#it’s an uphill battle on both fronts but like it is trying

[harrietvane]

Gaia Weiss as Madame du Barry & James Purefoy as Louis XV (Marie Antoinette, 2022)

[capslocked]

DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me." 

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building. 

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth. 

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a  few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again - 

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist. 

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer." 

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-” 

And you sink right in. 

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock- 

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion  all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest. 

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum. 

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time. 

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

[morallyinept]

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 1

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 3.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: We meet Frankie and Jude. Setting up their stories. Mentions and descriptions of infidelity and drug use. Some very mild Frankie Spanish. Translations are provided.

Enjoy! 🖤

Prologue

One Month Prior...

It starts with heartbreak; the way all of our stories inevitably do. 

Not fictional stories, but our own real life stories. Man, that shit’s too real, too visceral. It’s like a disease and at some point in our lives - or several points if you’re unlucky enough, you poor bastard - it will infect and spread.

He’s trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out if he really is this guy that she so often accuses him of being; distant, unloving... absent. Trying to figure out if this is all life has to offer him now. Eternal uphill battles. Flashbacks. Scars that run deep in the trenches. Nightmares that break him out into cold sweats at night.

They always say that when your work life is going well, your personal life is going to shit. And it rings true right now. Francisco’s personal life has been teetering for so long and he’s unsure if he has the will to hang on to it any longer; out of harmony and sync, travelling a journey all of its own. 

His thoughts race like a never-ending storm; each one a torrential downpour of anxiety and just getting through each moment. One foot in front of the other, Frank. That’s what his sponsor says. But it’s akin to walking through drying concrete most of the time.

He stands in the doorway of their Floridian home, a small two-bit apartment not far from the beach, with peeling paint and scuffed tiles, that’s more cramped and suffocating as the days go on.

An apartment which he seems to be spending less and less time in, and realises something; something that strikes him hard across the greying fuzzy jaw with such a brute force sucker punch, it would knock that Standard Heating Oil cap right off of his crown of chocolate curls. 

He simply can’t do this anymore. Something has to change. 

And it’s somewhat of a relief to acknowledge finally, but the hard part isn’t over yet. Nor has it even begun. It’s there right in this moment on pause waiting for him to unravel it all; to take that tentative step off the proverbial ledge to change the stagnant quicksand of the status quo that he’s been stuck knee-deep in for an indeterminable amount of time.

He knows he’s let her down so many times. Fallen off the wagon when he promised over and over that he wouldn’t this time. That it would be different this time. That he doesn't need the coke anymore.

That he can get through it, if she just gives him one more chance. 

Francisco can hear her in the house somewhere; the sound of her yammering on the phone to a girlfriend and dissing him aplenty no doubt, and despite knowing he probably deserves it, it grates on his skin as it resonates with a sickly jab in the stomach. He has to put a stop to it now because it shouldn’t feel like this.

A relationship shouldn’t be hard fucking work, right?

He hasn’t got the strength anymore, or the will to fight. He has to pick his battles wisely these days. Remove anything that adds to his stressors, his triggers to reach for the baggies of white powder.

Step four, take personal inventory.

He doesn’t want to seethe or roar or resort to petty name calling or one-upmanship. He doesn’t want to get so angry that he’ll have to take his rage out on inanimate objects which she feels the need to decorate their home in dramatically. The mantra of less is more clearly doesn’t exist in her world as he looks about the place with rooting disdain.

She’s everywhere, like a damned parasite. 

Francisco tosses his keys loudly on the scuffed counter top and the murmuring upstairs ceases immediately. She knows he’s home. He braces himself, inserting a pod and flipping down the lid on the coffee maker; a cool spoon twiddling around his thick, dexterous fingers.

The shake is still prevalent in them and he breathes out slowly with his sponsor Eddie's voice inside of his head, find the root of your calm, Frank... but they still hold that subtle tremor. 

He’s absentmindedly checking his phone for non-existent messages from Benny over and over. He messaged him two days ago and still no response.

Growling, he tosses his phone on the counter and sniffs deeply as the creaking above him moves across the ceiling over his head. Delaying the inevitable and basking in those few calm moments before the storm of insults and verbal bitch slaps ensue.

It’s been so long since they merely talked like adults and didn’t yell at one another.

His long term partner Carla soon makes herself known to him; an anxious opus follows her with the steady pitter-patter of her shoeless feet on the stairs and the tinny jangle of the stack of silver bracelets around her wrist as she begins the search party for him. 

He makes it easy for her - no point in hiding or delaying the inevitable any further, is there?

“Estoy en la cocina,” (I'm in the kitchen) Francisco calls out in a gruff, Spanish tone. He doesn’t mean to be snappy, especially when she hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s his entire fault and she likes to remind him of that whenever she can.

