#This is too personal I shouldn’t share my music taste | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joosthead · 21 days

Text

finally // beautiful stranger || j.k. f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ part 3/prequel to normal au — this is a standalone fic but here’s part 1 and 2 if you want a little lore down the line : ). or if you’ve already read p1&2–this is how normal au joost and reader meet :3. set in december 2019.

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not from nl

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 11k (exactly !! :3)

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (strangers to…lovers?, f&m!receiving oral, eating it through panties, protected piv), smoking, drinking. mentions of violence. reader and joost are kind of dicks to each other + pouty and annoying but dw it's ok bc theyre cute. unironic use of the word yolo. reader is apprehensive about receiving oral—references being self-conscious because it’s been a while. unironic ome robert during sex : ( teehee op does not drink or club sorry for inaccuracy

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “finally // beautiful stranger” by halsey :'')

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: plushies!!! thank you for your patience and the love on normal au :''') i absolutely adore this au and i'm so glad to know you guys do too!! much more to come ;)))) honestly this isn't extensively edited i was just so excited to drop it : 3 thank you so so much to @howisjoostfanfictionforfree and @killerlookz for hearing me out on my decisions on how to place this in the normal au verse >-< I SO APPRECIATE YOU GUYS!! <3333

₊˚⊹⋆ translation: "Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk." - "So beautiful, I'm so lucky." / "Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig." - "You taste so good, I love it."

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

You should’ve brought a jacket.

If you were someone else, you’d have blamed it all on your roommates, their insistence that since your shared townhome was “only a few blocks away” from the club you were going to and “the snow isn’t even that bad” and “see it’s not even that cold” convincing you that an extra layer wasn’t needed. You’re you though, and you’re bearing the entire brunt of your regret as you trudge through the sleet covered footpath, the snow shoveled to the side and yet still not enough to keep the wetness off of your strappy heeled feet.

Why didn’t you bring a jacket? Why is it so cold in the Netherlands? Why did you move here for university? Why did you even sign up for that many courses this term, and why did the weather have to be like this right after you took your last final?

When will it end? Never, you think, but at the very least—tonight you get to party. After trudging through a kilometer of snow, of course, your roommates trudging right in front of you and suffering just the same. The snow that falls melts as soon as it hits the ground, your skin, dampening your hair and chilling you with the wind that whistles past.

Maybe you shouldn’t have even gone—but you promised that you’d loosen up after how hard you’d been going at work and school. Either way, you wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet your roommate, Ruby’s…Ruby’s boy-thing, an up and coming music producer with big eyes and a soft voice stage-named Tantu; and you wouldn’t pass up seeing Alanis, too, an acquaintance of your other roommate, Marina, turned your own friend.

It’s okay. Before you even know it (feels like an eternity), you’re through the line and through the threshold of the club (after getting squished and cut in front of and annoyed), and now you stand in front of the bar, trying (and failing) to get the bartender’s attention.

The club is packed to the gills with people—it is a raucous Friday night, and it’s been months since you’ve been in a place so full of people that wasn’t a library, a lecture hall, or some work event you had to attend. Still, though, it feels natural getting back into the groove of things, holding hands with Ruby as she leads you through the dance floor, checking on Marina behind you before she leaves to find Alanis.

The cold you were blanketed with outside is no more, not even close now that you’re slipping in between and through grinding bodies and flashing lights, the background music to your night a thumping beat you’ll feel in your bones tomorrow and a fast rapping Dutch voice over it. It’s overstimulating in a good way, you think, much preferred over the overstimulation of your packed schedule—you'll have a few weeks of this before it all starts again, and you're happy to be here at the end of it all.

Eventually you make it to the bar. Someone stepped on your foot on the way there, you lost sight of Marina, you have to adjust your little black dress constantly—whatever. Ruby’s boy thing is unmistakable, giant blue eyes and typical dad cap, and he stands at the bar with three shots waiting for you both.

“You must be Ruby’s other roommate!” he yells over the music and you nod, smiling at him as Ruby goes to hug him around the waist, giggling as she does.

You prop your elbow up on the bar for support—god, these shoes suck—and yell back, “You’re Teun? Is this your song?”

“This is my friend’s song, actually, Joost!” He looks around for a bit before giving Ruby a smile; her excitement is contagious owing to the fact that she’s almost never so animated, like she’s bouncing on her heels with her movement. “He’s supposed to be here tonight, I think he’s late.”

“Joost?” you yell, and he nods—you nod back in approval. Very pop, very gabber (if you’ve judged the subculture correctly in the 2 years being here), very loud, but you like it.

“He’s a really cool guy, I promise!” Ruby says, giggling even more and sharing a mischievous look with Tantu that you’re not sure means something.

“Mmm, sure,” you smile, scrunching your nose. You have a feeling that Joost, whoever he is, will become someone important later on in the night, but you put him on the back of your mind as you pick up your shot glass alongside the two of them and down it—you expect it to burn on the way down, seeming like some kind of vodka, but it’s smooth and sweet, only slightly burning. “Thanks Tantu,” you say, holding your hand up for a high five which he reciprocates, laughing.

“You’ll like Joost, I think,” he nods, and you cock an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to set me up with someone?”

“You need something to distract you from all your work, babe,” Ruby says, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Hopefully expensive vodka will loosen you up a bit.”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, “I didn’t ask for a distraction.” Work and school are already difficult enough to juggle as is, let alone your abysmal social life only kept alive by Ruby and Marina’s wide circle of friendly, eccentric creatives. You’d rather just keep your circle small, keep your head down and focus, but your friends always have things up their sleeves.

Ruby orders 3 Bacardi colas for your small group and turns back to you. “We’re gifting you one, okay?”

You shake it off, focusing more on the lovely rum and cola once it comes into your possession. Sipping at it, you follow Ruby and Tantu onto the dance floor, the bustling crowd jostling you around as you teeter on your heels, keep your purse close to your body, and try to keep your drink from spilling.

Truthfully, the purse (the purse!!!) is one of your most prized possessions—you don’t think yourself too materialistic, but scoring a 90s Dior saddlebag for less than a thousand euros, with your first big paycheck… you reason that that’s more than enough to get you to be materialistic.

You cover it with your arm as best as you can as you try and follow Ruby’s pretty lion’s mane of brown curls, turning to make sure you’re still there every once in a while but mostly just hanging onto Tantu’s hand—you don’t mind third wheeling when Ruby’s being so cute, a side of her you've never seen before.

The three of you make it to the heart of the crowd, running into Alanis and Marina and picking them up along the way, the thrumming beat of some early 00s song until it transitions to something so hyperpop your eardrums might rupture.

You mouth the lyrics, bright lights shining into your eyes, your dancing constricted by being way too close for comfort with a bunch of drunk and sweaty strangers, but. You’re trying. That’s for sure.

Marina’s hands snake around your waist as you sway together to the music, eyes closed and letting the alcohol get to you; you would go back to the bar and get another drink if it wouldn’t be such a damn hassle to do so.

You’re enjoying every single moment, the time passing by in a blur of dancing people and loud voices and sweaty bodies—you’re almost in a haze, all you’d need is a drunk cigarette to make this night perfect, but then Marina lets go of you, and you get disoriented. So many lights, so many people, not enough of your people.

You get elbowed in the back by someone and it takes you out of your trance completely. You look back in annoyance, the culprit being a tall blonde guy with douchey sunglasses who’s whooping and hollering with a friend who looks just as rambunctious as he is. Scowling, you turn back to where Ruby and Marina are, speaking/yelling with Tantu and Alanis, somehow several feet away, but then you stumble over your feet, and the guy behind you stumbles into you, and you feel a cold liquid run down your arm, your side, all over your dress.

Shocked (and frankly, about to cry) you look down at your now dripping arms, your purse and the stains on it obvious even now in the dim club light. A mixture of anger and pure disdain for the guy behind you comes over you as he turns around—what the fuck!!! Almost four months of utter bullshit at work and university and this is what happens to you the night you get back.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for it, just find me later!” he yells, looking down at you, turning back to his friends and laughing, and you practically gasp in shock with how rude he’s being. Can’t even give you the time to make things right now, what makes him think you’ll trust him enough to leave it later?

You tap on his shoulder, making him turn his attention back to you. He’s wearing earphones for some reason, and the big sunglasses really are so douchey. You’re normally not so judgmental—but he ruined your night. “Are you fucking serious? Sorry doesn’t cut it—this is vintage,” you shout, pointing at your poor purse. “And you’re a fucking asshole!”

“Oh, it’s vintage?” he scoffs, and you—you want to punch him in his smug face. You can’t even look him in the eye, his stupid sunglasses blocking your vision of him, but you know that you’re glaring holes through him.

Any night else, you would’ve left it alone, probably. At the very least, get a yell in; at the very least, get his info and give him an angry text the next morning. Tonight, though, you have nothing to lose and a chip on your shoulder. You get up closer to him, in his face as best as you can with the height difference and the close quarters.

“You wanna take this outside? You can yell where I can actually hear it, my music’s playing too loud!” he smirks, tapping on his stupid earphone, then pointing to the ceiling as the music keeps playing around you, as the people around you still keep dancing and hollering. He starts moving away from you, and you catch a glimpse of all of your friends—the puzzled stares from Ruby, Marina, Alanis, the concerned expression in Tantu’s eyes. You can't pretend to care about what you look like at the moment, except that’s all you care about at the moment. Your once perfect black dress, your mint-condition bag.

You bring your purse up to your nose—fucking Baco, not even a clear drink that you can get out relatively easily. Maybe if you’d just brought a jacket, you wouldn’t have a Bacardi cola spilled all over everything and ruining your life. You forgot how intense you are when you’re tipsy.

You follow behind him, practically stomping—you notice that people are parting for you more than they did in the beginning, and it’s likely because of the anger just radiating off of you in waves as you fume. Every once in a while, he turns and sees if you're still following…of course you are. You're not going to let him off the hook that easily. Any of your other friends would handwave it and just go back to partying. You’ve got an agenda, though.

When you make it out of the club, jostling through what feels like a million people, you're a bit sobered up and it’s so late—it’s so cold. In the lamppost light, you see he’s much taller than you, wearing a heavy jacket and a wrinkled white button-up underneath it, baggy jeans with writing over the crotch. He looks exactly what you’d expect. “I already said I’d pay for your things,” he says, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and offering you one, which you take as you roll your eyes halfway to the back of your head. “You have a stick up your ass.”

You take the cigarette between your fingers, bring it up to your mouth and he cups the end, holding the flame of his lighter to it—it sparks, and you take a long pull before sighing, “It’s gotten me much farther places than you, I know that for sure.” A smile teases on his lips, and you can't help but smile back, your anger already melting away like the snow on the ground. The two of you walk a little ways down, trying to get away from the loud clubbers and failing. It’s peak business right now; you couldn't escape them together even if you tried.

In your head, you tell yourself that it’s because of the nicotine, the smoke in your lungs, but you have to be real with yourself. Whoever the asshole who ruined your night was, whether he was a friend of a friend or the soundtrack to this club—he has pretty blue eyes and a prettier smile, and you…you are weak. And sobering up and realizing that making a scene was a bit embarrassing.

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, proudly, smugly, because you'd earned the right to after the way your life has been the past few months. “Sure it has.” Mood ruined again. You walked straight into that.

Again, you roll your eyes. “I'm not here to try and convince you of my accomplishments.”

“‘Accomplishments’,” he says, lighting up his own cigarette. “So accomplished but you didn’t bring a coat for this weather. Smart.”

This makes you realize just how freezing you are, one of your arms hugged close to your body for what little warmth you can muster from it—your dress is quite short, not to mention damp from this guy’s Bacardi cola spilled all over it, and you’re feeling the consequences. Goosebumps line your skin all over, the breath that leaves your mouth is not only smoke but the cold condensation in the chilly air, and you shake your head.

“I didn’t think I’d have to come out here and yell at you, but here we are.”

“How much is your dress? Your purse? I'll send you the money and more for your trouble.”

“I can't just replace vintage,” you fuss, looking down at your outfit. Your purse was once pink and white and Dior-monogrammed—now it is a muddy brown. Still Dior-monogrammed, but uglier. You never thought yourself a fusser—maybe this season of your life has changed you more than you thought. “I got this at a thrift in Berlin, you know how hard that is these days?”

A heavy weight gets put upon your shoulders; his jacket that he places around them wafts the smell of expensive men’s cologne and smoke. You look at him, incredulous; he gives you a quick glance, then averts his gaze. “You're shaking like a dog,” he says, taking a puff from his cig. “You need it more than I do.”

“Thanks,” you nod, and he gives you an acknowledging hum. “You don't have to. I was an asshole to you and you give me your jacket.”

“Don't apologize for something that was my fault.”

“It was both our fault.”

The night is silent as it can be—not silent at all with clubbers streaming in and out, the music and the talking leaking to the outside. The two of you are a bit farther away from all the people—everyone is walking the other way to another club or bar to continue their outings.

“Do you want to sit down? We can exchange info and stuff here. Your shoes look uncomfortable.”

Now that you’re warm, you realize another thing: your feet are aching tired from the dancing, the minutes of stomping after him. The curb in front of you is damp from the snow, but his jacket is so big on you that it can cover your ass—it’s not like you have much else to lose with this outfit, anyways. You sit and he settles down next to you. The sky is a deep purple canvas marred by light pollution, yet you can still see a few stars. Same stars here, same stars back home.

Another realization: you’re sitting in a foreign country, in almost silence next to some stranger, smoking a cigarette, wearing his jacket after calling him a dickhead and after he’s implied that you’re some airhead.

Maybe you're just boring (you're not), but life has never taken you to a place like this before.

To the side, he stubs out his cigarette, and you take a better look at him. Pink creeps up his neck, and when he turns back, you see how vibrantly rosy his cheeks are. If you're seeing it right, his eyes are a little heavy lidded, probably as a result from all of the alcohol. He has a beauty mark underneath his lip, and his lips are just as pink as his cheeks as he brings another cigarette to his mouth. “Do you want another? Or do you just want to keep staring?” His voice is playful, enough so that you bite your tongue for the quip back.

“I shouldn't. I’m trying to quit, anyway,” you say, still breathing yours in. He nods and you notice that you can actually see his eyes now—no douchey sunglasses, or whatever you called them in your head back there. “Why aren't you wearing your glasses anymore? The ones you wore inside?”

“I don't need to wear them now that the lights aren’t crazy. It gets very overstimulating in there, the glasses help.”

“I assume your earphones are for the same reason?” You point at his dangling white earphone, and he nods. “I should try that. Maybe it’ll stop me from yelling at strangers.”

“Maybe it will help you, too. Want to listen?”

He offers it to you, tonight’s symbolic olive branch, and you take it. “Sure,” but you take it out of your ear almost as soon as you put it in, the music extremely loud and blaring. “How do you not lose your hearing?”

“I’ll lose it anyway—YOLO,” he says, shrugging, and amuses you how serious he seems saying it. “YOLO” is a fitting mantra for him. “I'm a performer, anyway, so—YOLO! Accelerate the process.” The music turns down considerably; if you're hearing it right, it sounds like Flemish dad rock, something you'd hear on the radio if you grew up here.

“YOLO, I guess,” you laugh, and he nods like he’s proud of you, laughing himself. It sounds more like a bark, voice now raspy because of the cigarettes, because of the cold, but it sounds nice. “You’re a performer? What have I seen you in, then?” His appearance is so distinctive—hair so bright it almost glows, eyes reflecting an icy grey from the dark of the footpath in front of you. His style is even more distinctive, all Supreme and Bathing Ape and hype beast brands you’ve never heard of.

But it is Amsterdam. Curly blonde haired, blue eyed hype beasts are a dime a dozen here. You’ve probably seen him around somewhere, it seems like even your roommates know him pretty well through their scene of creatives—but you can’t seem to connect him to anyone you’ve ever watched or heard before.

“Let me pull up my music for you.”

“Soundcloud rapper?” you tease.

“Adjacent.”

He takes his phone out of his jeans pocket, and you peer over his shoulder, watching as he scrolls through a different playlist. He looks back at you, smiles, looks at your lips then back up at your eyes—it takes a little out of you to keep from rolling your eyes, it takes a lot out of you to keep your composure when he does it. Ugh. “I don’t know what to play you,” he admits, turning back to his phone. “Feels like you’re just going to mess with me when I do.”

“I'll try not to. Can't promise anything, though.”

You put your hand on his shoulder—he feels warm, sturdy, and he’s taking way too long to pick a song out of the apparently many he has under his name.

Finally, he clicks on a title and it begins playing; 1 second in, you say, “Skip,” just to fuck with him, and it works well—he looks back at you, mouth agape and eyes wide, expression so earnestly incredulous you have to laugh. Your faces are closer than they have been the entire night, but you can't even focus on that as you laugh. “Skip?!” he exclaims, getting closer to you, all up in your face.

“Yeah, skip,” you giggle, nodding exaggeratedly as you lean into him like he just did to you. He’s so close, and he grins at you as your noses come close to brushing.

“This is the first song of mine I’ve played the entire time, and you want to skip it.”

Obviously, it isn't actually a skip for you—”Ome Robert,” a really fun song about…sucking dick? Being a god? Either way, it’s incredibly catchy and well produced, but you don’t want to let him know that just yet. “Yeah, I wanna skip it. You’ve gotta have better than this.”

“I work hard on this song, I release it myself, it goes platinum in the Netherlands, I make it to impress beautiful strangers at the club just like you—and you want to skip it. All that work, what did it even get me?”

Beautiful. This counts as a win. “I admire your work ethic and I think it’s so commendable that you set up a record label for you and your friends—but it’s a skip, I’m sorry to say.” You shrug, putting your hands in the coat pockets once you stub your cig out. The air is so cold—honestly, you worry for him, his disheveled white button-up the only thing shielding him from the weather now that he’s given you his coat.

“Tell that to everyone in the club, you saw it back there. You probably even danced to it, too.”

“Did you have to pay the DJ to get him to play your song?”

“No, we’ve been friends for years.”

“Ah, so it’s nepotism. I see,” you state proudly, and he groans.

“Nepotism? I will let you know, I established a record label myself. Fully independent, no nepotism.”

Though Joost’s tone is annoyed, there’s nothing but an amused grin on his face; you smile back, “Is he signed to your label?” He nods, and there, just as easy, you have another piece of ammo. “Ah, so he’s kissing up to the boss.”

“You—“ he starts, eyebrows furrowing, then stops, shaking his head at you. “I've been talking to you for an hour and I don’t even know your name.”

“We’ve been busy.”

You offer your name and he repeats it, question mark at the end. You nod and he smiles bigger, if that’s even possible. In the streetlight, his eyes shine, long blonde eyelashes almost covering them. “We’re supposed to meet, did you know that?”

“Really?”

“I’m Joost. Friend of Tantu and Alanis. They said they wanted me to meet…their friend’s friend? If you are that. Friend’s roommate?”

“What a way to meet.” You didn’t think this would be the Joost that Tantu was talking about at the bar, fiery yet sweet making loud and proud music you’d never heard before.

“We made great first impressions on each other, I think. You are unforgettable.”

“Mine worse than yours,” you sigh, and Joost hands you his cigarette to smoke the final few puffs. You take it even though you should quit, even though you told him you’re quitting, your lipstick staining the butt.

“We can put it behind us, yeah?” he says, holding his hand out for you to shake. “Friends?”

