted your head with his hand, thumb resting on the column of your throat, mocking smile on his lips. "I'm not touching you 'til you say it."

"Yes, God yes, I want you Steve."

"How much?" He was getting cocky then, and as much as it irritated you, it turned you on immensely. "Tell me how much."

"I thought about you, too," you said, breath hitching as he trailed a finger up and down your leg. "Couldn't help myself." That same wicked smile was on Steve's face as you spoke. "Couldn't get the feeling right again, tried so hard."

"Show me."

When your eyes darted to his, you could hardly see his irises. His eyes were practically black with lust, mouth agape as he took you in. When you didn't move, half embarrassed and half in disbelief, he guided your hand to your centre. "Show me how you touched yourself," he pushed your hand down, thumb swiping your clit. You gasped, desperate for any friction as the ache in your stomach flared. "He placed a kiss right under your belly button, eyes boring into yours. "Show me."

You felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck and on to your cheeks, thankful for the dim light. You sank you hand down, closing your eyes to save some semblance of your dignity. Steve Had other ideas. "Uh, uh, uh," he said, taunting. "Eyes on me."

You opened your eyes to see a completely, utterly hypnotised Steve. Every twitch, every half-movement was caught by his eager eyes. Knowing that you had so much power over him gave you a power trip, a major boost of confidence. The sight before you - a wild haired, wide eyed, practically drooling Steve Harrington- drove you crazy.

You dropped your hand down your stomach, fingers tracing the skin as they got ever closer to where you needed them most. You thought back to the nights after the party, the way you'd arched your back off your mattress pretending it was Steve's fingers getting you there, that it was Steve making your legs tremble.

You grazed your clit with your index finger, sighing as you made small circles there. You moaned, your pace picking up as you grew more impatient that Steve wasn't the one touching you and more embarrassed as time went on. You rested your head against the wall, gazing at Steve across the small space. He was shifting the front of his swim trunks around, growing impossibly more aroused every second he looked at you. Your chest began to tighten with short breaths as your hand grew quicker, the band in your stomach on the brink of snapping. You were sent over the edge at the sight of Steve palming himself, mouth in a silent 'O' shape as he watched you fall apart. The small closet felt like a sauna as you caught your breath.

"Jesus Christ," Steve said, a hoarse whisper as though his throat was bone dry - which it was. He'd never seen anything so hot in his life. "Get over here."

You launched yourself at him, throwing your arms around his neck as his own caught your waist. Your lips met in a brawl of need, smothering yourselves in one another. Steve gripped your face with a strong hand, guiding your chin so that his tongue could slip into your mouth with ease. He backed you against the wall, hands roaming all over your skin. You may as well have been on another planet, the raging party below having no influence on either one you letting out loud moans and groans. You felt on fire, sure that if you opened your eyes and looked down your body would be a scorched mess. Your core ached, desperate for any friction as Steve's clothed front rubbed against your centre.

"Steve," you whined against his lips, loud and high pitched. He was pressing into you now, and you felt you were going to go crazy if you weren't thrown on a bed in that very second. "Let's go somewhere else." When he pulled away to look at you, he quirked a brow cheekily.

"Aye aye, Captain."

Stuffing your bottoms in his pocket, Steve cracked the door ajar and peaked out. The coast was clear. He threw you - naked from the chest down- over his shoulder, and ran to the bedroom closest to the closet. It was his own, thank god. The door closed with a slam, and then you were against it, head cushioned by the coats and towels hanging from the hook.

"If you don't do something in the next thirty seconds," you said, voice desperate as Steve kissed your neck whilst his hands trailed up and down your bare back - fingers fiddling with the draw string of your bikini-, "I'm outta here, Harrington."

"Oh yeah," Steve challenged smugly, "to do what?"