“Qué pasa?” (What's up?) Carla greets, pausing in the doorway and regarding him like he’s a foreign invader in their home. 

“Hey.” He replies flatly through tight pink lips. 

The awkward lingering carries on for far longer than he would like. He tries to remember what it was like when they first met; what she was like. What the sunrise of her smile looks like because it’s been so fucking long since he’s basked and been burned by it.

Clinging onto any glimmer of affection that he felt back then for her to convince him to stay and work this out and put in some more effort, but it’s evident this can’t be saved anymore. Everything about her irritates him now; including everything he must have loved about her at one point.

“How was work? Missed you,” she looks at something just past his head; she never looks him in the eye when she tells him something heartfelt anymore. The same as she can never look him in the face when she lies to it either.

It’s hard to tell them apart now; they both contain the same emptiness about them. 

“Was fine. Busy.” Francisco simply nods once and the tension inside his gut unkinks itself, if but for a fleeting moment.

He turns to the coffee machine feeling sick, and watches as it pours out the brown, richly inviting aroma into the chipped mug which he probably won’t drink anyway. It’s all for show, just like everything else these days.

Strip it away though and what have you got? Absolutely fuck all...

“I need to tell you some-” Carla begins.

“I think we’re done.” He cuts across her; a quick knife to the gut before he’ll pull it out and wipe it free of her blood.

He stares across at the counter top with his back still to her; a cowardly response to not look her in the eye as he says it, he knows this. But it’s all he can offer her right now. 

She doesn’t respond straight away and he despises her for it. 

“I’ll go pack a case.” She breathes out eventually. Her voice is deflated, like a saggy balloon that’s being trampled on by drunken party goers at the end of a night of jubilant celebration.

Francisco hurls the spoon in his hand across the counter top, and she flinches at the clamour, stopping to look at him momentarily like he’s lost his damn mind. And perhaps he has; it’s so full of loud fuzz these days. 

“That’s it?” He questions with a thin line for his usually plump mouth and glowering brown eyes the colour of mud pools. 

“So you want me to fight for you now?” Carla asks languidly with no emotion in her face whatsoever.

It’s possible that she’s aged with the anxiety of it all. It’s like looking at a stranger’s face each time he sees her until one day she’ll be completely unfamiliar to him; a ghost just haunting the veins of his body and shitty apartment alike, merely somebody that he used to know and occasionally fuck. 

He doesn’t say anything whilst grinding down on his teeth. 

“I’ve been fighting for you - for us - for a long time, Frankie. Fat lot of good it’s been doing.” She remarks.

“Have you? It’s been sounding very much like constant whining, hermosa.”

“¡No seas un idiota ciego!” (Don't be a blind idiot!) She snaps.

“Fuck you!” Frankie seethes, stepping forward. “You’ve done nothing but blame me for…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m tired of you secretly resenting me behind my back. At least do it to my fuckin' face for once.”

That was the crux of it, he was certain. Addiction is a costly price for everyone around you to pay. It’s been evident for a long time that Carla’s pockets have been running empty.

“I’ve always supported you.” She corrects, rolling her eyes. “But you’re too busy playing the martyr; you think you can do this on your own. How’s that working out for you?”

“You knew things were going to change when I started recovery-”

“But I didn’t think you would change with it!” Carla cuts back at him. “I don’t even know who the fuck you are anymore, do you?” 

Frankie runs his tongue around his teeth and sighs. This isn’t what he came for. 

“You’re never here! Even when you’re not working all the hours. I’m sick of being in this place alone whilst you go off and act like I don’t exist, leaving me to pick up the pieces. Waiting for you to call, to even bother to think to message me first. To see how I am or how I’m doing. It’s like I’m in the way; an inconvenience to you now.”

Frankie folds his tanned arms defiantly. 

“I’m not the one who changed, Frankie. You did.” Carla concludes.

She was right, he did change - he was engulfed, swallowed up and had just been keeping his head above water for a long time. Most days he didn’t have time for a decent shit, let alone focus on the things that really mattered to him the most.

They all got swept along with him, tossed simply in his back jeans pocket to sort out or call later and he wasn’t sure when or how he had let go of that control of being able to balance everything equally. Wasn’t sure how long he’d not noticed that it had all slipped away out of his big hands into a messy scatter at his feet. 

“I know things haven’t been good between us for a while.” Frankie confirms looking up at her from under the visor of his cap. 

“So what did you do to fix it, hmm?” She shakes her head defeated.

She isn’t even upset anymore. That time had long since been and gone when she’d spent many a lonely night crying into the pillows in their bed whilst he was AWOL doing God knows what with God knows who. All the worst case scenarios kept her company each night in place of his strong, reassuring arms. 