“Acquaintances, for now,” you tease, but shake his hand anyway. “Fuck, dude, your hand is so cold.” Your brows furrow in concern as you squeeze his hand, surprisingly freezing, surprisingly soft save for a few callouses.

Joost laughs smaller than you’ve heard him all night, your hands practically in his lap; his cheeks are glowing pink with how long you’ve been out here—your cheeks are warm, but likely not for the same reason.

“Acquaintances? Don’t play hard to get.” On instinct, you wrap your other hand around Joost’s in an attempt to warm it. “Your hands are so warm, I appreciate you for trying,” Joost remarks. “Very small, too, Christ.”

“Oldest trick in the book, Joost, my god,” you laugh, exasperated, yet still, you let him move your hands so they're flat against each other, palms touching. He holds your wrist gently so he can line your hands up; his fingers are much longer and thicker than yours, and the sight brings warmth to your cheeks—it shouldn’t have the effect it does on you, but it does.

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

You bring his hand into the coat pocket with yours—it worked enough for you to now willingly share this tiny pocket, that’s for sure. “It’s working,” you say softly, averting your gaze now that you both know that whatever it is is something that’s felt mutually. “Do you do this with every pretty stranger you meet in the club?”

If Joost is a performer like he says he is, a big time independent record label owner like he says he is—there’s sure to be a line of people out the door, or at least a few groupies or someone. Someone in that club who recognized those songs, recognized the mop of blonde hair sitting in front of you now. Over several failed situationships and romps with people this side of Europe, you learned: there is always someone. Someone who’s less busy, less distracted, more interested.

You know you fit the bill for the interested part, at least—less busy is something you’ll be for a short time, less distracted…well, you have your full attention on him right now, don’t you? It’s been so long since you’ve done something like this, maybe you’re just feening for an excuse to check your own boxes for him, maybe you want to do this for the sake of the line out the door or the groupies.

Or maybe he’s just Joost. Whoever Joost is, considering you just met him. And maybe you just want him to keep holding your hand, or talk to you more, show you more of his music or go back home with you, slip into your bed, stay until the morning.

“I can't say I have. I’ve never had a conversation like this with anyone, really, so it wouldn’t even be worth it if I did,” Joost says. Your faces are close again—you would bridge the gap if you just let yourself, but you can’t; you can only muster the courage to let your noses brush against each other, only the courage to smile. “Can I kiss you?”

It seems, he’s checked your boxes for you.

“Are you fucking crazy?” you scoff, though you lean in at the same time. Joost leans back when you do, teasing grin upon his lips, and you furrow your brows, shaking your head. “Don’t play hard to get,” you mumble as he untangles your fingers in your coat pocket, takes your face in his cold and gentle hands and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes like cigarette smoke; his Bacardi cola on your dress and your shoes, and now the taste on your tongue; he tastes like smiling into a kiss with a pretty stranger, the way you both do now.

Joost kisses like he’s scared to broach you, like it’s the first time he’s been delicate in a while—you kiss like you’re hungry for him, because you are, not a single care about your lipstick on his face or the people walking past or the fact that he’s a stranger. His hand slips under your coat, gripping your hip as you pull him closer by the lapel; you beckon him to kiss you harder when you let him lick into your mouth and you lick back.

It’s your turn to pull back, come up for air; Joost chases you when you leave, hand running down your body as you go to stand up, a soft little, “what no” leaving his mouth when you do. The look on his face—his face!!! Fuck.—is so cute, big wide eyes and hand on the back of your thigh. You cup his face (is this too tender?), rub your thumb at the edge of his lips where your lipstick has smudged in an attempt to clean it off. Turning his head, he kisses your palm, and your breath catches in your throat.

Wordlessly, he gets up, stands next to you. “What the fuckkkk!!!” he whisper yells, gesturing wildly, and the street echoes the sentiment back. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” you say, laughing, and then stumbling because he’s gotten you in his arms again, kissing you, stumbling with you back against the brick wall of the building behind you as he laughs into your mouth to your whining between giggles about how he almost made you trip.

Caged between his arms, you wrap yours around his neck so you can get up higher to kiss him—“I don’t regret spilling my drink on you at all,” Joost mumbles when you kiss his chin, nip at his jaw, go down to suck at his pulse point and nip at it too. “Can I touch you like this?” he whispers, and you nod as he brings his hands down to your ass, presses you harder against the wall, grinds against you as you kiss him breathless again.

When Joost pulls away, you know—you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Breathing almost heavy, pink lips dropped open, face more serious than he’s been the entire night and scanning your features in a way that is truly disarming—you don't want to admit it, but Joost has got you wrapped around his finger, too.

A group of people from the club pass behind—you hear a few whispers of, “Is dat Joost?” and a few wolf whistles. Someone gives him a few congratulatory claps on the shoulder which he cringes at, giving you an apologetic smile. “Don’t listen to them.” Once more, he kisses you.

“Your place?” he breathes, and you sputter for a response. This is going a bit too well. Your silence seems to speak for you, but really, you're just thinking about if your room is clean, if your everything shower was enough, if you’re ready to do this with him. “Too much?” he winces, giving you a weak smile, and you shake your head.

“No, no, my place is fine—my roommates might be home, though.”

“I can be quiet.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

“It’s a half-truth.”

“I’ll take that.”

—

After a kilometre walk the direction of your house chock full of giggles and pauses to keep kissing against brick walls, dark store fronts, alley entrances, you finally make it back to your house.

You hurry up the icy steps to your townhome, taking Joost by the hand as he trips his way up the flight. “Schat,” he breathes, and the pet name makes your heart skip a beat, “My house was closer the other direction.”

“You suggested my place, Joost,” you laugh as you unlock your door and step in your warm foyer—you wave him in, kicking your heels off and stepping onto the cold wood floor as he does the same with his shoes.

Closing the door behind you, you listen for a beat…voices. The walls are so thin here, you’re unsure if the sounds come from your next door neighbours or your potentially home roommates. Either way, you bring a finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet. In his normal voice, he says, “I’ll be quiet,” and you laugh together at his volume—neither of your roommates would care, but the teasing you'll receive tomorrow if they knew it was Joost you were bringing home…endless.

“Come, now,” you say, taking Joost’s hand and leading him up your steps, down the hallway to your room.

Your home is tiny and cozy and lived in—the three of you have worked very hard to make this feel like a household instead of just a shared living situation, frames lining the walls of your antics and travels together, baby pictures from home, posters of music artists and movies that one or all of you like. Joost lags behind you trying to look at them, but you just pull him along. Waiting any longer feels like a travesty.

Once you get down the hallway, open and close your door, you push him up against your door and kiss him again to his surprise, your teeth clacking together from his smile and your enthusiasm. “You want me that bad, huh?” he teases, and you roll your eyes.

The answer is yes, but you’re not going to let him know that yet.

You room is as tiny as the rest of the house, a queen bed in the middle with off-white sheets, a desk on the far side, a dresser with a mirror when you walk in.

“I don’t do things like this very often,” you mumble, fumbling with his angular belt buckle between your fingers, the cold metal of it and the jagged edges of the plate spelling “ALBINO” in a stylized font.

“Me neither,” Joost breathes as he tries to help you, but ends up fumbling with it, too. “Holy fuck, if I knew this would be so hard to take off, I wouldn’t have worn it.”

“Cool belt, nonetheless,” you say, and he kisses you thanks.

“It’s the name of my album,” Joost beams as he finally gets it unclasped, pulling it through his belt loops. You undo his button, unzip the zipper, he does the rest, clumsily pulling down his pants slightly. “We should listen to it.”

“Later.” From here, as you palm him over his underwear, feel his length through it, you can tell—he’s big. “You should’ve told me you were hiding this back there, maybe I wouldn’t have argued with you as much.”

“I was afraid you would’ve clutched your pearls if I did, schat, the way you yelled at me.”

“You would be right,” you agree, knowing you would’ve probably thrown a drink in his face if he made some remark about his dick size to you in the midst of your argument. “But if you told me, we probably wouldn’t have sat out there for so long.”

“I wouldn’t have given up that conversation for the world.”

From anyone else, these words would be hyperbole; strangely, from Joost, they feel true. it feels like you know him already, and he knows you. Perhaps it’s the result of having such a circle of a venn diagram of friends and acquaintances. Perhaps you did know him from a different time and you just forgot.

“Me neither,” you agree softly, smiling into the kiss you give him as you reach into his boxers and wrap your hand around his hard cock. He’s just as thick as you thought.

“Fuck,” Joost breathes into your mouth already, and you watch him and his face contort in pleasure as you jerk him lazily in his underwear just for the added sensation of the fabric rubbing against him. Gazing at your lips, eyebrows furrowing, chest moving up and down and breathing heavy, he says softly, “I haven’t done this in…a year? A year and a half? So please, have mercy on me.”

“Go home with someone? Me too.” You figure that it makes sense—any fling he has is probably on the road, in hotel rooms, anywhere but home. You're not exactly welcoming guests on Friday nights either, but you’re holed up in it 24/7.

“No, I mean—any of it. I don't do casual often, at all, really.”

You scoff lightheartedly, “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious,” Joost smiles as you take his length out of his boxers and get on your knees, the plush carpet cushioning you.

You don’t do one night stands and you certainly don’t do them with self proclaimed “performers,” yet here you are.

Now in front of you, his cock in your hand, you make complete peace with your decision, and it’s easy to do so.

He is so pretty—all pale, the tip a delicate rosy pink and leaking wet, a vein running along the underside. It’s nestled in a thicket of lightly trimmed dark blonde hair; you give him a few pumps, running your thumb over the head for some lubrication when you do.

“Won't listen to my music, but you’ll do this, ridiculous,” Joost says quietly, hand on your cheek as you look up at him through your eyelashes.

“You’re still on that? Big ego, shocker.”

“Obviously not a shock, you’re holding it.”

In shock at his audacity, you gasp dramatically. “Don’t get cocky, now. You still needed to beg me for streams earlier.”

You give a kiss on the pink tip, salty precum coating your lips. A perfect moment passes when you look back up at him—he rolls his head back in pleasure, a quieted moan slipping past his lips at your tongue finally on him, just one lick to the slit but enough to get him a little louder.

His cock twitches in your hand, and you grin, kitten licks to his shaft, “Too much?”

Joost says breathlessly, “I think my knees will buckle sometime tonight, schat,” and you beam up at him.

“That’s a big compliment,” you purr, taking the head of his cock into your mouth and sucking lightly, which earns a strangled groan for you, a curse under his breath. With every bob of your head, you take a tiny bit more, about half—you're ambitious, but who can blame you when Joost is so pretty? Struggling to keep it together, his stomach muscles jumping and twitching with every hollowing of your cheeks, every drag of your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

Joost’s hand comes up to the back of your head, just resting there gently as you swallow down his cock, dripping spit on your chin; it hits the back of your throat and you almost gag, having to pull back and pump him a few times, the shiny head now a deeper pink.

“You like it that much, hm?” he says, moving your hair out of your eyes as you lick a stripe along the underside.

“When you make those sounds—yeah, I do.” You lap at a bead of precum dripping from his slit, and it makes him hiss; it makes him groan even more when you pop the head into your mouth and suck again.

Involuntarily, he thrusts just a little in your mouth—”Can I do this?” Joost asks, and you nod around him. He’s gentle when he starts, and you prepare to take more of him by breathing through your nose.

He makes these little thrusts into your mouth that make your eyes water, shallow as you suck around him, steady with one hand on your head. With every thrust into your open mouth, he breathes heavier, his pretty lips are dropped open. Spit pools at the sides of your mouth; one long seat into your throat, followed by another, and you gag around him, making him groan loudly. “Holy shit, schat,” Joost breathes, and you feel accomplished. “Enough of that, I think I’ll cum.”

With his hand, Joost wipes your spit from your chin gently; brings you up to meet him for a sloppy kiss, which you smile into as he reaches around to your dress zipper, pulls it down a few inches, rough fingertips against your soft back. You start undoing the buttons of his button-up for him, fumbling just as you did earlier with his belt. For some reason, you can't find it in yourself to slow down around him.

The zipper catches and you miss a button on the way down, both of you entirely too distracted by kissing like it’s a competition, like you want to eat each other—thankfully, you get all of them undone, and so you run your hands down Joost’s chest covered in hair, his happy trail, back down to his cock again. It makes him falter as he brings down your zipper but he manages to do it, fingers light as a feather running down your spine, nudging your dress down.

Erratic and wild as the man in front of you, your heart beats a million miles an hour, your hands in his hair as he pulls down your dress completely and it crumples onto the floor.

Joost pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips, pupils blown out and wide as he scans your body, your breasts and your pebbling nipples. You move your arms in front of them, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t be shy,” he laughs softly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed—“ he moves your hand over his heart—it beats as fast as yours, and you give him a small smile. “I’m nervous, too.” A kiss that seems to calm your nerves. “Can’t believe someone pretty as you would take me home.”

He rubs your back, and already you feel comforted—how is this the same guy who spilled his drink all over you? “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you forget how your dress is still very sticky because of yours truly?”

You laugh together as he kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, then kisses your lips slow and achingly gentle, licking into your mouth and rolling your nipple gently between his two fingers, his other hand cupping your cheek. He drags his tattooed knuckles down the curve of your breast, making your breath catch in your throat, a small whine falling from your mouth when he runs them down your stomach, fingertips down over the lacy black fabric of your thong, down more and teasing at your covered clit.

“Get on the bed,” Joost murmurs, and you practically scramble to it before he stops you with a loose grip around your wrist. “Woah, woah, woah.” With a puzzled expression, you turn back to him. “We can’t have them watching, what?” he says, gesturing at your bed. Staring back at you with gigantic embroidered blue eyes: three of your cat plushies placed upon your pillows from earlier when you made your bed. You weren’t exactly planning on guests tonight. “Blasphemous, no? They can look out the window.” Scooting behind you and to the bed, Joost scoops up the three, climbing over it to your desk facing outside. The moonlight streams in through your curtains as he sits them in a line and turns them around. “Much better.”

“Much better,” you repeat, laughing. On your now clear bed, you lie back and lean over. Opening the lower drawer on your nightstand, you rummage around for the box of condoms you know is somewhere in here but is covered by notepads, extra pens, random pouches filled with indeterminate belongings. Under a folder filled with paperwork and old assignments, you find the box, opened but largely untouched except for one used for a 4th date Hinge guy from months and months ago who didn’t even make you cum.

You dig the box out and hold it out to him. Settling between your legs, Joost says, “Not yet,” taking it out of your hands and placing it on the nightstand. “I want to taste you, schat, I’ve been wanting to all night.”

…Eating it already? You’ve declared that Joost is ran through, but you find yourself caring less and less with how enthusiastic he is. Still, though, there’s a part of you that’s apprehensive about letting him see all of you so soon.

“Joost,” you blush, closing your legs. He moves them so he can see your face, and your cheeks grow hotter as you reason, “We just met.”

“And?” Tilting his head to the side, Joost scoffs. “We’re already naked in your bed, schat.”

He makes a good point, but still…you’ve never had anyone offer to do it on the first link. “I don’t know…You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“You just put my dick in your mouth, it’s only fair I do something in return.” Just a little, you part your legs for him; slowly, he takes a place between them, gaze disarming as he comes to lie on his stomach and rests his cheek on your thigh, giving it a chaste kiss. So convincing, but you don’t really need to be convinced, do you? “I will make it worth your while, baby.”

Soft mewls come out of you inadvertently when Joost noses at your inner thigh, sucks at the sensitive skin. “We could just move on—that is perfectly fine, too. But I could give you even more of a good time if we do this.”

“You talk big game, Joost,” you laugh. With his age and strange tattoos and his bleach-damaged hair and his expensive attire, you expect Joost to be bad at…all of it, really, but he’s only subverted your expectations tonight without having the chance to fully even touch you yet.

“I wouldn’t do so if I couldn’t prove it to you.” Joost presses a chaste kiss over your panties, over your clit, and somehow, your heart ups gears, beating unsteadily. “And if I didn’t want it so bad,” he adds in a low voice. Completely different from the smiling, pink-nosed boy you saw in him earlier, Joost is hungry for you, the look in his eyes telling you everything you need to know about the veracity of his words. “If you don’t want me to see, I’ll close my eyes—for now, we can just do this.”

Whoever had him last must have trained him well.

Lathing his tongue over you, Joost spreads his spit over the cloth of your thong, soaking the fabric even more than it already is as he holds your gaze. One arm is hooked around your thigh; the other hand, you’re not entirely sure, but judging from how heavy he’s breathing, how desperate he looks as he eats you out over your panties, the movement of his arm—he’s touching himself, and you wonder if he can feel how much more wet you become at the idea that he is.

A few hours ago, thought yourself unshakeable in the face of him—now you’re a squirming puddle in his hands.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to—but I promise—“ Joost says, big blue eyes shining at you, hands now clasped together as if he’s begging for it—you figure that he is begging for it, technically, and who are you to deny him the opportunity? “Do you really not want it?” Though he’s giving you an out, he sounds so resigned, and it makes you smile a little.

From the sidewalk, your front steps, the threshold of your room, you wanted Joost badly; wanted him even after considering all the outcomes of this: a waste of a free night, or an hour or two with an overconfident and underperforming boaster before you shoo him away, or a sweet but egotistical rapper in your tidy bedroom putting plushies on top of your university textbooks and leaving his clothing on your floor.

Despite yourself, you want him. The confirmation that he wants you just as badly, too—the air in your room is charged with electricity, warm and stuffy almost even with the cold outside. You haven’t felt something so strong in forever, too distracted by work and school and life to really care about your body’s needs, even less so what it wanted.

Joost is exactly what you want.

“No, no, please,” you breathe, already lowering the side of your thong. “I want you, please, Joost.”

The confidence feels more like giving permission to yourself to be so vulnerable with Joost. No one has seen you this intimately in months (feels like years) and definitely not after such short time together.

“Okay, schat. Okay,” Joost says, pressing one last kiss over your underwear before helping you pull it off. When you kick it off somewhere on the ground next to the bed, he screws his eyes shut dramatically, and you laugh.

“You can open your eyes, you know?”

“Hey, I said I would keep them closed for you, I’m not going to break my promise.” He shakes his head, moving forward to kiss…somewhere, you’re not really sure, but it ends up being the junction between your leg and your center, which tickles you.

“Break it, I don’t care.”

“If you say so.” Joost shrugs, then opens his eyes. Already, it’s as if he’s trying to study you, and it makes you want to hide. Against your better judgment, you open your legs wider for him to have more room, and he gives you a small grin. “Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk,” Joost says softly, one tentative lick up your seam that makes you shudder. Your cheeks feel warm with how reactive you are to him. Synapses overloaded with his skillful tongue teasing at your clit through your lips, parting them slightly with his fingers—you don't even have it in you to translate what he said to English in your head. “Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig,” he groans, laying his tongue flat against the bud, lapping at it a few times, smacking his lips loudly against you.

He wraps his lips around your clit, making you moan loudly at how good it feels; you tug at his sweaty blonde hair, and he laughs, he laughs with his mouth on your pussy, and the vibrations of his deep voice make you go crazy. Already, you feel your climax about to approach—in the whirlwind of your busy life, you had no time at all for any self-love, and you guess that your heightened sensitivity is a direct result of that.

Or maybe Joost is just that good.

You watch Joost as he devours you slowly, eyes trained on yours and unflinching, arms hooked around your plush thighs and holding you down—even if you wanted to, you couldn’t get away from him.