You felt like pushing his buttons, testing him. His dominance displayed in the closet made you unbelievably wet, and you were hoping it was going to reappear. "Well," you began, voice full of mock innocence, "not what, rather who." Steve's arm tensed up around your body. His head whipped toward you, eyes darkening with lust and annoyance. "Who knows, maybe Eddie can help me out-"

You didn't even have to finish your sentence before Steve was scooping you up in his arms, limbs wrapped tightly around your middle as you both crashed on to the mattress. He was hovering above you with the most addictive expression on his face - a look that said "I need you, I crave you,"- and you wished that every time you closed your eyes you would see that look. Steve ripped off his shorts in a flash, stroking himself as he leaned down to you.

"You think it's funny, huh? To tease?" he said, voice wracked with desire as he watched you. You'd begun to slowly peel off your bikini top. He pulled the strap back and let it snap against your skin, grinning when you yelped. "You're in for it, babe."

The nickname had your stomach swirling with arousal, and you were sure you were leaking on to Steve's sheets from how turned on you were. He made his way between you, knee up against your clit as he ground in to you. When you bit your lip, he smiled. He sat up on his knees, stroking himself as he looked down at you. A rosy glow had donned your cheeks, both from the heat of the room and the heat of having a very attractive man tease himself in front of you. A sheen had begun to cling to your hair line. You looked entirely wrecked, and Steve had hardly touched you. His stomach flipped at the sight. He pushed your legs apart with his knee, pressing the head of his cock through your folds , delighting in the whiny pleas you let out.

"Say something for me," Steve asked, hissing as his head brushed your clit as he bucked into you.

"Anything, god, please, Steve." You would recite a whole Shakespeare play in that moment if it meant that he would fuck you. "Anything."

"Say you forgive me."

You suddenly weren't miles away. You were now hyper aware that you were in Steve's bed, in Steve's house, with Steve. Steve, who had ruined your life for so many years. Steve, who had stood by people and watched as they hurt you. Steve, who had taken your best friend from you. Steve, who had bared a piece of himself to you. Steve, who had wanted you. Steve, who had shown you who he really was. Steve, who you also desperately wanted, despite your complicated feelings about the past you both shared. The room was silent for a nano-second, before you grabbed his face in your hands.

"I forgive you."

In the midst of a very heated moment, Steve leaned down and pressed a very gentle kiss to your lips. "Thank you" he said.

Then he pushed into you, all the way, without warning and your choked moans filled the room. The stretch, while slightly painful, was glorious. Steve filled you up entirely, and you felt as though you were being split open while simultaneously feeling whole. With both hands beside you head as he hovered over you, Steve panted ragged breaths. "Oh my god, you feel amazing," he groaned. His face contorted in pleasure as you clenched around him. "God, can I move? Please, baby, can I?"

"Yes, god, move." Was all you could stutter out before Steve was rocking into you , pace wild and hard. The head board of his bed clanged against the wall, and you were thankful for the thrum of music outside. You held back screams as Steve hit that spot inside you with every single thrust.

Your legs felt like jelly as Steve grabbed your thighs, pulling himself into you with vigour. "Fuck," he moaned, unapologetically loud and undeniably hot, "fuck, I'm not gonna last long." You hands were gripping the sheets, hardly aware that he was talking as his stomach grazed your clit with every movement.

"Let me on top then," you said, and Steve wasn't a religious man, but he swore that was the moment he died and went to heaven. Steve flipped the two of you over, his back against the head board with your chest in his face. 'Heaven,' he thought as you swung your legs over his and grabbed him in your hands, sinking down on until he was all the way inside of you. "Oh my god." You said breathlessly, the feeling entirely different and absolutely better than before.

You used Steve's shoulder for leverage as you moved up and down on him, whining out high pitched moans as he thrusted up to meet you, gripping your hips tightly. You felt the coil building in your stomach. You looked down at Steve, his eyes drawn to where your bodies connected. "That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he said, eyes dilated and face red. He was right, it was unusually hypnotic to watch as your aching centre swallowed Steve's cock with every movement.

Steve's brows were knit together, determined to last but the reality that the two of you were going to come undone was fast approaching. "I wanna fill you up, wanna see my cum drip out of you. Can I cum inside you, baby?" he panted into your hair, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around your torso as he sat up, thrusting even harder up into you.