“You did what you always do; nothing. You just bury your head in the sand and run hoping it will all go away. And when it doesn’t, you cave. You turn to the coke. Drugs are more important than I am, more important than anyone you say you care about.” 

She’s bombarding him with emotional kryptonite. A hundred million little truths all with sharpened points, and he has no excuse for any of them to offer her, not really, as they pierce one by one and he bleeds out in front of her. Suffocating. Dying.

“You wonder why Benny doesn’t call anymore? Why hasn't Will come by? Hell, Santi can’t even bear to be on the same continent as you! And you can’t see it. Poor Frankie, woe is me. You’ve done this to yourself. And I’m done trying to carry you.”

He had pulled away, he had put his addiction first, above everything and everyone. Suddenly being sober for six months feels pointless, a useless feat that means nothing. He’d done it all, pushed them all away without even realising it. And she knew.

He was pretty sure she knew about the one time he had been unfaithful in the early days of his drowning too, but she was a trooper not to throw that up in his face now, although it was more than he deserved. 

“I’ll pick the rest of my stuff up later this week.” It was evident Carla was just done too. There was nothing left to fight for anymore between them. 

He scratched his elbow listlessly. “I won’t be here. I’ll be heading back up to New York in the morning; work’s got me on a service repair.” He reminded her. 

“I know. But then, why break the habit of a lifetime?”

Carla’s absence in the house around twenty minutes later left a harshly confronting moment of how life had just given him an epic kick in the balls.

But it was short lived when his phone rang; it was Eddie, his sponsor. 

Instead of answering it, Frankie simply watched it ring off, rapidly despising everything he was and had amalgamated to thus far in his bleak, shitty life.

At the same moment where Francisco Morales is standing like a lost boy inside his tiny, gloomy kitchen and trying to talk himself down from getting a much coveted fix, further north, approximately one thousand, one hundred and fifty-four miles away in New York City, Jude has just walked into utter carnage. 

It's been a trying time getting back home; her flight was delayed resulting from a crick in the neck from dozing on the hard terminal seats overnight, and the handle on her trusty camera equipment bag had finally snapped resulting in a broken lens.

But they always say bad luck comes in threes...

It’s cruel; the blood pounding in her ears is resolute, the shaking of her hands as she tries in vain to steady them through the shock, anger and sheer indignation of it all, becomes more apparent as the seconds wear on.

There are clothes on the floor that aren’t hers, and the sinking feeling rises to the back of her throat as the squeaks from the mattress springs echo out of the bedroom and into her ear canal.

It’s a ghastly symphony of putrid sex, make no mistake, as she pushes the bedroom door open and is met with the horrific sight of her fiancé Nate, balls deep in some other woman she’s never seen before. 

It’s as if the ground has opened up, revealing a threatening, desolate chasm where once stood the solid ground of her convictions, but now she’s tumbling head first into the dark unknown pit.

The echoes of his infidelity reverberate through her; a haunting melody of pain and disillusionment that threaten to drown her in a rabid onslaught of tears. Jude has no words, instead a noise similar to a toad escapes her mouth and it’s that little croak that interrupts them both from their feral fuck. 

The woman squeals and tries to hide herself when she spots Jude frozen in dumbfoundment, but Jude’s already seen way too much - seen enough.

Nate finishing over her face wouldn’t improve her looks - that’s the one comforting thought cutting through the brewing red mist that she’ll remember later - but it’s a miniscule comfort that the woman he’s cheating on her with isn’t that attractive.

But then, there must be something about her that he likes or desires if he’s got her spread eagle in their bed, right? Something he must like more than Jude now, and it cuts too fucking deep.

He’s never tried that position with me before... It’s odd what your brain tells you in the moments of sheer panic and devastation. 

Jude backs out of the room, stumbling as her foot gets tangled in the woman’s wayward bra, and even that’s more pretty than anything she owns, as Nate tries to clumsily protest - to say that he's sorry.

How can you be sorry for fucking someone else whilst you tell another person to their face that you love them? That’s the epitome of stupid, surely.

But Jude has to get out, get away. She’s going to vomit, she’s so mad and hurt and angry that her skeleton is trying to rid itself of the binding skin that keeps it in place. But she swallows it down despite her heart thudding and her stomach lurching, ready to spew like Mount Etna.

She’s not sure how she doesn’t fall down the stairs as she jostles down them quickly.

Nate’s shouting after her; his hand cupping his traitorous, sticky dick as he follows her out the front door as she gets back into her car with no idea where she’s going to go. Autopilot is running the show and she’s just a passenger along for the confused ride. 

He bangs on the window and muffled words of ‘babe’ and ‘sorry’ filter through the white noise of her ears ringing. 