When he reaches his right arm up to paw at your breast, you can’t help but notice—“You—is that Crazy Frog?” Crazy Frog tattoo?!?! On his forearm of all places?!?! Who exactly are you sleeping with? You are entirely and endlessly entertained and intrigued by the stranger you’ve picked up tonight.

“You know Crazy Frog?!” Joost exclaims, pulling back from you with a pop that makes you moan, lips glistening as he sits up a tiny bit.

“Yes, I know Crazy Frog, Joost.” You laugh, amused if not a little puzzled at the notion that Crazy Frog could be some niche reference for anyone who’s used Youtube in the last 15 years or born before 2003.

“I thought you would be too fancy to know him, I’m glad you aren’t.”

“I may have a stick up my ass, but that doesn’t mean I live under a rock.”

“Great,” Joost smiles, climbing up over you to give you a quick kiss before you gasp at two of his fingers circling your clit. “Then we will get along just fine.” Kiss to your cheek, and he’s back on you again.

The pause in stimulation makes you more sensitive, somehow, and when he immediately sucks your clit hard, it punches the air out of your lungs—you clench your thighs around his ears, but it just makes him suck harder. In the matter of a minute, your orgasm is coaxed out of you by Joost and his wonderful mouth, your moans no longer quiet and subdued; you have to cover your mouth with your hands, but it’s no use when he keeps licking your swollen clit on your comedown, every stroke of his tongue bringing intense waves of pleasure surging through you, making you sob out his name like your neighbours won’t have it memorized by the time tomorrow comes.

Joost pulls away from your pussy slightly when you finally release all of the tension in your thighs, your body, letting your vice grip on his blonde hair go. Every part of you feels like jelly as you try to catch your breath, sweat on your brow, the pulse between your legs strong and steady as a result of the beautiful man lying between them.

“You want another?” Joost asks, wiping his mouth, then giving you a wet kiss on your overstimulated clit that makes you curse his name to his raucous laughter. “I can give you another, I could do this forever if you asked.”

“No, no need, that’s very much enough, thank you,” you say, shaking your head. If you could stand not to have him inside you for one more minute, you’d take him up on his offer. “That was too good.”

“Dank je wel,” he grins, then kisses you, your own flavour on his lips and his on yours.

“Graag gedaan,” you giggle in your crappy accent and he kisses you again.

“Wowww, fluent. Very impressive, schat.” Joost nods, giving you a small round of applause, and you roll your eyes but pull him in for another kiss anyway. He moves to sit down so you sit on top of him—his cock is still hard as it was before, a small wet spot on your sheets next to you from where he laid down.

The feeling he gives you, it’s inexplicable—all those days writing reports and essays, brainstorming and editing, thousands and thousands of words upon paper, and Joost has rendered you speechless in mere hours. No sound between you—no jabs, no complaints or thinly veiled flirty insults, just your shared breaths in your bedroom, just the dull shuffle of your now messed up comforter against your sheets as you reach over and rip off a condom from the sleeve, the box falling over and onto the floor.

For once, you don’t quite care; you only care about ripping the wrapper, taking it out, pinching the tip of the condom, rolling it down his hard cock as you kiss him open-mouthed and thoughtless.

“All fours,” Joost whispers, and you let yourself follow his lead after so long having to be in complete control of your life. It feels good being with him, feels good when he places your legs far apart and you settle on your elbows, back arching. You’re so exposed like this—you almost flinch when he dips his fingers into your dripping folds. You turn your head to look back, let him see you and your face as he teases your clit. “Who would have thought?”

“Thought what?” you breathe, wiggling your ass back against his hand.

“Nothing to say? No teasing?”

“I’ve done my teasing.” You already knew Joost’s hands were big—but when he wraps them around your hips and pulls you to him gently, the size of them is stark, so warm and gripping you tightly. He comes closer behind you, his thighs behind your ass, dragging the tip of his cock through your slit with a groan. “Joost,” you sigh in a small voice, so overcome by your need for him. “Please, I need you, please fuck me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

With a few more swipes of his cock through your wetness, a few circles of the head against your clit that make arousal pool in your stomach and between your legs, he finally inches it inside of you just a little.

He’s going so slow, and you—you've never been so impatient in your life. You slide back for him, loud moans coming from the two of you at the fast stimulation, his cock dragging against your walls as you take him deeper. “Oh my god,” you whisper as he eases more of himself into you, then leans over you, chest pressed against your sweat-sheened back and a hand snaking around to knead your tits.

“‘Ik ben een god,’ I guess,” Joost says into your ear with a laugh, and you can't help but laugh too, even with all the ego dripping from quoting his own song calling him a god while he’s fully inside of you.

“Don't flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to flatter myself,” he says, and the grin in his voice is absolutely diabolical; he says it with a hard thrust into you, which you moan at, the way his cock hits your spot so amazingly, your eyes almost roll back into your head. Every nerve in your body is electric, so many months without use, without stimulation, Joost is a shock to your system. “You do it enough for me.”

You practically hide your face in the sheets as he falls into a rhythm thrusting into you at an angle so deep inside you could cry—you would never let Joost have that satisfaction, though, so you bite your lip and revel in the pleasure. Every steady seat of his cock inside you, every single breathy moan that falls from his mouth, every whispered murmur of your name accompanied by his hands roaming your back.

The sticky slap of his balls against your clit, the wet sound coming from your pussy so filthy it could take you out of this dizzying haze. Really, it sends you in deeper, burying you in it the way he’s burying himself inside of you.

“Fuuuck,” you drag out as you grip your sheets for any leverage, eyebrows furrowing with his hands gripping tightly on your hips to bring you back onto his cock. “Joost, like that.” The pace he's set for you both is aggravatingly perfect—you think you might want it forever.

“You sound so pretty saying my name like that, baby, do it again.”

“Joost,” you mewl, eyebrows scrunching that you’re letting him have what he wants. You start to say it again, but as you do—he sinks into you so quickly, so hard, then starts sliding out of you so slow you let out a strangled sob. You can’t say anything else when he continues fucking into you, only letting out stifled sighs with every movement.

“So much to say earlier, now look at you. It’s okay, I know it’s good, liefje,” he says softly.

“So good,” you murmur, the drag of his thick cock in and out of your pussy bringing you almost to the edge as you collapse your torso onto the bed, so exhausted with the endless dopamine hit you’ve managed to score with Joost—almost to the edge until he ceases his movements completely as he’s fully inside you.

“Schat,” Joost breathes, and you turn around and pout at him, completely (and justifiably) annoyed at the stoppage of his wonderful hips.

“Fuck you, why'd you stop?” you ask, propping yourself back up on your elbows and shaking your head.

Joost leans over you, lips on the nape of your neck, so you turn your head. “Fuck you,” he says, and you kiss him as he laughs. He’s so full of it—You’re so full of him, a comfortable pressure inside of you and snug against your spot. “You need me to hold you up? You can lie down if you want, schat, maybe it will feel even better.”

“Yeah, hold me up.” At your wish, he stands you both up on your knees as he supports your stomach; one hand wrapped around your waist and the other snaking down, down between your legs.

You’re sure that this will collapse you once more—you don’t mind. He resumes thrusting into you, breathing into your neck, kissing your shoulder. The wet slaps of skin against skin, the sighs and the breaths and his raspy voice in your ear when he finally touches your sensitive clit alongside the firm movements of his hips. “Let it out, lieverd, I know,” Joost murmurs into your neck as you sob in pleasure; there isn’t a single second of reprieve he gives you, not even slowing the circles he’s making on your sloppy clit.

You don't have it in yourself to argue; not against the ego or his wandering hands and his voice you’d deem condescending if you were still arguing on the stoop in front of the bar earlier—Joost is right, it is good, and this angle he has thrusting up into you is mind blowing, even as the rhythm becomes irregular and disjointed as he kisses and bites the side of your neck.

Your heart beats ever faster, the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens with every languid and messy thrust inside of you. You reach behind yourself to hold onto Joost around his shoulders, gripping his hair as you bring him in for a rough kiss, all teeth and carnality—you were so composed, once upon a time. He’s given you every reason to forget that.

“Oh, fuck, schatje,” he mumbles into your mouth. You pull back to look at Joost in his glory—he’s even prettier like this, messy and sweaty, patches of pink all along his cheeks and neck, eyes focused and almost stern. “My hand is cramping,” he says, and you laugh when he adds quickly, “And you also feel amazing, but also my hand is cramping.”

“Keep going, I'm almost there,” you say, and he obeys, still rubbing your clit, your wetness smearing on your pussy and his hand. “Do it for me, Joost, you feel so good,” you breathe, and he nods, kissing you deeply—it hits you before you even register it, takes you off guard when you climax and you have to pull back from him to moan his name, looking him in the eye when you do.

You’re never this loud—it’s very vulnerable realizing how much he’s coaxed out of you, Joost watching intently, soft smile upon his lips at your clenching pussy around him as the waves of your orgasm come through you, practically leg shaking.

He kisses you quiet again; kisses you until it’s his turn, thrusting sloppily into you, the overstimulation stinging, but so good still.

He whimpers your name, and you contemplate asking him to give you another orgasm; he whimpers again into your neck, just a soft vocalization against the still filthy sounds of the final few thrusts he can give you as he cums, the warmth you can feel through the condom flooding your pussy.

When he stills, Joost places his forehead against yours, and you breathe together in silence—if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two of you have been with each other for years.

“I’m really surprised I lasted that long, schat,” Joost breathes, and you laugh, watching his face as he grins at you

“I’m surprised, too,” you tease, giving him one last kiss and untangling yourself from him; he’s still inside you, softening with every passing moment. When he slips out of you, you hiss—it feels empty, how sad.

“Hey, mean.” You flop down on your bed, completely spent, sweaty, still wet between your legs and watching as he takes off the condom, ties it off, and throws it in your waste bin. “I showed you a good time, didn’t I?”

“I’m not sure,” you tease when Joost comes back to sit next to you, putting his underwear back on with an annoyed rolling of eyes. “Maybe you’ll have to show me one next time?”

“Next time, huh?” he smiles, slipping his shirt on from the pile on the floor, starting to button it up. “Ehh, I’ll think about it,” he says, and you slap him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re a dick, Joost.” Joost cackles as you barrage him with a bunch of weak punches to his shoulder and back, getting your revenge for the dress and your purse, for him being a rapper and a fuckboy and the giver of the best dicking down of your life. You try not to let it kill your vibe—it likely will later, but for now, you can just be silly about it.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“The door next to mine.”

Closing your eyes, you lie back on your bed, half expecting him to just dip, hoping he’s not that much of a fuckboy. But a few minutes pass, and there’s a soft knock to your door, and Joost steps gently into your room again with a glass of water and a washcloth in his hands.

“Did you think I would just leave?” Joost asks, coming around to your side of the bed and handing you the glass. “Glassie water!” he says in a singsong voice, and you look at him puzzled as you thank him. “You’ll understand when you listen to my music more.”

“‘When…’” you laugh as he gives you an offended look and nudges your legs open. The washcloth is cold when he places it on your skin and you wince, shaking off his apologies about the water’s temperature because it’s sweet that he’d even do this in the first place.

As Joost cleans you up, delicate and gentle as ever, he says softly, “I will send you whatever money it takes to clean your purse, I will give you my number, and I’ll send you my schedule for the next month. Okay?”

“Schedule? You sure it’s not filled with other strangers from the club?”

“It’s not, I swear. You’re going to come to one of my festival shows this month, and you're going to like it.” Joost leans in and you expect a kiss for some reason, but he just takes the glass from your hand and drinks from it himself. A free festival pass doesn't sound so bad. “Ruby and Marina are back. I said hi.”

“Oh god,” you laugh, covering your face. “What’d they say?”

“They were surprised you took me home, but apparently they won a bet with Tantu, so—we did something good, I think!”

“You think?”

“I know!” You laugh at his…everything, really, sinking down in your comfy bed, realizing how heavy your eyelids are, realizing that you still haven't even exchanged numbers or last names. Does it matter this far in? “I think I should get going, schat. The sun is rising.”

In the middle of his sentence, you practically drift off into slumber, pulling your covers over your bare body. “It’s cold, stay.” You pat at the spot next to you. “But not for too long.”

thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) askbox hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost x you #joost #joost smut #joost fanfiction #joost klein #joost klein fanfiction #juno's fics #juno's smut #normal au

178 notes · View notes

katareyoudrilling · 5 days

Text

Audience of One (Dave York one-shot)

Pairing: Bodyguard Dave York x Female Reader

Summary: When online comments threaten your safety, you reluctantly agree to hire a bodyguard

Word count: ~3k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: a bit of danger, masturbation, unprotected PIV (please use protection IRL), a hickey (sort of)

A/N: This is my entry for @burntheedges Roll-a-Trope challenge! I got famous person AU and twisted it to fit my very niche tastes lol. It has been quite a while since I posted something, thanks for hanging in there with me. I really hope you enjoy it! Big thanks to @burntheedges for the beta 😘

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

Dave York Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist – link in my bio or let me know!

“I really think you’re overreacting.” You finish cleaning off your instrument and securing it in your case.

“I’m not and it’s not open to discussion.”

You sigh. “I’m a concert violinist, not a movie star. No one is out to ‘get me’ or whatever. This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” your manager forces you to meet her gaze. “There have been emails, social media posts… I know you don’t want to believe it, but there are creeps out there focused on you. I need you to be safe.”

She’s looking at you with so much care and concern that the fight leaves your body. “Fine. Send him in.”

“Thank you.” She turns to open the door to the dressing room and gestures to someone in the hallway. You gather the rest of your things into your bag and prepare to head to your hotel.

Your manager steps back into the room trailed by a tall, broad, dark-haired, incredibly attractive man in an overcoat.

“Meet Dave York, your bodyguard.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“I’m really sorry about this,” you apologize for the tenth time since getting into the back of the town car with your new bodyguard in tow. “All this fuss is unnecessary.”

Dave regards you across the darkened backseat. “Your manager doesn’t think so and neither do I. The sooner you accept my help, the better this will go.”

You lose your train of thought as the streetlights sweep across his gorgeous features. His pouty lips… his aquiline nose… his strong jaw… his dark eyes… each feature takes its turn in the lamplight. It’s probably for the best, taking him in all at once might actually kill you. No one has the right to be this handsome.

You shake yourself out of your reverie and find Dave watching you closely. You look away quickly, shifting your focus out your window. You cross your legs, and the slit of your dress opens, revealing your legs up to mid-thigh. You quickly adjust the skirt to cover yourself and tell yourself that you’re imagining Dave’s eyes flickering away.

You clear your throat, “Right, umm… how is this going to go, exactly?”

“I’ll be with you during the day. When you return to your hotel room at night, I’ll hand off responsibility to my security team. There will be extra security at your concerts and events as well.”

“That doesn’t sound too intrusive.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“I hope you like classical music.”

“We’ll find out.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

And that’s how it goes. Dave meets you outside your door when you’re ready to leave in the morning and accompanies you on each step of your schedule. He tags along to masterclasses, rehearsals, concerts, and your own practice sessions. Ushering you in and out of town cars and back exits.

You share brief conversations in the car. His dry, sarcastic wit comes out little by little as you spend time with him. He often makes you laugh and you thrill when his pouty lips tilt at the edges into a wry smirk at something you said.

He leaves you at your hotel room door in each city at the end of the day, waiting until you close the door to call his security team.

You don’t lean against the door and wonder where he goes after he’s with you. That would be inappropriate.

You don’t replay the events of the day, the glances, the almost touches, that assuredly exist only in your own imagination.

You don’t catalog the little things you’ve learned about him. Single. No kids. Ex-military. Coffee, black. Unexpected crinkles around the eyes when he smiles.

You don’t seek him out in the concert halls, looking for a sign that he enjoys the music you’re making, always finding him watching you intently from backstage, still and focused.

You don’t find yourself pulling out your favorite toy to relieve some tension more and more frequently as the days spent in his company add up.

Definitely not.

. . . . . . . . . .

“You played something different tonight.” Dave’s deep voice breaks the silence of the car.

You hum your assent, “Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy. It’s a real crowd pleaser.”

“I didn’t know a violin could do that.”

You chuckle, “Yeah, the soloist gets to show off in that one.”

“You like to show off, don’t you?”

The energy in the car shifts in an instant. Dave’s dark eyes are even darker than usual as he regards you across the cab. The question hangs heavy in the air.

“You have to like to show off to do my job,” you explain a bit breathlessly. You meet his dark gaze, and he hums in approval. “Do you like to show off, Dave?”

He drags his thumb across his lower lip, your eyes can’t help but follow the movement.

“No, I don’t like to show off. I like to watch.”

His words hit you like an electrical current, zinging across your skin, breaking you out into full body goose bumps.

You hold each other’s gaze in the dark, your breath coming in increasingly erratic pants. He doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

You cross your legs and allow your skirt to fall open up your legs, just like the first night you were in the car with him. This time, the dress has an even higher slit—you save this particular gown for when you perform the Carmen, you enjoy playing into the persona. This time, you don’t cover up.

You watch as his gaze flickers to your bare legs, exposed practically all the way to your underwear, the tip of his tongue sneaks out to wet his plush lips.

He drags his eyes back up to yours. The air is thick with possibility. A line has definitely been crossed. Words begin to bubble up from your gut when the car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.

The moment pops like a balloon.

Dave opens his door and swings up and out of the car. In a haze, you open your door and step out into the night.

The next moments go by in a flash.

You hear someone shout your name, Dave yells, you’re shoved against the car, unfamiliar hands grab your shoulders and whisk you into the hotel lobby and into the elevator. The doors close before you can understand the commotion happening outside the hotel.

You’re flanked by security guards you’ve seen around after hours. The words “assailant” “custody” “weapon” permeate the buzzing in your brain. Questions form and dissipate in the tangle of your thoughts before you can get them out.

The elevator doors open on your floor, and you are bodily moved into your hotel room. Before they can close the door, you finally manage to ask what’s going on only to be met with vague instructions to stay in your room and wait.

You pace the floor and look out your window, hoping for a glimpse of what might be happening on the street below, but you’re on the wrong side of the building. It doesn’t hold any answers for you.

Your hands reach for your phone only to realize it’s still in your bag in the car, along with your instrument case.

The car.

Your mind returns to that moment right before you pulled up to the hotel. So ripe with promise and possibility.

Then you had gotten out of the car.

Oh shit.

You got out of the car yourself. You opened your door yourself. You weren’t supposed to do that. Dave opens your door. Dave ushers you out of the car.

It’s all your fault.

Just as your thoughts threaten to spiral, there’s a firm knock on your door.

“It’s me. Everything is ok. Open the door.” You hear Dave through the door. You rush over and check the peephole like he told you to. At least you can say you remembered to do that. You confirm it’s him and open the door.

“Dave, I—”

He crashes into you, pressing you against the wall with the length of his body before claiming your mouth with a rough, desperate kiss. His hands grip your chin, your shoulders, your hip as he devours your mouth.

Your hands scrabble against his chest, finding the lapels of his coat to hang on.

Just as suddenly as you found yourself kissing Dave, you aren’t. He pulls back abruptly leaving you cold and breathless.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t ha—”

You pull him back to you by his coat, drawing his mouth back to yours. You lick into his mouth, moaning as he responds.

This kiss is less frantic, but still full of need. Your tongues tangle together, tasting and testing.