"Yes, yes yes, please Steve," you cried as his fingers crept down and began fast, tight circles on your clit. "Cum inside me, fill me up, god, please please please."

Steve let go the second you did, one final - particularly deep- thrust sending you over the edge and into Steve's chest. You felt as hot ropes of his cum shot deep into you, felt as it began to drip out o you and down your thighs. You panted into Steve's ear, chest heaving as you both came down from your highs. His hand, still between your legs, swiped up your centre, gathering the mixture of your arousals. He ran the same finger across your lips. "Open, " he said, grinning wickedly as you sucked his finger clean. "Dirty, dirty girl."

You hopped off of Steve, legs numb as you collapsed next to him on the bed. You didn't bother to cover up, the two of you no longer shy. There was a brief pause, and you felt like the prickly stickiness of sweat- and other things- on your skin. You mustered the strength to stand, stretching as you did, and made you way to the bathroom connected to Steve's. When Steve remained in bed, you turned over your shoulder as you stood in the door way. "You coming?"

Steve moved faster than you'd ever seen, practically tripping over himself, to meet you in the bathroom. Gazing at the shower, you opted to run the taps of the bath instead. The room quickly filled with steam, the mirrors fogging up. Once the tub was full, you hopped in and sat down, sighing as the warm water covered your sore legs. Steve sank down behind you, legs coming to rest beside your own, and you didn't move when his arms wrapped round your waist. Instead, you leaned back and rested your head on his shoulder.

Steve's hands ran soap up and down your arms gently, rinsing and repeating with mindless softness. he just wanted the excuse to hold you longer, feel you against him more. When his hand came down your arm again, you caught it. You fiddled with his fingers, a shyness washing over you slightly. Steve just intertwined your hands, and continued to rinse the soap off of your skin.

"What is this now?"

Steve's question hung in the warm air like the steam clung to the mirror glass. It was like you could see it in front of you, floating in a taunting cloud. It was the thing neither one of you wanted to ask, perfectly content to stay in the bath and ignore every nagging though that urged both of you to ask the other 'do you want me outside of these walls?'

You sucked in a deep breath, turning to look at Steve from where your head rested on his shoulder. "I don't know." You admitted. You didn't want to say the wrong thing and ruin the moment. "We can talk about that, though."

Steve smiled gently, resting his head on top of yours. "What do you want it to be?" He asked softly, your hand still in his.

"Is this your very long winded way of asking to be fuck buddies?"

"No," Steve chuckled to himself, "no, it's not." He sat up slightly, facing you more. "I'm saying that," he paused, struggling for the right words. "I know how I felt when I thought you and Munson were, whatever I thought you were." He said, eyes soft as he looked at you. "I know how much I missed you being round after you left."

You dropped your gaze , ashamed of your behaviour. Steve's hand moved your chin to meet his eye again, smiling that stupidly attractive smile. "I know I want you."

"I want you too, Steve." You said, almost sadly.

"Then we have something in common," he smiled again, and you rolled your eyes at him. "We can start there, and see where we go."

You didn't talk about what people might say, how you'd probably have to hide in his room or yours, secluding yourselves in VHS tapes in living rooms and candle lit dinners in kitchens. You didn't talk about how hard it would be, to keep the secret, to not talk about one another for a while. You didn't mind though. The two of you enjoyed the idea of the coming winter, the cover of darkness that meant you could walk to one another. The image of you huddled in one of Steve's sweaters as the first snow fell flashed through Steve's mind, and he felt his heart thud in his chest as he looked at you.

Warmth spread through your chest as you imagined Steve beside you on the tiny couch in your living room, fighting over the last slice of pizza as the credits rolled on a cheesy movie he'd rented. You revelled in the thought of getting to know Steve, not the King of Hawkins High, just Steve. And the thought of him knowing you as you were now, the matured and hardened version of you, made you stomach do flips as you looked at him.

"We'll see where we go." You agreed.

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