Dave eventually breaks away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I’m ok, but what happened?”

“A man came running toward you, the police have him now. I’m sure it’s the person making those creepy comments about you online.”

“I got out of the car by myself, Dave, I’m so sorry, I know I’m n—”

“Shh,” he hushes you. “It’s ok. You’re ok.”

He presses his lips to yours, swallowing your protests, until you melt into him.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” He drags his lips down your throat, across your collarbones and shoulders. He licks back up the side of your neck.

You gasp as he drags his tongue over the sensitive spot on your neck.

“I noticed this mark the night I first met you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I was so jealous of whoever got to do that to you. I kept waiting to find out who it was, to see if they were worthy of marking your skin, but there has been no one and the mark has stayed.” You sense the unasked question.

“My… it’s… a violin hickey,” you pant as he drags his nose up the column of your throat and along your jaw. “Where my violin rubs against my neck when I play.” He chuckles.

“Should I be jealous of your violin?”

“Probably.”

He hums against you. “Fair enough.”

He steps back to the hotel room door and for a moment your heart drops thinking that he might be leaving, but he only opens the door to pull your bag and violin case into the room. You hear him conversing with a guard outside before he closes the door, locking the deadbolt before turning back to you.

He shrugs off his overcoat and suit jacket. He loosens the knot of his tie and begins to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. You watch the movement of his fingers with rapt attention.

“So, Miss Show off. Do you want to show off for me?” His eyes flash dangerous and dark and a thrill runs up your spine.

Adrenaline tingles in your fingertips as you find the zipper of your dress and pull it down your side.

You lock eyes with Dave as you let your gown fall to the floor, a puddle at your feet. You are left standing in only your panties and high heels.

Dave drinks you in, caressing your curves with his warm gaze. Your nipples harden under his perusal and wetness pools between your legs. It’s all you can do to not rub your thighs together.

“Get on the bed.” He commands, his voice deep and rasping with need. His shirtsleeves are rolled up now, exposing the tendons and veins in his forearms. His hands fist at his sides, clearly fighting the urge to touch you. But you’ve learned this about Dave, he is always in control of himself.

You walk over to the bed, turning your back to him and adding an extra sway to your hips. You catch his strangled moan at the sight of your round ass framed by the string of your thong. You turn to sit at the end of the bed with a satisfied smirk. Dave stands at arm’s length from you, pinning you with his dark eyes.

“Show me. Let me see if those fingers can play your pussy as well as they play your violin.”

You gasp at his filthy words and your center clenches with need. Keeping your eyes on him once again, you drag your panties down your legs and off, kicking off your shoes as you do, and scoot a bit farther onto the bed.

You lean back into the plush bedding, resting on one elbow, knees bent, and spread your legs for Dave.

He drinks you in hungrily as you part yourself for him, dipping your fingers into your wetness.

Your mouth falls open as you circle your clit, a moan escaping your chest. You fight to keep your eyes open so you can watch Dave watch you. You really do like to show off and he is an eager audience.

You quicken your pace, hitting the rhythm you like best, and find yourself careening towards your peak. Your hips buck on the bed, and you whine that you’re close.

“Show me,” Dave commands one last time before you fall over the edge, pulsing and shivering through your release.

“Do I get a standing ovation?” you ask, breathless, once you’ve come back to yourself.

“You tell me.”

You crack one eye open and find that he’s standing at the end of the bed naked. His cock juts proudly away from his hips at full attention.

“My favorite kind.” You lick your lips as you sit up and crawl to the edge of the bed. You look up at him as you take the tip of his cock between your lips, sliding down the hard length of him. You watch his stomach flex with effort as he resists fucking into your mouth.

It makes you want to make him lose control. He’s always alert and watching. Even in the car on the way to the hotel tonight, he kept his cool as you tempted him. Bursting into your room to kiss you is the only time you’ve seen him not in complete control of himself.

You tongue and suck and moan around him, losing yourself in the rhythm. Dave drags his fingers down your cheek and throat.

“Look at you, fuck.” He cups your breasts, swaying heavily between your arms, and pinches your nipples. “I want to watch these tits bounce while I fuck you.”

You whimper around his length, arousal practically dripping down your legs. He pulls out of your mouth, diving down to kiss you deeply and press you backwards onto the bed.

He arranges himself against the headboard and drags you on top of him. “Ride me, baby,” he commands. You eagerly comply, lining his weeping cock up with your entrance.

Your eyes roll back in your head as you sink down onto him, the stretch is so delicious with every inch you take. When you bottom out, you open your eyes to find Dave breathing hard, the tendons of his neck taut with effort.

You rise and sink back down slowly, angling yourself backwards so he can see his cock disappear into your wet heat. He licks the pad of his thumb and reaches between you, giving you friction that makes you shudder with each roll of your hips.

“Fuck yes,” he groans, eyes locked on your greedy pussy, swallowing him whole. You feel yourself start to flutter around him, the intensity of his eyes on you drives your arousal higher and higher. Being watched with so much desire gives you such a thrill that your orgasm threatens to take you far too soon.

You slow and lean forward, placing a hand on the headboard over Dave’s head. Your breasts wobble in front of his face and he quickly takes one nipple into his mouth. You arch your back into him as he sucks and tugs, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

He holds your hips still with one hand as he feasts on you, bringing his other to cup and pinch your tender flesh.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry as the pressure builds in your core. Your hips grind into him, seeking relief as he relentlessly toys with you.

He allows you to move, to chase your high, riding his cock with abandon as he looks up at you with lust blown eyes. You tilt your hips, and he finds your clit once again.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he praises you as you near your peak. “Come on my cock, baby. I want to feel you.”

You come with a gasp, rising up on your knees as your pussy clenches then collapsing back down with shuddering pulses. Dave caresses your back before rolling you over and gently pulling out. He kneels between your legs, stroking his length, as you lie boneless and hazy.

“That was so fucking hot, baby.” His jaw clenches as he strokes himself faster and faster. “I fucking love to watch you. Watch you play your violin… watch you touch yourself… watch you fuck…”

“It’s my turn, Dave,” you interrupt. “I want to watch you come. Come all over me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows and smirk at the way a shudder moves through his body. He lets go with a groan, ropes of cum painting your tummy and chest.

You both collapse, satisfied. Dave cleans you up, taking extra care with your breasts. You smirk as he chases the warm cloth with his even warmer mouth.

“What happens now?” you ask later, when you’re twined together on the bed. “If that was the guy…”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me and even after you don’t,” Dave presses a kiss to the top of your head. You snuggle into his side, relaxing in the knowledge that you are safe and thrilled with the prospect of showing off again for your audience of one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A/N: I don't have, and never have had, a violin hickey. I probably don't practice enough lol. But they are often seen as a point of pride among violinists.

Dave York Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist - in reblog

#roll a trope challenge #dave york #famous person au #dave york x reader #pedro pascal characters

68 notes · View notes

jolapeno · 1 year

Text

a pile of cards

javier peña x f!reader | part four of the birthday bash

summary: it’s become a tradition. he presents you with a birthday card so you can collect his words, while he collects the expressions you share as you read them.

warnings/themes: javi through the seasons, narcos season two/three spoilers. cute, fluff. happy ending. wordcount: 3.8k

It began because he didn’t want to be empty-handed.

Murphy and Connie’s pink bag of tissue put him on edge as they stood outside his door. Fidgeting. Hurrying him along.

Normally, it’s not him being dragged somewhere, but rather he doing the dragging.

His arm never needing to be twisted to go to a bar. It, in more recent times, has become a hobby of his to find a way to bury the day—sometimes by liquor, other times by other means.

He’d lied with relative ease that he needed them to make a stop—needing smokes. Once inside, he grabbed the first card he felt was relevant and used the scratchy pen belonging to the man behind the counter to sign it.

Now, he’s outside the bar.

The one a bit further out than he usually goes. It’s calm, maybe too much. There are fairy lights swinging overhead the gathering in the outside area, the Colombian heat still laying its thick hands over those invited to your shindig—even as the sun tries to set.

The words, “It’ll be fun”, came back to him. That you’re new, working with the CIA. Connie periodically interjecting that you’re funny, nice.

Javi swallows the questions about how she knows, just sitting silently in the back like a child dragged somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Mainly, he had wanted to question how he’d met the new recruit, and he hadn’t. He didn’t. Swallowing it, letting its bitter taste scratch his throat as it sank down.

It’s rising now, clogging his oesophagus. Making it hard to force normalcy as he walks in rhythm with the Murphys to the cheers and shouts.

There’s laughter swirling, too. Music—all loud and chirpy—making him more aware of the gun in the back of his jeans, a nervous tinge to his twitching fingers.

Because Medellín parties haven’t fared well in the past. Not even recently.

His apprehension only settles as they reach the familiar faces—the ones who take one look at three of them and remain unsure what to do with their faces.

It dawns on him then that maybe he hasn’t made friends with the CIA lot well. Preferring his game of winding them up more than Murphy.

He’s about to comment on it, when Connie shrieks. A flash of colour bounds their way until arms wrap around both her and Murphy.

Him standing, leaning his weight more on one foot as he studies the exchange. Observing. Getting bits and pieces from Connie’s excited chatter. You look pretty, like your dress, you shouldn’t have, and then when he is all set to roll his eyes, he sees you.

Realising what Connie means.

All bright eyes. A smile that renders him momentarily useless. The thing in his throat vanished, replaced by dryness and confusion.

“Hey, birthday girl, need t’introduce you to someone,” Steve says, turning to him, “This is my partner, meet Javier Peña.”

He tries not to stare but finds he does all the same. His brain wracking itself trying to place you, work out where, if, he’s seen you before. Unsure how he hasn’t seen you before—this enigma of a person who is suddenly friends with so many around him.

Not even recognising you in passing.

And he’d remember. Dragging his eyes up and down the dress hugging your body, he’d definitely remember.

“Hi, Javier. Thank you for also coming? Drinks are not on me or the house, and if you order any food, I have to have some.”

Snorting, he wipes his jaw. “That right?”

Nodding, you take a sip of a beer you’re handed. “Birthday rules, I’m afraid.”

“I—um. Got you a card?”

He watches as your smile goes through a spectrum of types before it lands on a smirk. Finger and thumb taking it from his hand with a glint in your eye—one he can’t pick apart. Fucking CIA.

Javi also notices that Steve’s brows are so close to his fucking hairline, it makes the man looks ridiculous.

“Ha-Happy birthday.”

Placing the beer bottle down, you glance back at him before unpeeling the envelope. Sliding it out, staring at the very generic card.

Nothing else inside it except, what he hopes is your name, Happy Birthday and signed with Javier.

“You… you don’t know me, do you?”

He considers lying before he smirks. “Why’d you say that?”

“You spelt my name wrong,” you add, tongue in cheek as you grin. “But, I’ll forgive you if you buy me a drink.”

Steve snorts to the left of him, trying to disguise it behind his hand. “Be nice, Jav. She’s joining us in a few months. In the DEA.”

Shrugging, Javi snorts. “What you drinkin’ birthday girl?”

In a year, he’s learnt several things about you.

One that you have awful taste when it comes to dating. Two, you like your coffee black. Three, you do not smoke. Four, you care about him (even if you attempt to bury it under snark and sarcasm when it rears its head).

Yet somehow, on the anniversary of your two’s meeting, he finds you outside. Alone. A cigarette in between your fingers, burning, smoke ascending as you stare across the city.

“Y’know the party is in there, right?”

Smiling, you nod. Running a hand up and down your arm. Little bumps spread over exposed skin as you cast your eyes out to the city—the one sprinkled with lights that grow in numbers as the stars begin to twinkle.

“You spell my name right this year?”

Snorting, Javi steps out further onto the veranda—the palm fronds swinging, the scent of your Marlboro reaching his nostrils.

He doesn’t think when another breeze brushes in, his jacket in his hand—extended out. You turn your head, facing him, the smallest crease between your brows before he watches you hand him the smoke, and feels your fingers brush against his—a buzz, a shockwave—passing up his fingertips to his wrist and arm.

Then it’s gone.

His leather jacket around your shoulders, his fingers twitching—wishing to smoke what you handed him. His own very much resting on your hip (both his lighter and packet in the pocket resting on your frame).

“Anything else come with the card this year?”

Lips parted, an open-mouthed smirk sliding into one cheek, as he watched you tip back your drink. Eyes not leaving him. Stuck, fixed—waiting.

“You can smoke that, by the way.”

He notices it’s not stained with lipstick or gloss. Bringing it to his lips, taking a drag that instantly settles the fluttering in his stomach.

Holding your gaze a little longer. “You got something in mind?”

Shrugging, you’re the one to break the stare. Pulling his jacket more around your shoulders—all unreadable, a mystery.

“Just thought, it’s been a year—you might have treated me.”

He almost chokes and splutters. Almost.

A part of him wants to ask how much you’ve drank, because you’re being bold—bolder than normal. Also, because he very much wants to.

While Javi isn’t normally an asking-permission kind of man, he felt he needed to with you. Even if all he thinks about doing is treating you.

On his desk.

In the file room.

In his car after a long shift when the two of you walk out together.

Tonight, in your ridiculously tight clothes that do nothing to help him continue to be a gentleman.

Because you’re on his team, you do good work. You’re good for Murphy and especially good for him.

When you bring him coffee just because, when you’re talking to Murphy or translating for him, but your eyes slide to him. Sometimes when he finds himself in the same bar as you, your posture relaxed, eyes somewhat glazed as someone he doesn’t recognise has their arm around you.

You populate his mind, like seeds were buried in him at your first meeting, and have been blooming ever since.

In the year since he was first really introduced to you, he’s had many thoughts about you. Wondering what it would take to get your pupils to swallow the colour in your eyes, whether you’d say his name full of gasp or prettily. Whether you’re as beautiful in real life when you come, as you are when he dreams of you.

“But, guess I’m not your type.”

He snorts, tracing his bottom lip with his tongue as he assesses you. Unsure how you could be so wrong, when he knows you’re usually so right.

Your fingers pull his jacket around you, fiddling, a nervousness to each movement.

“What?”

Smirking, you lick your lips. “I hear things.”

“Good things?”

Snorting, he watches as you do that playful roll of your eyes. “Mixed bag, if I’m honest.”

Kicking off from the post, he finds your eyes don’t leave his. Not even as he begins to step closer, deciding to test his theory.

Flicking the smoke from his hand, Javi tries not to second-guess himself under your wider eyes, taking him in, swallowing him. He never gets nervous, never questions it.

Until you. It’s not until he’s so close to you the gap between you both is suspicious at best if someone were to come out and find you.

But, you don’t push him away. Don’t even begin to question any of it. You just keep looking from his eyes down to his lips.

The moment slowing— sound of the bar’s jeers growing more distant as the space around the two of you fades to nothing.

It’s almost poetic, if not for the reason the two of you are here. That the task at hand, outside of cards, drinks and birthdays, is to end the war on drugs

“Javier?”

He swallows, and then he moves. Gently. Softly, slowly sliding his mouth over yours as he feels you stiffen, before you relax. A purposeful movement of your lips against his, fingers finding a place on his neck and cheek.

You taste like sweetness, sin and something that leaves a lingering spice. A taste he’d love to chase—something he’d enjoy taking apart and having splayed across his sheets for hours.

He turns you, shifting you from your place until your spine meets a post—hand on your cheek, keeping you close, tongue sliding past your teeth as he swallows a whimper (that he hopes is his name).

His own groan vibrates through you, feeling it in his palm as it rests on your jaw.

A part of him wants to urge you into his truck, drive you back to his and make up for lost time. But the sound of a bottle breaking from somewhere inside pulls his lips from yours. A reminder, a bold one—all written in large font and the blackest of ink.

It’s your birthday. Your party.

You seem to know, smiling up at him—a glazed overcast of pleasure in your eyes.

“Thank you for coming, Javi.”

Brushing his knuckles up and down your cheek, his lips slide into a one-sided smile. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

Another year, but it’s now a different kind of party.

Murphy excuses himself with slurred words, stumbling out of your room—telling him he’ll see him in theirs soon. Leaving just you, with just him.

Javi’s decided he hates Medellín.

He did before they were basically on lockdown in the building. Hands tied by paperwork and Messina’s form instructions.

“Let me guess…” you say, all sweet—with wine-filled eyes.

Javi pulls out a card from his back pocket, a smirk sliding over to one side of his face—watching as your eyes flick over his face before landing on the off-white envelope.

It happens quickly, which is why he doesn’t drag his eyes away.

The sparkle in your eye that travels to your lips—the soft, sweet smile which could light up a room if you ever let it show. Mostly, he watches for the sight of you sliding into yourself—all that fake confidence disappearing for a moment. He sees speckles of it when he removes the last piece of fabric from your skin, when you get shy, even if it’s just him.

Javi doesn’t remember other people’s birthdays. He doesn’t ever buy them coffee. He who doesn’t want to watch, study, or admire, the reaction such a gesture brings.

There are now even very few he likes being between the thighs of—not that he’ll admit it.

He does care about the people in his life, latches on—has a need to fix and save them. Caring for Murphy, Connie, Olivia, and then the more obvious ones, his Pop, those back home. Then there are the ones he cares for differently, Gabby, and the other women he tangles himself with.

And then, not fitting in any of those piles specifically, there’s you.

You who doesn’t need him to save you. You don’t need him to fix you. Perfectly content to do so yourself, to let him see all the fractured shards and pieces of yourself you don’t love.

It’s why he suspects it’s different with you.

Why it’s more than needing to make your back arch, toes curl and chant his name. Why on some level, he craves you handing him control—letting him in, pulling back the curtains that bit more to see the other parts of you that you’re more afraid to let anyone see.

“‘Happy birthday to the one who sometimes bruises her knees for me’. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a poet?”

Smirking, he wipes his mouth with his thumb. “Poet, no. Good with my fingers, yes.”

You put the card on the table, leaning closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

And it’s more than stress relief—more than friends who fuck. Especially as he runs his hands down your arms, letting them slide down until they innocently rest on your waist—desperation thumping through his veins to kiss you.

At some stage, you had gone from tasting like a sin to tasting like happiness. A ray of something. A thing which warms inside of him, fanning out, dashing through his nerves when he’s close to you.

It’s sometimes why he goes to Gabby.

Not deserving of it—the way you look at him. The way you make him feel. How you see him, all of him, accepting of all the sides of him.

Plus, there's the realisation that in the year of whatever dance it is that the two of you are doing, you’ve become more of a necessity than a want.

He likes you being around, curled up close against him—in whatever form that is. He savours the moments when you don’t dress immediately, letting his fingers run up and down your arm. He enjoys the moments when you turn up, swallowing his greeting with your lips as you ask him to simply ruin you.

You don’t like feelings.

They’re about on par with nearly as much as you like your birthday, hating that people change and how things alter.

Normally, he’s happy to convince you otherwise, but in truth, he may hate this one of your birthdays too.

Not because he wishes he’d got the flowers or that your perfume is weaving its way into his senses. But rather, despite that, he wishes he’d picked you up something more, and he wishes your scent bled into his clothes, skin and soul.

Because Javi is pretty sure he’s just realised he likes you.

He wishes he could have kissed the smile on your face when you read the card, knowing he’ll always wonder what it tasted of.

He likes you more than just someone he rolls around in the sheets with. And a lot more than someone he spends the occasional evening with, curling up on the sofa and falling asleep.

And, deep down, he’s not sure what the fuck that even means.

It’s a curse being sent back.

Both because of him missing out on Escobar being taken down, because he’s in the States, while you’re in Colombia.

The words he should have said rested between the card and nib of his pen.

I like you. I’m sorry for the shit I did.

More apologies sitting on his chest. Like the fact he kept it all from you, only seeing the look in your eye when he was packing—filled in by someone else.

You hadn’t seemed mad. But rather wounded, hurt. A crease in your expression he wanted to smooth out with more than fingers and lips, but rather words.

Should have told me.

That was all you said. Four words. Letting them strike, pierce into his skin as you tapped your fingers on the door frame he shared with Murphy. And then, you made yourself scarce.

A part of him hoping, less secretly than he’d normally let show, that you’d appear at the airport. But you didn’t.

Now he was missing another thing.

A thing that wouldn’t be on his file, but had made a permanent mark on him all the same.

By the time he sees you with this particular card, your birthday will have long passed. Another thing he’s failed at.

Because he’s not even heard from you.

You still haven’t returned a single one of his calls.

Your anger being felt across countries at this point. But, maybe he’ll see you if you accept the job. Even if the dynamic is different, no Murphy alongside the two of you, he hopes you do.

Hope you take the chance to work together again—with him, an equal, even if the title is under him.

Because he’s not sure he can do it alone. Not sure he can take down Cali without you.

It’s late.

Midnight black paints the world as he slips the key into the door, turning the lock with more care than he usually ever shows.

It still sounds loud, as are his footsteps as he flicks on the light as he first enters. Bag dumped near scattered shoes, coat sliding from his frame as he checks the door is locked once, twice, thrice.

A habit he’s picked up, adopted as if it was his own.

Once it’s done, the checklist complete—by that, he's rid of keys, wallet and possessions. The thing he hasn't parted with in days becomes heavy in his pocket—the card.

The one he wrote days ago, and should have left here for you to open.

Even if he likes handing it to you. He likes how you collect his cards, and he collects your expressions.

He has minutes left to uphold this tradition, not wanting a repeat—another tally against his name.

Moving through the small place, he spots the cake on the kitchen counter. The one with a slide missing and a candle still on the top. His stomach lurching. Guilt blooming.

You understand. Your fingers on his cheek, arm around his waist as you tell him all the right words, brushing out any doubts and questions.

One day.

That’s what you always say.

Something he repeats as he swipes his fingers against the cream, tasting the sugar and sweetness. One day he’ll be here when you bake it, a person witness to the candle being lit and your wish being made.

Now, he just moves through the rest of his dark place. Pushing open the bedroom door.

Light cascading in from the hall light, spotting you immediately all splayed out across the bed. One of his shirts in your fingers, an old tee of his on your frame, and a peaceful look on your face that he’s been missing since the moment he'd needed to go to Cali.

He doesn’t want to wake you, but he also selfishly does.

Just so he can use the last minutes of your day to do your usual tradition. To be able to show you he didn’t forget, and let you read the message this time.

The words which have been mounting, mixing with the pressure which rests on his shoulders more and more as they grow closer to seeing the godfathers in cuffs.

Instead, he brushes your bare thigh, just to feel, to touch. Feeling how you calm him, eradicate the annoyances of his day—his week. Not even noticing that you’re shifting, twitching, until he hears:

“Javi?”

Sleep-filled and hazy, you’re blinking. Even in the limited light, you look beautiful. Something he tells you, earning him a crooked smile—likely not believing him, because you never do.

He’s quick, removing his hand (spotting the light frown near your brow) before he pulls the card from his back pocket, spotting the way the envelope has a deep line that has been born from where it’s been bent.

“¡Feliz cumpleaños, cariño!”

His words bury over his inward curse. A new part, fresh and more strong, making him wish he’d kept the card here so it looked more presentable. Even if he liked having it, his thumb brushing over his back pocket like he had a piece of you with him.

Smiling, you shift on the bed, dragging the sheet with you as you take the card.

He watches as you lick your lips, rubbing sleep from your eye before you unpeel it. Sliding it out.

Javi hears his pulse in his ear. Thumping. All loud, to the point he’s sure you must be able to hear. It's almost full of bass, like it’s trying to make a song—one he’d call after you, and play it all the time.

Because you’re the only one who makes him feel like this. His hands sliding up his trousers, wiping the growing sweat from his palm.

“You nervous, baby?”

He smirks, shifting his weight.

“I always like your cards.”

It lessens—the smirk. Instead, it spreads into a smile. One you always get him to wear, like a spell you’ve cast over him since you two first met all those years ago.

Clearing your throat, you look at the card, “To the one I love on your birthday,” you whisper.

Eyes lingering, re-reading, before your head snaps up.

It’s clear to him that it takes a second to register and connect.

“Wait, Javi, you lo…”

Shrugging, he tilts his head.

Your hands lower to your lap, eyes narrowed.

“Say it,” you add, more demand in your tone than he’d expected for someone asleep a few moments ago. “Please.”

“Bit late for the please, querida.”

Eyes narrowing, you close the card, hands falling to your lap. “Javi—“

“I love you. Te amo. I love y….”

Slowly, you move. Crawling towards him. Hand cupping his cheek, forehead pressing to his as his fingers find purpose on your thigh and hip.

“I love you too.”

He tightens his hold on you, feeling you sit more in his lap. Fingers brushing over his cheek, wiping the stress free from his face—removing the weight from his shoulders.

“And I’m glad you’re back,” you add.

“Hate leaving you.”

“One day you won’t, right?”

Nodding, he sees the flashes of things he wants when he blinks and dreams. When he lets himself plan and think ahead of right now.

“Good. Best present you could have given me.”

Snorting, he runs his nose against yours. “Haven’t given you anything yet.”

Smirking, you hover your lips over his. “I’ll be taking that in a second.”

“I do love you.”

“I believe you. But, I think you should show me,” you whisper, capturing his lips.

And he does. Even if the time has ticked past midnight.

an: thank you to everyone for all welcoming me into the pp community. also, apologies if there are errors, this one is phone-written as I've been celebrating :)

254 notes · View notes

latriii · 1 year

Text

LAST INTERLUDE ✶ 박성훈 PART ONE

SYNOPSIS. Do you believe in reincarnation? You’ve lived over fifteen lives, but your fourteenth life stuck with you. As you lived your fourteenth life, you meet a boy who seemed to peek your interest after years of being bored of living life over and over again. Your friendship with Sunghoon grew until it suddenly stops and your reincarnated again.

IN WHICH, Sato Maeji or Moon Y/N and Park Sunghoon grow strong feelings for one another until Y/N suddenly passes away and reincarnates.

GENRE. angst, fluff, fantasy, childhood enemies to lovers. Inspired by See You In My 19th Life.

PAIRING. non-idol! Sunghoon x f!reader

WARNINGS. mentions of death, illness, car crash, panic attacks, alcohol, not so good family relationships

WORD COUNT. 4K ( 4,790 )

AUTHORS NOTE. Longest fic i’ve written and my first Sunghoon work! I wrote this awhile ago like maybe a month or two ago but honestly i needed this out of my drafts so please if you see any mistskes lmk!! + left you guys on a cliff hanger cus i felt like it LOOOL

Is he alive?

Your back scratched against the wall as you slid down. Decades of memories had been unlocked, Images of places, faces, and events flashed in your mind. It was too many to comprehend in a single awakening.

You stare ahead, your parents had just burst through the doors. They were arguing again. You weren’t phased anymore, because only one thing mattered to you now. You wanted to know if he were alive.

You’ve gone through hell and back with all the lives you’ve lived. Every emotion you’ve felt in the past fiftteen lives ran throughout your body and had brought you closer to understanding of the world in a whole new way. You had tasted love, anger, and despair all in a few seconds.

ONE ✶ FOURTEENTH LIFE

You sang to yourself, your hands moved to the music as you stroked the brush against the canvas.

You weren’t bothered by anything. You were twelve and two years ago you were reminded that you were reincarnated once again. Luckily, you were wealthy in this life — You were at peace.

Until you weren’t. Your painting came crashing down to the ground, your eyes shifted to a boy who seemed to be younger than you.

“What’s your problem?” You shout. The boy turned around, glancing between you and your painting. “Shouldn’t you apologize after bumping into someone?”

“Who are you?” He says as he crossed his arms, he looks you up and down before stepping closer.

“You look like a kid. What grade are you in?” You look down, he was shorter than you.

“A kid?” He scoffed. You two stood in silence before a black car beeped from behind the nameless boy. He sends you one last glare before running off to the car.

“Kid!” You yell one last time before the car drove off. You scoff to yourself and turn back to your painting that was sitting on the ground. You pick it up and decide to go home.

Days went by. You walk alongside your mother as she held you close. You were finally meeting her friend who had been ill for sometime. She handed you beautiful handpicked flowers she prepared.

“She’s going to love them.” Your mother smiles, you both reach the door and were greeted by her friend, Sumin.

Your mother lets go of you as she stepped closer to Sumin and embraced her. You watched as the two share a moment together.

You’ve always wondered how people felt whenever they met a sick person. You’ve lived so many lives, yet you haven’t experienced this once.

You decided to walk around the beautiful home of your mothers’ friend as they sat down and chatted together. You hear them loud and clear while taking in every detail of Sumins’ home.

“The kids at her school call her Ms. Sato. She acts like an adult when she's still a kid.” You hear your mother toning down her voice.

“The problem with my son is that he’s too cold-hearted. I may have spoiled him too much.” Sumin pauses, “How did you raise her?”

“I think around two years ago, it was like she fully matured overnight.”

These conversations didn’t bother you. Your mother was right — you did change two years ago. You gained your memories two years ago.

You remember each night in detail of when you regained your memories. You started counting them.

It was a different feeling each time. Like someone had been stuffing down all your emotions and feelings you felt in the past hundreds of years into your body at once. You always wondered why you kept getting reincarnated — you wondered if there was heaven or hell because you certainly couldn’t get into either.

You didn’t want to eavesdrop any longer. You sneakily walked away. You stepped through the backdoor that led to a beautiful pool. You stood there as you notice a boy swimming peacefully underwater.

In my 14th life, I was getting bored of repeating life after life, until I met him.

The boy swam up noticing a shadow from above the water. He wiped his face and stared at you. You instantly recognize him — it was the boy who bumped into your painting.

This must be Sumin’s son. You could tell what she meant by he was cold hearted and spoiled. He never said sorry for knocking down your painting nor did he seem to care. He’s causally swimming like nothing happened.

You hesitated before speaking. “Was something down there?” You stepped closer to the pool as he swam closer to you.

You were always kind to people, even when it wasn’t deserved. You knew people took advantage of you, but you also knew that other people were struggling just like you. The world didn’t revolve around you. Your countless lives taught you that.

You lend your right hand as you kneeled closer to the boy. He grabbed your arm and pulled you into the pool with him.

The boy quickly jumped out as you sunk deep into the water. He watched as you struggled your way out of the pool.

“Have fun.” He announced with a smile before running off.

You couldn’t believe the nerve of this kid. What was he thinking? Was this his way of flirting or was he just a jerk?

You changed into new clothes that his mom lent you. Curiosity filled your body, you asked his mother where her son was.

“He’s in the library,” she told you before you smiled and walked off.

You made your way to their library, the smell of new and old books filled your nose as you walked through the area.

Although you were distracted, you couldn’t help but notice the nameless boy struggling to reach for a book.

“Do you need help?” Your hand rested on the book, and the boy’s eyes shifted to you as you stared back in amusement.

The boy let go of the book and shoved his hand into your shoulder. “Get away from me. I don’t need your help.”

“You’re too short to reach it, kid.” You stood there, you observed his facial expressions, he was clearly annoyed. “I’m not a kid.”

You quickly grab the book and throw it onto his head. “You did that on purpose!” He winced in pain as he held onto his head.

“What’s a better way of teaching a rude kid a lesson than to throw a book at their head?” You reply.

“What are you going to do if I start screaming?” The boy crossed his arms.

“Do it. I’ll make you disappear in two seconds.” You took a step closer to him, to let the weight of your words sink in.

“Are you a witch?” The boy steps back, picking up the book off the ground. The witch and her past lives.

You remained silent, the boy looks intently at your face. You have his attention. “No, I’m not a witch. But,” You paused.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

My name is Park Sunghoon. You remember when he first told you his name. It took him about 4 days before he officially did.

Your fingers danced on the piano. You played as Sunghoon sat beside you. You both were on the topic of reincarnation again. He would ask you silly questions about it.

You always answered even if it were a stupid question.

“My true age? You’ll never know.” You draw your lips into a thin line, and looked up to meet his gaze. Giggles filled the room as he realized he was defeated. “Right.”

You two surprisingly grew closer over time. You would come over to his house and hang out with him whenever you had time.

One day, while Sunghoon was reading the book that you had dropped on his head, he paused and asked you a question. “Will my mom remember me when she's reincarnated?”

You stared into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, a river of thoughts passing through your mind. You didn’t know what to tell him.

“No.” You leaned your back against the bookshelf, as your arms naturally crossed as your eyes shifted to the beautifully detailed ceiling.

Sunghoon hummed while staring at you, the sadness in his eyes waning only a little as he took your answer in.

His mother was very sick, you both knew she was slowly passing. You had promised Sunghoon's mother you would take care of her beloved son when she passed, and that's what you planned.

“You know I’ll always stay by your side.” You tell him as your eyes remained on the ceiling.

“Do you,” Sunghoon hesitated for a moment, searching for the proper words to say, ”Do you like me?”

You chuckle at his words before leaning close to his ear, “I’ll answer on your birthday.”

You told him you would stay by his side yet you couldn’t keep your promise. You were reborn into your fifteenth life.

The wind blew through your hair, you peered out the taxi window as your hand rested on the glass. You were on your way to meet Sunghoon again, on the very same day you met him yet a couple of years later.

You needed to know whether he was alive or not.

The cab stopped in front of the house. You took a deep breath before stepping out, the pavement felt familiar. Everything seemed to be the same.

You watch the car you used to ride in with Sunghoon pass by, the image of you two smiling in the back seats flooded your mind.

”Happy birthday, Sunghoon!” you smile at him, pushing the present box forward. He grabbed the present, and you felt content, only to be smothered by his embrace. “Thanks, Sato.”

It was almost like it was yesterday, you two were heading to the amusement park for Sunghoon’s tenth birthday.

You remember watching the boy's smile fading as if he noticed the car approaching from the opposite side. The memories of his eyes widening and how you could feel his grip tighten like he was trying to stop something from happening constantly replayed in your head.

Thats how your fourteenth life ended.

Drops of water started to fall from the sky as if realizing your emotions. You could feel the tears start to fall too.

You stood in silence as the memories of the past flashed by. You remembered how he would hold your hand, never letting it go, even during his toughest and saddest times.

You were soaked in the persistent rhythm of the rain, and there seemed to be a rhythmic harmony between your thoughts and the sound of the rain.

You were only ten in this new body. Unrecognizable in the his world and honestly your own. You had to make a plan and grow up well.

You were determined to find a way into his world.

But would he still remember you?

TWO ✶ FIFTEENTH LIFE

Your name switched overnight.

Sato Maeji changed to Moon Y/N. That was your name in your fifteenth life.

You usually would live a low and quiet life, you’ve always tried to blend in. But, not this time. You wanted to stand out — you needed to. The world was slowly becoming a living nightmare outside, and you need to do something to stop it.

You were born into a lousy family in this life. Your father was a raging alcoholic and your brother wasn’t any better. Your mother left the day you regained your memories.

All the time spent to stand out wasn’t for no reason, you needed to survive and live well.

You turned twenty-three and you were already known in your company, you were talented and famous for being a child prodigy. You did that on purpose of course.

You became a pretty successful young woman.

Now all you needed to do is meet Park Sunghoon again. It was hard though, you realized how difficult it was for two people to meet especially when they came from completely different backgrounds.

You knew as soon as Sunghoon graduated from college he went abroad. You were waiting for him to come back, which meant ignoring all the job offers you got from other companies once they learned about how smart you were. You only wanted to work for him and his company.

“Ms. Moon.” You suddenly hear a voice coming from behind you. You turned around to be met by Yang Jungwon, the owner of a rival company against the Parks’.

You quickly turned your back and continued walking away. “Don’t you think it’s unprofessional to follow me out of my job?”

“You haven’t been returning my calls.” He tells you. He was now walking beside you with his hands shoved in his suit pockets. “Also, if I were to see you while you were at home might’ve felt like I was stalking you.”

“Mr. Yang, you already coming to see me when I’m outside of my office unannounced is something a stalker would do, you know.” You point out.

Jungwon clears his throat. “Have you thought about the offer I gave you?”

“No, I am fine with my job. I have no plans on moving to another company.”

“Come on, I'm a big fan of yours.” Jungwon pauses, “Not in that way but business-wise. You had everyone under your spell with your talents and Yang company is better than the Parks. You know that.”

“Yes, you’re right.” You say shifting your body towards him. “But he’s not at your company.”

“What do you mean?” Jungwon asks, quizzically tilting his head to the side.

What you wanted to say was, yeah he’s my last love and I want to meet him again so we could get married like we promised when we were kids. But, you didn’t say that.

it went more like, “There’s someone I want to meet.” And with that, you walked away from the man.

Jungwon at first thought you had a boyfriend at work, it would make sense at least. But, he brushed it off since it wasn’t his business anyway.

Distracted by you walking away, Jungwon gets a notification from Nishimura Riki. Did you hear? Jungwon raises his brow at this message and continues reading. Sunghoon is coming back to Korea!

You walked into the company’s lobby, greeting your co-workers and other guests. Suddenly you noticed that Jungwon had followed you here. Except it wasn’t to bother you. He went to talk to other higher business owners that seemed to be all gathering at the Parks’ Empire Lobby.

“The Park Empire Ice skating business is recruiting.” One employee says. “The chairman's son posted these vacancies.”

You froze. You turned to where the group of employees and business owners were gathered. You thought Sunghoon had moved abroad for good. Why was he going into the ice skating business?

Should you give it a shot? it would be a great idea to work for the chairman’s son. Or in better words, for your last love.

“You should avoid the ice skating business. It isn’t doing well.” Soobin says to you, he puts his hands on your shoulder as you walk up to the paper that states the information.

Finally. You have a chance to meet Sunghoon again.

THREE ✶ FIFTEENTH LIFE

Sunghoon was sleeping peacefully in bed, his blanket covering his whole body including his head. He was trying to avoid the sunlight at all costs.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ding. Dong. Ding.

Na Jaemin was annoyed. He was ringing and knocking on Sunghoon’s apartment door for what felt like years with no response.

He needed Sunghoon out of bed, so his fingers naturally pressed the pin of his door to unlock it and made his way in.

Jaemin walked into Sunghoon’s room, noticing his lifeless body asleep. He internally groans at this sight before pulling the blanket off him.

“Get out of bed, Sunghoon,” He says as he earns a tug from the opposite end of the blanket. “Do you want to be late on your first day back?”

Sunghoon was fighting for his blanket back. “I told you to not let yourself in like this.” Jaemin lets go of the blanket and scoffs.

“I wouldn’t have to if you just opened the door.” Jaemin grabbed a pillow and hit his best friend and business partner. Sunghoon naturally shielded himself from the hits.

“How many times did I tell you to stop covering your head with the blanket? You can never hear me knocking.” Jaemin bickers.

“It’s not the blanket, it’s the jetlag.” Sunghoon bites back.

“Dude, you’ve been in Korea for over a week.”

Sunghoon ignores him and decides to wash up. He was tired, he didn’t want to work especially under his father's company. But at least he got to run something he loved. Ice skating.

“I told you we should just live together.” Sunghoon walks over to Jaemin while he roughly dries his hair with a towel. “It would be great for me and convenient for you, so win-win.”

“Really?” Jaemin replies. He was looking at documents of the skating empire. “I already have to see you every day at the office. Now you want me to babysit you at home?”

Sunghoon ignores him again, he sat down across from his friend and goes on his phone.

“Jungwon wants to throw you a welcome-back party.” Jaemin looks up at the boy, “he said you could choose the date.”

Jaemin could see that Sunghoon was visibly angry at what he said. “Why is he contacting you?”

“It must be because you never reply to him.”

“Well because I blocked him. You should block him too!” Sunghoon raises his tone while Jaemin seems to stay unbothered.

“You know I can’t do that, he’s the heir of the Yang Empire.” Jaemin continues to scan over the documents.

Sunghoon gets up from his seat in a fit. “I’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with the Yang Emipre, so block him!”

“You can’t keep acting like you are still abroad, you have to face these people soon.”

“I know but I just can’t stand Jungwon!”

Jaemin shakes his head and signals Sunghoon to sit next to him by patting the seat. “Hating on him is like hating on yourself. You both are filthy rich and obnoxious.”

Sunghoon gives Jaemin a side eye before he groans loudly in frustration. He felt defeated by his secretary.

“Anyway. I’ve looked at the applications for the ice skating business like you asked.” Jaemin says as he hands Sunghoon the applications.

Sunghoon shuffles through the applications. “You should keep an eye on this one.” Jaemin points out a certain applicate.

“Who is she?” Sunghoon questions as he scans the document. “Moon Y/N. She’s the only person from the head office to apply.”

Sunghoon hums. “It’s unusual though. She applied for the role of executive assistant.” Jaemin states.

“But I didn’t ask for another assistant.” Sunghoon confusingly says as he shuffles through her resume.

“I know. But she insisted.”

“She’s only twenty-three and is already an associate manager?”

“She’s quite famously well-known in the company. For starters, she was a child prodigy that starred in many television shows to showcase her talents, and won countless academic prizes.” Jaemin continues to entertain Sunghoon’s hears as he continues to go over who this woman was. “She also is called the weirdo workaholic.”

Sunghoon observed her photo. She looked familiar to him yet he didn’t know from where.

“I don’t think the head office wants to let her transfer to our side of the business, but she insisted on applying.” Jaemin crosses his legs as he kept speaking. “I think they want you to reject her application.”

“Tell them we don’t need her if they don’t want to lose her.” Sunghoon adds, “I’d feel uncomfortable working with a weirdo workaholic anyway.”

Jaemin clears his throat before preparing to say, “Got it. But she must be really good since Jungwon has been showing up to the office to scout her everyday.”

“Tell her to transfer immediately.” Sunghoon pauses, “Who cares if she’s a bit weird, as long as she’s good at her job.” Sunghoon smiles at a shocked Jaemin.

“So do you want her as your executive assistant?”

“No, that would be a waste of her talents. Put her in marketing or sales.” Sunghoon proudly says.

You struggled while holding onto your boxes. You were finally moving departments in the company.

“Y/N, why don’t you stay?” Your former boss says as you bow at him. “You’re our youngest ever employee, youngest ever associate manager!”

You give him a smile before bowing one more time. “I’m okay.” You walked out of his office after that.

Your former boss always thought you were sort of unique compared to others. He started to wonder if you were just after the chairman’s son. Moon Y/N is scarier than I thought.

Sunghoon and Jaemin were on their way to the Park Empire building. “So are you going to meet the chairman?”

“My father? Why would I meet him when he forced me back into the business.” Sunghoon scoffs as he looks out the car window. “Does he keep bothering you? I’m sorry.”

Jaemin chuckles as one hand rested on the steering wheel. “It’s alright. It’s my job anyway.”

Jaemin glances at Sunghoon before asking, “How about Sato Maeji’s family? Did you visit them?”

Sunghoon stayed silent. He couldn’t visit your family after what happened. How could he show his face there?

My poor baby Maeji! I should’ve stopped you from going! Sunghoon specifically remembers these words coming out of your mothers’ mouth the day of your funeral.

Sunghoon shook this feeling away. He didn’t want to look back ay the past. Not anymore.

Time passed as you gathered all your belongings to your car as you waited to get information about your new office. You were filled with glee, you were basically skipping around in your head.

You walked by your now former co-workers at your department. “Y/N! I heard you’re transferring to the ice skating department. Why? That’s like a demotion.” Jimin says.

You nod as your former co-workers all unitedly gasp. You knew deep down they were glad that you were leaving. Imagine a young woman that just got out of college steals all their opportunities in one second, yeah that was you.

You excuse yourself and continue making your way to the Ice skating department. You were tired of hearing these people questioning every decision you make.

FOUR ✶ FIFTEENTH LIFE

Here you were, standing right in front of the Ice skating department. You haven’t felt like this for a long time. It was like something was punching the insides of your stomach except in a good way.

You knew this day would finally come. But, now that you’re finally here to see him, you feel uneasy.

You stand alone, observing the sign that read, Park Empire Ice Skates. You chuckle at this. You remember how much Sunghoon loved ice skating and swimming.

“Is that him? Is that the new managing director?” You jump hearing two girls speaking behind you. “Yeah that’s the chairmans son.”

You shifted your eyes to the door and see two men walking through the door. You knew one of them had to be Sunghoon.

You rush inside expecting to see Sunghoon but no sight of him seemed to be found. You sigh to yourself. It’s okay, i’ll have many more opportunities to speak to him.

You made your way to your new office and introduce yourself to your new co-workers.

You felt butterflies deep in your stomach. You couldn’t believe this was finally happening. You were finally going to meet him again.

“Hi! I’m Ning Yizhou,” a shorter female suddenly says, interrupting you from your thoughts. “Hi, i’m Moon Y/N.” You give her a warm smile.

“I know who you are, you’re like famous.” She says, taking your hands and shaking them up and down.

You chuckle. “Also, there’s going to be a welcoming party for the new director so don’t miss out!” Yizhou smiles before walking off.

Bingo. You found easy access to fake a natural way to meet him.

The day came to an end. You made your way to the parking garage to find your car. You felt like today had somewhat been successful.

“I’ll go get those documents.” You hear a male voice speak from a distance. There you see him. You see him standing alone. This is your chance Y/N.

You were about to walk over til you were interrupted by a truck screeching its tires. The next thing you see is Sunghoon on the ground covering his ears and panicking.

You run over to the male, immediately stopping a few steps from him. You slowly clack your heels on the ground making your way to him.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” You say.

Sunghoon turns his head quickly. Memories of Maeji asking, Do you need help? When he was struggling to grab a book flashed before his eyes.

You froze. It really was him. You were standing in front of your last love.

We finally meet again, Sunghoon.

“Are you feeling unwell?” You offer a hand to the male. He glances up at you after realizing his hearing and vision came back.

“That’s alright.” He says as he got up from the ground. Sunghoon observes you once again. You looked familiar. Who was she again?

“Moon Y/N?” You suddenly hear a voice from behind you. It was Yang Jungwon. “Oh, Sunghoon. Wow, I can’t believe you’re really back.”

You and Sunghoon both turn to the male. “Sunghoon, where have you been? It’s so hard to get a hold of you these days.” Jungwon continued. “Here are two people who keep ignoring my calls. How funny.”

You stood there awkwardly. Did they know each other? The tension seemed to be high between them.

“Can you hear me Sunghoon? Or do I need to get closer like before?” Jungwon steps closer to Sunghoon. He was aggravating him on purpose.

“You needed to speak to me right Jungwon?” You barge in between the two, separating them.

Why was Jungwon being such a pain in the ass right now? He usually is annoying but he’s being too much, especially to the man you were going to marry.

Okay maybe you are being a little delusional but point still stands.

Sunghoon gets a message, I need you up here now. And so he leaves, “Where are you going Sunghoon.” Jungwon questions, trying to move closer to the male but you interfere again.

“I thought you wanted to speak to me?” You say, pulling him toward your direction.

Jungwon raises a brow at you, “This is strange. This is the first time you’ve taken interest in talking to me.” He crosses his arms in disbelief.

“I couldn’t help but notice you and Sunghoon,” you pause, “I mean, the managing director, dont seem to be on great terms.”

“Really? What gave you that idea because I’ve known him since we were kids! I was just checking up on my buddy.” Jungwon says.

If you were concerned about him, you wouldn’t have spoken to him like that. Jungwon was getting on your last nerve but you held yourself back.

“I haven’t seen the two of you together before, but even I could tell that you were getting on his nerves, Mr. Yang.”

Jungwon couldn’t help but notice how angry you looked. Why were you so angry? Why were you sticking up for him?

Jungwon scoffs, “To be honest, I feel betrayed. You turned me down time and time again, and now you’re just at the ice skating empire?”

“I haven’t moved companies, I’m still under the Park Empire.” You shot back at him.

“Well doesn’t matter because I’ve given you better opportunities than the situation you’re in right now. It’s even worse than your last one.” Jungwon fought, crossing his arms.

“He’s here.” You interrupted him again. Jungwon sends you a confused look, “The person I want to meet.”

Jungwon silently chuckles, “You know sometimes when I talk to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You begin to walk away before turning one last time, “I don’t say things for your benefit so please stop seeing me.”

Jungwon felt defeated by you again. He always knew you were quite the character but Jungwon wasn’t dumb. The strange words you’ve said finally clicked in his head. The boy you were searching for was Sunghoon.

He hated knowing this. He also hated how much you rejected him and how his old childhood friend Sunghoon has you wrapped around his finger.

LAST INTERLUDE ✶ 박성훈 PART TWO

✶ LATRII | 2O23.

PERM TAGLIST | @wtfhyuck @baekhyunstruly @strwberrydinosaur @xiaoderrrr @luvlee1313 @ensrfm @yenqa @enhapocketz @flwoie @hajimelvr @redm4ri

229 notes · View notes

tremblingmuse · 1 year

Text

Taylor Swift

This one is for the swifties out there. I will not accept criticism.

Wally Clark x reader

Wally was used to saying the wrong thing. Usually it was stupid and unimportant. But this time it was personal.

“You know, I like Taylor Swift and everything, but most of her songs sound pretty much the same.” He quipped.

Y/n gave him the pleasure of sharing her earbuds as they listened to Taylor Swift on the roof. She as appalled.

“Excuse me?” She shot her gaze in his direction.

He put on his ‘oh shitt’ face.

“Never mind.” He turned to stare at his hands, avoiding her eyes.

It was a beautiful night, the stars were out, it was perfectly cool, Taylor Swift blasted in their ears. Wally had to ruin the moment.

“Her songs do not sound the same! I can’t believe this. It thought you were a man with taste.” She pulled the headphone cord out of his ear. “You are banned from Taylor Swift.”

He sighed, he ruined it. He also accidentally laughed.

“Come on! She’s good, it’s good!” He opened his arms.

Y/n ignored him. Arms crossed, turned away.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever.”

“Forever and Always.” She referenced.

He rolled his eyes. She was being stubborn.

“Come on, I know you love me.” He teased, moving his face closer to hers.

She turned to look at him, her face fell out of her grimace.

“Of course I do.” She whispered.

He tilted his head, trying to decide if he heard her right.

They were friends, that isn’t something a friend would say.

“What?” He questioned, eyes wide.

Y/n realized what she said, she turned away again, putting the other earbud in, drowning him out.

“No! No!” He pulled the wire out, “What did you say?”

She sighed heavily, thinking about the hole she dug herself into.

“Of course I love you.” She admitted.

Wally was beside himself.

“No, you don’t.” He stood, shaking his head in disbelief.

Y/n scoffed and stood with him.

“What do you mean ‘No.’ I do! Of course I do!” She confirmed.

He looked at her, puzzled. How could he not know? He should’ve known.

“Well, I didn’t know that! Forgot to fill me in?” He huffed.

Y/n wished she hadn’t said anything at all. First he insults the music of the gods, then he’s an ass about her confession. Typical.

“You know what? I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.” She picked up her bag to leave.

“Wait wait wait wait. Please just wait.” Wally fumbled to stop her. She was already down the stairs.

She wasn’t listening, or at least didn’t want to.

“I didn’t even mean to say that, forget I said anything.” She waved her hands with dismissal. Sarcasm coated her throat.

Wally stopped. He chest sunk with her words.

“So you didn’t mean it?”

Y/n paused, closed her eyes, and breathed. She turned to face him.

“Yes I meant it! So what? It doesn’t matter you don’t even-“

“I love you too!” His words where so rushed, they were almost inaudible.

Both stood there paused, not knowing what to do next. Y/n broke the silence.

“What did you give me all that shit for then?” She motioned behind him, to the roof entrance.

He paced, wanting to say it in a way that wouldn’t make her run off again.

“I just never thought you would.” He admitted, lost for words.

“Well, you were wrong.” She told him.

Wally stepped closer, taking her hands. A shining smile on his face.

“Was I?” He grinned.

She nodded, pulling him in.

“Wrong about Taylor Swift too.”

“Oh my God.”

“She’s a lyrical genius!”

#fanfic #milo manheim #school spirits #wally clark #x reader #wally clark x reader

181 notes · View notes

soonsweetheart · 5 months

Text

Coffee Beans

“Mom…MOMMY COME ON,” I whined, tugging her through the aisles of the grocery store. Of all the boring places to be, this had to be the worst. However, there was one aisle I had loved going to as a child: the coffee aisle.

She groaned playfully and followed behind, holding onto my hand firmly, “Okay okay! I’m coming.”

The second we reached the beautifully assorted rows of coffee beans, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, savoring every scent, “Mmmmm.”

I missed times like these, being a kid and having my mother’s attention all to myself. Only in my dreams were these beautiful memories able to be relived. Typically, I would’ve loved to stay in these dreams forever, living in a simpler time.

But then there was him.

His soft voice broke through my dreams, encouraging me to open my eyes and awaken me from the wonderful fantasy.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was so pure, so gentle and comforting in itself. My eyes slowly opened to meet his and there they were, the same deep, rich color of the pools of coffee I found in his eyes.

“Daddy,” I whispered, already smiling. Something about this, just waking up in his embrace was even sweeter than the sunrise.

“Good morning,” he smiled back, the soft pad of his fingertip lightly poking my nose. “You were snoring, so I woke you up.”

The smile on my lips instantly turned into a pout, “Nuh uh. Liar,” I grumbled.

His soft laughter rang throughout the peaceful silence, melting away any real annoyance I might’ve held. “Baby, you know I don’t lie.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled, but even now, I couldn’t help but smile once again. My limbs lazily fell to the sides as I pushed myself out of bed, craving the taste from my dreams. “Want some coffee?”

“Coffee?” he tilted his head, as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

“Uhh…yes? Coffee,” I laughed, confused at his response.

He didn’t reply for a minute, as if he were in deep thought, before giving a small nod, “Yes, I would like to try it.”

“Try it..? As in…you’ve never had it?” I replied, deeply confused. I guess I’d assumed him being Him, he would’ve experienced everything. But then again, he was human.

“Never,” he confirmed.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised, or at least have tried to hide my visible shock, but it only brought about that beautiful, musical laughter of his once more.

So of course, I took it upon myself to share with him my favorite blend.

The sweet aroma of the coffee brewing into the pot reminded me of my dream, the comforting touch of my mother’s hand. It was just like him. Safe. Sweet. Warm.

“Ready?” I smiled, pouring him a cup just way I liked it. The mug kept my freezing fingers from aching, as did his smile.

“Ready,” he whispered, bringing it to his lips and taking a small sip in sync with my own.

This was perfect. Sharing a cup of coffee with my favorite person in the world.

I couldn’t gauge his reaction, not initially, but after a few seconds of him gazing into the pool of coffee in his mug, his eyes met mine, “It’s quite good.”

I didn’t know that he was enjoying my presence more than the flavor, or that the mere act of making him a cup of coffee, in his eyes, was such a delicate and precious act of service for him.

Yet the only thing on my mind was the relief in knowing that he liked it. “Yay! I’m so glad,” I exclaimed.

I could tell he was thinking about something, something sweet, something that made his eyes a little brighter. Richer. Warmer. Like the shade of coffee in his eyes.

“Yeah, me too.”

Bonus!

Did you know that Jesus never actually got to drink coffee? He lived in the Middle East where coffee beans were not introduced until the 1200’s. This also means he didn’t get to try corn, tomatoes, sugar cane, tea, and chocolate.

However, according to the Bible and other historical sources, we learn that some of the foods Jesus might have enjoyed were bread, fish, grapes, figs, olive oil, olives, and various vegetables!

#coffee #coffee beans #coffee break #coffee lover #jesus #jesus loves you #jesus loves us #jesusisgod #faith in jesus #lovejesus #christian faith #jesusislord #jesussaves #belief in jesus #christian living #faith in god

7 notes · View notes

kmlaney · 5 months

Text

WIP questionnaire

tagged by @coffeewritesfiction and I am so sorry to take this long on a reply. Thanks for the tag!

Tagging @fallenscintilla (if you want! No pressure!) and @waywardwizzard and anyone who wants to!

1. What is the first part of your WIP that you created?

The very first line was: “D’ya think I care how it tastes?” I posted an edited version here. There's a snip of the original here.

For the record, it started as a character background for a TTRPG. In fact, it wasn’t even going to be the character I was going to play. Harrowed (undead/revenant) gunfighter? *eyeroll* Too cliché. I even made a homebrew archetype to play: a “spiritualist” in the late 1800’s sense. But that first line kept bugging me so I figured, okay. Fine. I’ll write this one scene and then work on my spiritualist.

Yeah. No. I never played the spiritualist.

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

I did all the fan stuff for Phil and Skyfallen, like playlists, faceclaims, all of that. I never did that before. I selected music for the theoretical TV show: main theme, a rotating list of outro/credits roll music, pieces for certain kinds of scenes. So if Skyfallen were a TV series, this would be the theme:

youtube

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

That’s like asking which of my pets was my favorite. I love them all. I guess I loved Phil enough to make them the viewpoint character. They’re a more-mature version of the kind of character I wrote when I was a kid, now with serious problems I can explore as an adult. I like Phil’s father, whom I was determined to fridge in the beginning because fridging is usually a female character. Ha Ha! Then I went and gave him a character arc that could only end in his death so he’s not fridged after all.

I like Travelling Sam for being a conniving, money-grubbing jerk, but he’s fun to write. I like Eva as Carnival Mom; Maury for being a flamboyant, fun-to-be-around person hiding a serious drinking problem that everyone knows about. I like Doc Butcher for his name, for actually being trained as a vet but caring about everyone, and trying to do his best when he’s in over his head because he can’t do nothing.

I like Maker Lewis for his change of heart, though he was already on the fence and just needed a shove. And I like Miss Warren for being a nosy reporter whom Phil doesn’t want to like but ends up liking anyway. She also lets me play at muckraking reporter. Choosing words to specifically slant a piece is a load of fun.

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fan base would share?

Skyfallen has its roots in Westerns, so people who like cinematic westerns are a potential fanbase. I include horror, steampunk, and gothic elements, so if your venn diagram of interests includes those things then it might be for you.

Things I like that influenced or feel like this story: Silverado, The Magnificent Seven, RIPD 2 Rise of the Damned (movies. I hate to admit that last one but it was fun). Deadlands (TTRPG game. I created Phil for this setting). The Dark Tower novels--primarily Wizard and Glass but any of the parts dealing with Roland’s world.

There is zero romance. Phil’s ace, there is no main love interest, and anyone who gets together does so very off-screen.

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

When writing the draft, the individual scenes flew out of my brain. I could hardly write them fast enough. In deep editing, though, it’s the big-picture stuff I find challenging. Which themes do I want to emphasize and which are less important? Do I really need all this buildup or should I start later? I need to show certain things so the later ones make sense, but that makes it even longer. It’s already very long; shouldn’t I be cutting things down? Argh. It's frustrating.

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

There are animals. Most are utilitarian: Horses, dogs, cats, chickens, cows. There are monsters also (for certain values of “monster”) all along the continuum from “non-sapient animal” through to “self-aware human intelligence.”

The way they figure into the story is more interesting. In life, Phil liked animals in general and had a special fondness for horses and mules. After dying and coming back reanimated, animals can’t stand to be around them. Phil doesn’t figure it out right away, and it hurts when they do.

7. How do your characters get around? (Ex. Trains, horses, cars, dragons, etc.)

For the area the characters are in for the bulk of the story, most people walk, ride horses, or ride in wagons, carts, or coaches pulled by horses or teams of horses. There are a couple of trains but they are rare. In other areas, trains are common, as are ferries and lake boats. Airships exist; they are novelties and considered simultaneously luxurious and dangerous. In larger cities, along with the horse-drawn vehicles, people have bicycles, rickshaws, pedal-powered rickshaws, and palanquins. Automatons in a variety of configurations may be subbed in for horses or people in any of those conveyances.

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

I’ve identified some specific foreshadowing that needs to happen. So I need to add that in. There are a few names that aren’t consistent; they’re flagged so I can fix them. I need to put in a few encounters so later ones make sense. It’s not exactly foreshadowing so much as worldbuilding. So editing stuff.

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe) of your WIP do you think will draw people in?

I have a hard time identifying tropes in my work, probably because I’m in the trees, so to speak, and can’t see the forest. Or groves, to push the metaphor. Having said that, here’s an attempt:

Portal/isekai

Found family

Unlikely group of heroes

Humans can be evil; monsters can be sympathetic

Religion, Magic, and cults

Monsters dwelling among humans

Enemies to not-friends (don’t push your luck)

Things get worse

Everyone has secrets

Lost memories, memory tampering

Weird West

Steampunk and Gothic Horror

Gunslinger/trick shot

Noble Demon/antihero

Good is not nice

I did come up with one of those taglines that you might see on the bottom of the cover of a book:

“Every Skyfallen has something they want to forget. And everyone in the Mistlands is Skyfallen.”

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

Originally I was hoping for traditional publishing. I might still try to go that way. I’m also looking into self-pub, and websites that host serial stories. I think this story fits better into a serial format than a traditional book format. I need to make it more coherent (hence editing phase)

#kmlaney writes #kmlaney characters #kmlaney answers #All About my WIP #bad luck phil #mistlands #skyfallen #writing #coffeewritesfiction #fallenscintilla #Youtube

7 notes · View notes

noemilivv · 7 months

Note

I saw you were doing hazbin hotel match-ups and wanted to try!

my name is rin, I normally use she or they because that’s mostly what I present as but I do use he/him as well sometimes. sexuality is very fluid as well, but I would like a male match-up for this!

I’m 5’3-5’4, with shortish black hair, almost touching my shoulders that’s mostly black and partially dyed red. i have brown eyes and a few piercings (several on each ear, septum, and tongue). I also have a few tattoos (behind my ear, hips and thighs).

my style itself is kinda all over the place, I thrift a lot and love either the darker, more goth/alt kind of style or a dark academia look. I wear a lot of rings either way, and obviously earrings, I love wearing jewelry and sometimes make my own as well.

as for my personality, I’m more introverted. an observer rather than a doer. i tend to stay more detached from people but once i do get comfortable with a person i’m hard to shake off. i’m very sarcastic and have a very dark and somewhat dry kind of humour that’s appealing to a very small margin of people. one of my slightly (?) negative traits is that I’m very controlling, not too much in a toxic way but more in a control freak kind of way. I don’t like to take the backseat to things and while I do let others take a lead I am always there making sure things are going the way they should be. i get paranoid a lot of the time that things will go off the rails and feel like I need to hold everything together. maybe because of that i'm the advice friend despite the fact that i’m not very rational and am sometimes the one to suggest doing things we probably shouldn’t but my advice seems to always go over well somehow.

I love listening to music, although my taste is all over the place, my favourite song depends on the day and my mood. I also love to read a lot, I read over 100 books last year a few of which were audiobooks, i like to stay active, i work out while listening to audiobooks a lot. in addition, I do kickboxing and a few martial arts too.

some of my interests…I’m big on psychology and criminal psyche, I love dissecting the way that people think. I also absolutely love animals, I have two dogs and a snake myself. i think one of my favourite dates I’ve ever been on was going to the aquarium together.

my bad habits are as i said before, a bit controlling. i'm a night owl and stay up really late which leads me to being tired a lot. i also on and off smoke, a habit i've been trying to break for awhile.

my love language is words of affirmation or quality time, I’m not always huge on being touched but I love to tell the people close to me how much I care about them/praise them. with a partner I’m not entirely opposed to being touched it’s just not how I’d primarily show my affection. sometimes I don’t want to be touched at all and like my space a bit more which has been a problem in previous relationships but I do like to cuddle sometimes, I like being the big spoon and feeling their heartbeat (feels a bit creepy typing it out lol).

anyway, I hope this is enough information and sorry if it’s too much!! thank you so much in advance<3

this was so easy for me lmao. i pair you with…

Husk !!

You and Husk share a lot of main personality traits, which is why you meshed so well together in the first place

Both of you guys struggle with your own individual shit, even if you don’t wanna talk about it sometimes, but you guys help eachother out — especially him, cause he’s the wise, old bartender haha

He isn’t afraid to say it how it is, he loves you, and he’s not afraid of letting you know. Husk tends to have to find a way to say it in his own, grumpy way haha, but he makes sure he knows your loved and valued and he’s not going anyway

16 notes · View notes

aranarumei · 7 months

Note

for the ask game I present you with two for your consideration: kaginose and OgasawaraxMiyano

I've seen some talk of kagi and ichinose on Twitter before, but I've never really gotten the full picture there because their only link is Hirano

For Ogasawara and Miyano, we must first remove the trauma of BL inflicted on Ogasawara by Eimi. Then, without that "omg a fudanshi, this kid is bad news" preconception, we start with a clear slate. It would take some work so it doesn't make a lot of sense right away, but I can very clearly see the "Wow, I can't believe this is a guy. He's so soft just like a girl," thought bubble over Ogasawara's head, much like Sasaki's

ask me about a ship and I’ll give my opinions + classify them as does / doesn’t make sense, does / doesn’t compel me

hi morgan! Really interesting choices—I thought I’d considered a lot of ssmy rarepairs, but I’ve actually never thought about these two at all. putting my thoughts under the cut because I’ve been doing it for all these asks haha

for kagiura/ichinose, I’m going to say that as it stands, it doesn’t make sense, does compel me. every time I pick out a classification I always want to clarify these statements, which is why I ramble so much afterwards haha.

so the reason for this is that I feel ichinose and hirano are very different people. when they’re discussing dormmates, hirano mentions that ichinose was rather laidback as a senior, while hirano’s definitely a fussy type. so I think kagiura and ichinose as people are just… the type who’d keep their distance from each other? like, ichinose wouldn’t push into his space, and neither would kagiura. however the reason it does compel me is simply like. it could compel me, if it happened. because I love ichinose.

and I’ve always seen ichinose as someone who’s laidback kind of because… he has to? like, with his stomach aches and everything, I feel like he’s the type of person to be like… ah, I shouldn’t make too much trouble for others. let me act really casual so people don’t worry about me too much. and I think he’s a bit sensitive towards how other people feel, so I think he, like hirano, would probably intervene in kagiura was pushing himself. he’d just have to take an interest first. and then you have this fun balance of someone who seems very breezy and someone who’s rather serious and dedicated. ichinose could catch feelings and then be embarrassed about catching feelings. the situation there could be fun…

for ogasawara/miyano, I’m going to go with doesn’t make sense, doesn’t compel me. I actually feel like you don’t need to remove the BL aspect at all—it’s kind of the point that causes the most tension, and therefore interest, between the two. despite his looks, miyano’s pretty manly, which is something that impresses ogasawara. like, by the time that he’s graduated, I think ogasawara has a pretty good opinion of miyano. the only thing is that I can’t really see anything progressing past mutual respect.

ogasawara’s a pretty rough-and-tumble guy, and yeah, he reacted weirdly to BL in part because of eimi, but I think he wouldn’t acted kind of roughly even if he hadn’t known eimi. because ogasawara’s just a blunt kind of person. I think ogasawara can be really cute, but on miyano’s end, I feel like he’d end up not feeling too comfortable with ogasawara being kind of… callous, almost? let’s say that. from the little we see of ogasawara and eimi they may argue but they clearly love and adore each other. eimi also hung out with sasaki and stuff, so we can tell that he and eimi probably share music tastes and they both have strong personalities.

I just feel like ogasawara, even though he’s a very sweet person, wouldn’t be that gentle of a person? and like… sasaki is. sasaki deliberately speaks in a way that’s much kinder and gentler when he’s talking to miyano, and I think that gentleness is part of why miyano likes him so much. on the other end, because their interests differ so much, I don’t know if ogasawara would really be that romantically into miyano. I think they both really respect each other, though… these two are kind of really dedicated people in different ways, which is neat.

like you said, though… if someone wrote something really good, I might be compelled!

#kagiura-akira #ask #ask game #kiri.txt #in this essay i will

3 notes · View notes

existentialmagazine · 9 months

Text

Review: Chaidura’s blend of eccentric hyper-pop and metal in new single ‘The Light’ is an incomparable taste of unique artistry

London-based alternative rock artist Chaidura is known for his staple dramatic and theatrical sound with heavy undertones. Slowly growing a dedicated fanbase, his music defies categorisation and captivates listeners with its distinctiveness. Perfect for fans of X Japan, Bring Me The Horizon, While She Sleeps and more, his newest offering ‘The Light’ is sure to be a breath of fresh air in what it has to deliver.

Everything about ‘The Light’ is experimentally diverse, fluctuating right from the beginning with an air of jazz and orchestral vocals, shifting into hyperpop electronics quickly after. Unafraid to change and instead keeps things unpredictable, Chaidura thrives in this bold and bombastic sound, in many ways the “marmite” of sound in that whether you love or hate it you’re likely to immediately feel strongly, unable to forget about the experience. From scattered electronics and pulsating drum beats, the soundscape is almost unhinged in everything it throws your way, dancing through this momentum with continued saxophone and female vocals absolutely smothered in effects. Things find a point of calm as the first verse opens up, Chaidura singing atop quickly pounding drum beats and a cascading night-club-esque scattering of theatrics with a smooth performance doused in light vocal effects of his own taking centre stage. As some lines gleam with a hint of human strain, Chaidura’s entire experience falls between captivating and catchy while personal and emotive too. This is only further built upon as things rise and fall moving forwards, taking a moment to breathe before the choruses explosion. Powered by Chaidura’s leading vocals that are pushed to the max like an over exaggerated anime intro, this swift burst of technicolour cascades through more colourful electronics, backing female vocal rises, even greater pulsing beats and more all at once.

Just as you think you know what you’ve got yourself in for, the bridge turns into the most unexpectedly metal breakdown, moulding together genres that utterly shouldn’t fit by definition and yet transition like they were made to. With continued electronics pushed as loud as fast as possible, this ground-shattering breakdown forces harshly screamed vocals, thunderous drum beats and aggressively gritty electric guitar into one eccentric package. It’s kind of hard to keep up with Chaidura, but frankly you never really want to, being dragged along at full force whichever way he’s set to unexpectedly pull you - and even if it’s far from what you’d usually listen to, it’s somehow too captivating to stop.

The narrative is just as profoundly captivating, telling a heartfelt confession that yearns for completeness and assistance along the journey. Painting the picture of a lost soul that’s universally relatable to all, Chaidura sings of a desperation, struggling through self-discomfort and crying out for someone to rescue them. Through lines like ‘my past is haunting my mind’, Chaidura sets up a safe place for people to share their troubles, an embrace when loneliness may otherwise take over and an acceptance these feelings are shared by many. Further lyrics like ‘feels like I’m dying to be alive’ accentuate this theme, being beaten down by life itself in a way that’s hard to persevere. The lighter sound almost offers hope in itself though, an undertone of strength and confidence that you can pull through even when consumed by a reality that declares otherwise. The multi-faceted line ‘I want to give up on myself, I want to find my paradise’ almost seems to show determination though, eager to make peace with the world’s torments - unless of course indicative of a darker sense of paradise in the afterlife. Either way, this pained journey is one that’s authentic and unfortunately all-too relatable for many, capturing unfiltered thoughts in a sound just as loud and unapologetic.

Chaidura continues to add, "The lyrics are my vulnerable moments expressed. This song is my way of encouraging empathy, urging fans to be mindful of their mental wellbeing and embrace the notion that seeking help is not a weakness. Visually, I've adopted the persona of a Pierrot, a sad clown, symbolising misfits and those who feel different.”

Check out ‘The Light’ for yourself here to understand what it is that sets Chaidura apart.

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Unknown

// This coverage was supported and created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.

#tatiana

0 notes

malinosh · 9 months

Text

Firsts

A warm sigh of beauty,

A little sigh of relief.

New traditions,

Old memories.

A radiant tear of joy,

A silent tear of sadness.

The first holidays after birth and death.

Maverick had his first Thanksgiving of his life. We had our first Thanksgiving without my Dad here with us. Granted, we have already experienced Halloween, but Dad wasn’t a huge Halloween fan, and Thanksgiving is basically the start of the holiday season.

We had a nice time overall. We visited with the Trapp side of the family, and my mom joined us. They had invited her at the same time I asked to include her, and I’m so glad she came. We got to see Mav and his cousin playing and enjoying the delicious Thanksgiving foods, as well as spend time with loved ones. I’m beyond grateful for kind, caring family who understand.

I felt a little guilty, though. While I had all the feels and emotions, I felt like I had to suppress them for the sake of Maverick. My therapist is in my head saying, “No, you need to get through what you need to get through and then make sure to go let out your emotions however that may look ie crying, music, writing etc.” I was there for Mav, introduced him to at least 4 new foods, chatted with family, and he was a perfect distraction. But I feel guilty because I was also sad and Mav’s first holidays shouldn’t be overshadowed either.

On the other hand, guilt seeped in because I wasn’t more sad to be celebrating without my Dad with us in person. Guilt was present on both accounts.

It doesn’t seem fair to Maverick, but I am doing the best I can. Isn’t that all we can do? The mind is a beautiful (and sometimes scary) thing; the brain is powerful. Birth and death are spiritual events, and 6 months apart - on top of emotions you already have from birth - is overwhelming. I have learned so much about how my brain works and processes information, though.

Everything is in a new light. Those simple, time passing chats with others suddenly mean so much. The laughs that come with a funny quote from an innocent family member are stored in my memory. The guys watching football brings back flashbacks but you enjoy the sight, not even knowing the score or outcome of the game. And that food tastes delicious; there was love in the making of the food, and when sharing your meal with your baby there is love in the serving of the food.

In many ways it was a beautiful day as Maverick’s first Thanksgiving and time with family, and that is what a holiday should entail. In another way, I’m glad we got through the first holiday without Dad and that it is over. I know he wouldn’t want us to be sad because of him, though, but to celebrate with Maverick.

I thought it was difficult enough having my Dad receive the diagnosis of ALS while I was pregnant. I had to stay calm and as happy as possible because this little miracle felt everything that I felt and I didn’t want to start his life off negatively in the womb. But this is a different kind of difficult, that I wish for nobody.

And now onto Christmas soon.

I’ve found that it is helping to remember the reason for each holiday as well, instead of focusing on self or grief. Celebrating the holidays is tricky because each family does have traditions, but it is helpful to remember why we are celebrating, while we create new memories.

During our mini Christmas photo session with my friend, I read a portion of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to Mav. Yes, I also bought the book to read to him soon, too. That was our story every Christmas Eve that Daddy read to my brother and me. One year, when we were adults, we couldn’t find the book. We almost have it memorized! But not quite, so we did a last minute online search for a free version of the words. When we found it, we printed it off and had Dad read it to us. Individual papers were all over, who knows where now, but the memory remains.

Isn’t it ironic how the highs and lows of life can intersect? I’ve heard that passed down from many wise females in my family, and I believe it is for a reason. When the lows of life happen, we have those highs to help us get through them.

Maverick - you are an absolute miracle. I am soaking up all of the seconds with you and loving each part of your childhood. I am not wishing away anything and I am blessed to be your mom. I know countless women want the opportunity to be a mother, and you chose me. I am enjoying your many facial expressions, babbles and stories, milestones, mannerisms, and first holidays. Days are beautiful. We love you.

Dad - we miss you beyond words. I’m grateful you are not suffering anymore and I’m grateful for the comfort that we will see you again, but it does not make the time here without you any better. I talk to you often. At work, we talk about you often and your patients sure do care about you. Days are different. We love you.

0 notes

art-of-manliness · 10 months

Text

Odds & Ends: November 17, 2023

Crio Bru. I’m not a coffee drinker, but I like to have something warm to sip on as I get the day going. Kate and I have enjoyed Crio Bru on and off for the past few years, and it’s currently part my morning routine. It’s a drink made with ground cacao beans that you brew just like coffee. Like coffee, Crio Bru comes in different flavors and roasts. And like coffee too, it has a watery consistency and bitter taste; while it’s a chocolate drink, you shouldn’t expect it to taste like rich hot chocolate. It’s definitely its own thing. Crio Bru is 99% caffeine free, but has theobromine, a natural stimulant that is milder and longer-lasting than caffeine. Pick up a sampler pack to see which flavor you like. The Wisdom of Mike Mentzer: The Art, Science, and Philosophy of a Bodybuilding Legend. I used this book as a resource for this week’s article about Mike Mentzer’s Heavy Duty bodybuilding program. I think the most interesting part of the book is exploring Mentzer’s philosophy towards bodybuilding and life. He thought bodybuilding was way more than lifting weights and getting jacked; it was an exercise in manifesting beauty, nobility, and heroism; he thought bodybuilding was philosophy. Mentzer was heavily influenced by Ayn Rand’s Objectivism. Whether or not you’re into that school of thought, it’s fascinating to see a guy try to physically manifest an abstract philosophy through the sculpture of his body. You’ll definitely feel inspired to reach further and higher after reading this book. First-Gen Social Media Users Have Nowhere to Go. I resonated with this article. As an older Millennial, I was an early adopter of social media and used it quite a bit both personally and professionally at first. But in the past few years, not so much. Just haven’t had the desire to. I haven’t logged into my personal Facebook account in years. For a long time now, we’ve scaled back how much we post and interact on AoM’s FB and IG accounts. I have no desire to start the TikTok habit, whether for work or pleasure. I find myself just using text to share things I find on the web and only do so with my close friends. Seems like a lot of other older Millennials are doing the same thing. Sunglasses Kid. I have no clue how I found this guy, but he’s a British synthwave producer who makes instrumental music that’s influenced by the music and movies of the 1980s and early 1990s. Lots of awesome synthesizers and steamy saxophones. Whenever I’m listening to Sunglasses Kid, I feel like I’m hanging out at The Max with my old pals from Bayside High or going to Golf ‘N Stuff with Ali (with an i). Great music for doing chores or mindless tasks. “Falling in Love at the Drive-in,” “Red Shoes,” and “Graduation” are a few my favorites. Quote of the Week Ninety percent of the world’s woe comes from people not knowing themselves, their abilities, their frailties, and even their real virtues. Most of us go almost all the way through life as complete strangers to ourselves—so how can we know anyone else? —Sydney J. Harris The post Odds & Ends: November 17, 2023 appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/SyzJ52

0 notes

straycatboogie · 1 year

Text

2023/07/06 English

BGM: Cornelius - 無常の世界

TBH recently I have not used Twitter so frequently. But don't worry about this. Nothing had happened to me as troubles. I just have nothing to share in public nowadays, and stopped for a while. One of the reasons I use that kind of social media is that I want to enjoy chitchatting (we Japanese call this kind of conversation as "kuudan", which can be translated as "empty talk"). Just like wounded animals lick each other... But I can see that I can enjoy that chitchat on Discord etc, and also I can find that my REAL relationship/connection has been becoming richer enough. So now I don't feel that Twitter's atmosphere is so friendly (Indeed, my friends are so aggressive for me to enable that controversial mood). If I say something foolish, they will punish me... so I can't even say my taste of music easily. I need not to speak something frankly. But I also can't stay still with thinking like Haruki Murakami who says "Let's quit social media, and read Dickens!". TBH I registered Threads... but I can't see what I should post there so have done nothing. Should I post how my reading of Sartre "Nausea" is going on?

Today was a day off for me. This morning I had an online meeting of English conversation. We enjoyed chatting in English. We made various examples by using the phrase "catch up with". I made "I can't understand recent music so wanna catch up with young people". And I learned from other people's talking that they try to improve their English by various ways. For example, they use an app Tandem, etc. Their attitudes are really positive, and keep on doing efforts to move forward steadily "to catch up with other members". I have to follow them. I shouldn't be stop learning. Practice makes perfect... I say this "uncool" but "important" quote to myself again. I can't speak English fluently at once. Believing the possibility/potentiality in me, and enjoying every growth I can have made... I need to take time to move on forward step by step.

This afternoon I went to the library and borrowed Ryuichi Sakamoto's new book "How many more times will you watch the full moon rise?". Reading it with the Goldmund's music after taking a nap, I found that I should treat him as a tough, strong, and also tender person. I need to follow him because he has a really great vitality (This might sound like Nietzsche, but I find that he has a certain "will to live"). Indeed, he showed in this book how he had been shocked by the news of the cancer he had gotten. But this book also tells that he was basically a man with a creative mind/will. He kept on positive attitude and moved so actively. Living the life he had been given, and also enjoying fully to the end... I thought I need to follow this person as a pioneer of mine. And also I thought about a memoir about me I had thought I should write (but I had been busy recently so couldn't write anything actually). I remember... when I was a college student, other people wrote "Kedamono (this is a Japanese word which says "beast")" on my body with permanent marker (I guess). Yes, a silly graffiti... I want to write this as an episode. I need to write steadily!

This evening I had thought that I would have an online meeting on Thursdays. But after having dinner, I slept unconsciously so couldn't enjoy it. C'est la vie. I tried to read Sartre's "Nausea" or Kurt Vonnegut's short stories but couldn't enjoyed them too. I spent my time lazily. Suddenly, I wanted to enjoy Cornelius's new album "夢中夢" so tried it. TBH I have never tried that album because I had felt that his albums are not friendly to the amateurs like me (but I like his "Fantasma"). His albums have been too cool for me to enjoy as easy listening.. But I find that "夢中夢" has really profound sound so lets me quiet. I remember this (this is just my opinion). Once when I watched/read the comments for him about the school bullying he had committed, I thought that "Indeed, bullying should be prohibited but this kind of atmosphere which enables him being blamed so terribly like this must be bad for me, at least". Yes, this can sound too roughly but it seems Cornelius started making his albums again like this after that bashing. His attitude is also positive. The people I had met in this morning's meeting, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and Cornelius. They are all positive, therefore I want to follow them!

#diary #english #journal #personal diary #tumblr diary #online diary

0 notes

subtletruamadumping · 2 years

Text

An Encomium to the Dorms

______________________________________________________________

Names and the college I went to are obviously censored. I was part of a scholarship program that only had 4 other students, so it was pretty natural that we all got to know each other very well. Also, we were studying encomiums in one of the classes we had to take. I wrote this to make my roommate laugh because she was going through a very hard time.

en·co·mi·um

a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly.

Date Written: December 8, 2016

______________________________________________________________

Dear fellow [college program] members: have you ever been in such a lovely place as the dorms of [my dorm] hall? The great view of streetlamps at night; a concrete wall during the day; [dorm mate] banging on the window in the morning. That beautiful Myrtle tree and the beautiful concrete pillar obscuring it from sight. Everything is within walking distance, as long as you don’t mind sore legs. If you do, you can always take a nap on the back-correcting stiffness of your mattress. Of course, you must catapult yourself into said mattress to add to the adventure. Who would keep their bed close enough to the ground to easily be climbed in?

Great praise should be given to that off-grey floor! The color of it keeps you from looking down and seeing why they need to have a cleaning service come through every day. That marvelous floor is enough to keep [roommate] on her toes (literally) when she’s not wearing shoes. We briefly discussed purchasing a broom to call our own, but you shouldn’t mess with perfection! (Also, I forgot to buy one the last time we went to Wal-Mart.)

Let us not forget the wonderful lights! They set the perfect atmosphere to turn on a lamp and flick off the overhead bulbs. We want to make certain we don’t overuse them and burn them out for the next person. It would be very upsetting if they didn’t get to experience the hospital-quality lighting. No, no; we’d much rather strain our eyes by lamp-light than waste the fluorescent blessing.

And what would we be without those incredible bathrooms? Such a sense of unity sharing one shower. The amazing feeling of boiling water suddenly cascading down your back when you thought you had it on the coldest setting. Such artisticness that when you try to flip your hair, it drags along the wall and leaves shampoo streaks. And there’s always the added joy of running out of shampoo before conditioner.

Such joy to see water (at least, I hope) along the edge of the sink. Those beautiful Hydrangeas in a vase that rattles every time the toilet flushes. The soap you brought yourself or borrowed from the R.A. And what a wonderfully musky taste the water has! Who knew that rinsing your mouth could force you to cringe a smile all day? Imagine the joy of bumping elbows with the person next to you over the little sinks. Such joys make us never want to leave.

And such friends we have there! The loud suitemate that you’ve never actually met, yet know exactly what style of music they enjoy. The R.A.s that constantly view glances at the inside of our room because our key itself prefers to stay within the walls of the room. The spiders and mosquitoes that merrily wander in when the door is left open. That raccoon that is looking for some treat we might have left him in out garbage bins. The squirrels that are much too interested in humans for their own good.

Think about the wonderful air conditioners! The choice of not being able to sleep because of the noise or not using your blankets is always a thrill. The lovely buckets outside the window to catch the discarded water and fluids; the wonderfully hot blast that you get as you walk past others’ rooms; the layer of dust that shoots from the vent. Can you think of any better way to spend the summer?

Not much of our college life has been in the dorms, but the time within is averagely forgettable. The thought of waking up with strange bug bites on your legs will easily be gone before the next school year. That is, of course, if you don’t ever read this encomium again.

#writing #my writing #spilled thoughts #writers on tumblr #encomium #i thought i was funny #college

0 notes

cafedanslanuit · 3 years

Text

♡ — tags/warnings: afab!reader, breakup sex, oral sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), a lot of tears— both sexy and sad, timeskip ofc

♡ — a/n: my first long piece for tokyo revengers! and ofc my beloved draken had to be the first one <3

♡ — masterlist

He shouldn’t have come.

That’s the first thing that comes to Draken’s mind when you pull away from his lips to take off your shirt. He’s already half-hard and his pants only get tighter at the sight of your bra right in front of him.

Less than ten minutes ago, he had been sitting on the same couch where he was lying now. Only you weren’t grinding your hips as you were now― your lower lip was trembling as you handed him one of his old sweaters you always used to wear.

He could have chosen to have this conversation any other place. You would have said yes to meeting at a café or strolling down the street. Yet he was the one that asked if he could come over and you were the one that agreed.

Your lips slid against his again, the kiss you shared rough, demanding, but mostly, needy. His skin burnt for you just as the first time he had you and he couldn’t help but bite your bottom lip, making a soft moan leave your lips. With his back on the couch and your hands slipping under his shirt, he could barely remember the reason he came to your place was to finally put an end to your tumultuous relationship.

Well, that and because he couldn’t bear not seeing you any longer.

You had seen this day coming long ago. You woke up one morning to the news of an assault on Draken’s motorcycle shop. No matter how many times you asked him, he never gave you any explanations, even if you were sure he was well aware of what had happened. Every time he got a call from his friends he would leave the room and talk in hushed whispers and he started coming up with more and more excuses to avoid spending time with you.

His gentle nature around you had turned harsh and cold with you ever since that day. Draken had remained silent when you asked him about his change of behaviour, and during one heated night where you had ended up yelling, asking if it was something you had done, he finally spoke, only to assure you you hadn’t done anything wrong.

In your search for answers, you reached out to his friends. But rather than that, what you found was even more questions than before. All of them got visibly uncomfortable when you approached them and it didn’t take much to understand they also knew what was happening but refused to talk about it. The only one who gave you a little more information was Chifuyu, during a late-night talk after his store had closed.

“Talk to him,” he advised, ordering the files from the day and avoiding your eyes.

“I tried, he won’t tell me what happened,” you sighed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him work. “But this wasn’t a random attack, right? It was something personal. If it was random, then someone would have said so. But everyone just shut ups and gives me a pitying look.”

Chifuyu raises his eyes at you.

“Yeah, exactly that look”, you say, passing a hand through your hair.

“It’s… complicated,” he finally said, putting the files aside. “And not my place to talk to you about it. All I’m saying is everything Draken does is to protect you.”

“Yeah?” you huffed, a dry laugh leaving your lips. “Treating someone badly and pushing them away is a way to protect them?”

Chifuyu gave you a sad smile. “Sometimes it can be.”

Even if you knew Chifuyu did his best to keep loyal to his friend while also trying to dissipate your worries, it hadn’t worked. You were sure any day from now Draken would break it off with you. And when you got a call from him asking to come over after almost a week of not seeing you, you understood the time had come.

The next time Draken came to his senses, he had his face buried between your legs. His nose brushed against your clit as his tongue was buried deep within you. The whimpers you were making were music to his ears. He swore he could recognize his name in between your cries a couple of times, but tried not to think much about it. He didn’t want to come to terms with the fact it may be the last time you would call for him like this.

Your legs closed against the sides of his head as you threw your head back in pleasure. Draken put one hand on your inner thigh and forced your legs open, eliciting a sweet gasp from you. He pulled away, the sight of your soaked pussy making his head spin. Fuck, was this really going to be the last time he got to have you like this? Draken slid two fingers across your folds, gathering wetness and then using it to circle your clit gently. He felt your leg twitching under his big hand.

If this was going to be the last time, then he was going to give you something to remember him by.

Draken bent down again and started pressing open-mouthed kisses on your folds. A soft hum escaped your lips as he worked his way around your pussy, making sure there wasn’t a part of it that wasn’t covered by his eager lips. He purposely left your clit for last, his hot breath hovering over it. Those few seconds were enough for you to lift your head, looking down at the man you had just agreed to let go.

His dark eyes met yours, widening just the slightest bit as if he had been caught. He held your gaze for a couple of seconds before taking a long lick, from your entrance to your clit, where he sucked gently, your juices mixing with his saliva.

“You taste so good,” he muttered against your core, slurping like a starved man. His words sent a shock of pleasure between your thighs, making them close against Draken’s head. However, his hands were stronger and they kept you in your place, watching you helplessly wriggle underneath him.

“I love you,” you panted, your thoughts getting cloudy. As a reply, Draken pulled his face away and inserted two of his fingers inside you. Your walls clenched around them, a broken moan stuck on your throat.

The many years he had had you weren’t in vain, as he curved his digits just the right amount and hit that special spot in just a few tries. You threw your head back, hips rising and breath hitching, losing more and more control of your body with every thrust of his fingers. He bent down once more and let his tongue play freely with your clit, his lips circling and sucking just when you needed him to and the tip of his tongue making you see stars.

“Ken— fuck, fuck—,” you whimpered. You put a hand over the one that was holding your thigh open and squeezed it. “Stop, please— I can’t— I don’t— stop. ”

Immediately, Draken pulled away, his concerned face glistening with your arousal. He crawled up until his face was hovering over yours.

“Shit, sorry. You okay? What happened?” he asked in a whisper, inspecting your face as he tried to find a clue of your discomfort. You placed your hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look back into your eyes.

“No, it’s okay, I’m okay,” you reassured him, noticing his eyebrows relaxing a bit at your words. “I just— I don’t want to come— I mean, I do, I want— but with you inside. Please, I need you—”

Draken crashed his lips against yours, and you swallowed his moan when you shuffled your legs so he was resting between them, his bulge pressing against you. His shirt was already long forgotten on the floor and now he was fumbling with his pants as he rocked his hips against yours, the kiss getting more and more desperate with every second.

Once his pants joined his shirt, he fished his wallet from one of his pockets and took out a condom. Your chest rose up and down as you watched him put him on, a small warning inside your mind that this was the last time. Emotions were pouring out without you being able to control it, a knot forming on your throat and your heart clenching in pain. Draken hovered over you again and rested his forehead against your shoulder. his breath making you shiver as he slowly started pushing himself inside.

He left small kisses alongside your neck, trying to ease the pain of the stretch that he knew you were experiencing. In all the time you’d been together, he always managed to make your breath hitch every time he slid inside you. You clutched onto his broad shoulders, one of your hands removing his hairband and undoing his braid, letting his long, blonde hair flow free. You repeated his name like a prayer as you rocked your hips, trying to get used to his size.

You ran your fingers up his spine and threaded them with his hair, closing your fist around it around the base of his neck. Draken took it as a sign to start thrusting against you, making more moans leave your mouth and your hand pull his hair a little tighter. Both your legs circled his waist and you locked your ankles with each other, creating a new angle that made tears form in the corner of your eyes. It was too intense and even if your feelings always poured whenever you two were intimate, you could feel as if every fibre of your body was holding onto him, innocently hoping he wouldn’t leave after you were done.

Draken grunted against your neck, his hips picking up the pace and finding the spot his fingers were brushing against just moments ago. You cried out and tightened your legs around his waist, feeling him so deep that you thought you would be reaching your high quick enough. At this, you put your hand on his right shoulder, pushing him away. He turned his head, his nose brushing against your cheek and his hips slowing down.

“Hey,” he said, just a little out of breath. “Talk to me. What do you need?”

You grabbed both sides of his face, bringing him closer to you. The small resistance you felt as first disappeared as he let you manoeuvre him how you wanted. When his dark eyes were hovering over yours, his hips had already stopped, his eyebrow slightly raised as he looked down at you.

“If this— If this is the last time, I want to see you,” you said, your thumbs caressing his cheeks. His eyes widened at your words and you could feel him tense up. However, a moment later, he nodded and pressed a kiss against your lips as his hips resumed their movements.

For the first time, you were able to see Draken’s small expressions as he fucked you. How his lips were parted as he breathed through his mouth and how his eyes were darker than ever, fixed on your eyes. You had never noticed how his nose turned the loveliest shade of pink when he was fucking you so good. Your heart swole and once again you felt too much at the same time. You loved him, you loved him so much. Why couldn’t you make it work?

Draken took your legs and put them over his shoulders, the new position making you whimper. Soft pleas filled the living room and he rutted into you, each of his thrusts getting you closer and closer plus making your brain foggy. There was only Draken, only him, only your boyfriend Ken who was so wonderful and who had made you fall head over heels for him from the moment you had met him.

Your hands were still on each side of his face, your breath colliding against his as you whimpered. Draken started grunting, his hips snapping faster and harder against your core, setting all your body on fire. It was too much— every inch of you was yearning for the man on top of you, not feeling him close enough even if he was buried deep inside of you. Your hands lowered to his shoulders, nails digging on his pale skin. You wanted him, there wasn’t anything else in the world you wanted as bad as him and you knew as soon as this was over, the more and more pleasure you got from him, then the sooner he’d walk out the door.

Tears started prickling on the edge of your eyes and it wasn’t long until one of them rolled down your cheeks, your moans mixing with small sobs. Draken grabbed your jaw with his big palm, forcing him to lock your eyes with his just as you had before. You saw him moving his lips as if preparing himself to say something, but no words came out of his lips. You noticed concern in his features, yet he seemed distressed as he tried to find the right words.

“I love you,” you panted, feeling another tear fall from your cheek.

And that was when Draken knew.

He knew he had to leave you.

Nodding, he pressed his lips against yours. “I love you too,” he muttered, before picking up his pace.

After that, it wasn’t long before you were reaching your orgasms, clenching around your boyfriend and bringing him to the edge as well. He didn’t let go of the hold on your chin as you both climaxed, eyes locked on each other as you crumbled apart and breaths colliding between parted lips.

It took a moment for both of you to catch your breath. As your body started relaxing under Draken’s weight once more, the reminder of your previous conversation where he was putting an end to your relationship came back. You felt a know forming in your throat and by the sad look on Draken’s dark eyes, it was clear he was thinking of the same thing.

He pressed his lips against yours once more, but this time it was softer, gentler, as if it was the first time he was kissing you at all. It didn’t last more than five seconds but it was enough for your eyes to fill with tears again. Draken pulled himself away from you and turned his body as he started putting his clothes back on.

You saw him stretching to pick up the old sweater that you had returned to him a moment ago and picked it up before he could reach it. You put it over your body, covering yourself, but it wasn’t enough to make him look at you.

“Please, stay,” you mumbled. You noticed your lover’s arm tensing at your words, but he still started walking towards your door. “Ken.”

The way you whispered his name made his heart clench, his step faltering for a moment. He stood in front of the door, looking at the handle and gathering all the strength he had left.

“Just for tonight,” you insisted. “You can leave in the morning if you want, just… I want―”

“You know what happens if I stay,” he interrupted you. “If I stay, I’ll never leave again.”

“Would that be so bad?”

Draken finally turned around. You looked so small, covering yourself with his old sweater and a part of him was glad he was leaving something behind. The idea of you remembering him even a few years as you find the sweater on the back of one of your drawers brought peace to his heart. He just hoped this goodbye wouldn’t taint the memories you had created together the last couple of years.

“…I’m not losing you,” he sentenced under your confused gaze.

“Ken—”

Cutting our sentence short, Draken finally opened the door and left your apartment. In the silence that filled your living room, you could only listen to his muffled steps as he walked down the hallway.

You couldn’t understand why he was leaving.

But you knew you were never going to see him again.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x reader #draken x reader #ryuuguji ken x reader #draken tokyo revengers #ryuuguji ken #draken smut #draken angst #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers angst

760 notes · View notes