Jude reverses out the driveway fast; tires screeching, and knocks over the neighbour’s mailbox - they’ll understand.

She zooms away choking on hot tears that she refuses to let the cheating bastard have. 

Once at a safe distance, she pulls over and sobs into the steering wheel unable to see past the hot salt of her tears as they blind her vision. It’s the embodiment of ugly crying at its finest; snot laden and howling at the moon over the son-of-a-bitch who has well and truly stomped on her heart that never fucking learns. 

She shakes her head at her own imbued ignorance, realising that it’s never bliss. 

So many whys float around the air above her head and she has no answer to appease them as they grow in size and weight, crushing her skull into a mushy pulp. All she has is that vile image on repeat as she pushes open the bedroom door to be met with her worst nightmare.

And she lives in that moment over and over again, and has done on constant repeat since it happened, only mere minutes ago.

It’s man’s prerogative to be a massive dickhead, and Nate’s clearly the biggest one she knows right now.

The usual, steady rhythm of her heart is beating a little faster, ever since Nate had let the meaningless words spill out from his lips and dumped them into her lap, and now she’s floundering with what to do with them. A bit like having someone's baby passed to you despite your reluctance, and it won't stop screaming in your face.

Babe, I’m sorry!

Nate’s a piece of shit, but utterly gorgeous nonetheless. And that’s why she lets him chip away more pieces of her backbone. Why else would she tolerate this? He’s a flirt, she knew it the moment she'd entered into a relationship with him, but a harmless flirt can be different to someone who takes it up a notch.

Nate had simply ramped up his flirting to bedding plenty of women before, during and certainly after their relationship; she was certain there were more than he would ever let on - more than Jude probably ever caught him with. And she was an idiot to think he would ever change. They never change. 

I’m sorry babe, I couldn’t help it; her vagina was whispering to me. Yeah, of course it was, you fucking jerk.

Jude was also certain she’d leave him the first time he cheated on her, but we’re all full of good intentions, right? There’s this saying, better the Devil you know then the Devil you don’t...

But if that Devil is killing you, then what? 

It sucks to be alone; to be single in a world where you’re not meant to be a single. Humans are wired for love after all. But better to be alone and crying into your third glass of cheap grocery store wine whilst watching Bridget Jones on repeat than be cheated on by this no good, handsome piece of shit anymore. 

Why did I let myself get into this situation? Why didn’t I leave the first time? Why do I fucking love him so much? More killer whys take aim before they’re shot at her head. 

This is it. No more. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

But then images of Nate's face cut in through the swamping doubt about facing the world alone. Flooding with those bottle green eyes of his that would regard her when she said something funny and made everyone around her laugh; those lips that would perk up into a chirpy chuckle as he roared alongside them all at her sardonic quips and punch lines.

His smile was a disease; one glimpse at it and you would be infected too. That was it, it’s that fucking smile; women can’t help themselves by tripping over it and falling face first into his cock.

The way in which he would pull covert, weird and creepy faces at her whilst she’s trying to watch a movie together surges her mind; the thought of seeing him naked... Fuck! 

Jude looks down at her hand through the streaming tears and catches the sparkle of the small, moderately sized rock on her engagement finger.

In absolute disgust, she tears it from her digit, exits the car and throws it with all of her might as far as she can. 

The last she saw it, it was flying through the air, much like her heart and its tangle of ventricles, into the dank roadside shrubs, never to be seen again. 

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PROLOGUE | NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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TAGLIST: If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

@suzdin @missladym1981 @magpiepills @millennial-teenybopper @legendary-pink-dot @linzels-blog @msjarvis @tightjeansjavi @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin @chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog @myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs @thatcultbabe-99 @anavatazes @goodwithcheese @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @76bookworm76 @perfectly-imperfect-me23

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 11

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 8.3k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn A/N: LADIES N GENTLEMEN, THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! there are multiple POV changes in this, I'm training yall for the arena and Mockingjay. FYI: I was so disheartened bc this felt like the worst past I've written for this story :(((

Past (xii) - Finnick

[ 21 & 22] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick is sitting at his desk, probably looking as worn out and exhausted as he feels. It’s the early hours of the morning, and he hasn’t slept for the past two days. He’s been writing for hours, trying to find the right words to say. The sun had just set when he poured himself into the seat, and now, he glances to his left, the first tendrils of sunlight are peaking up.

The room is quiet, save for the sound of Finnick's labored breathing. His hands are shaking, a side effect of the stress that has been building inside him like a pressure cooker. Snow's visit has left him reeling, unable to process the implications of the deal he's been forced to make. He knows he has to write you a letter, but the thought fills him with a sense of despondency. Something that normally fills him with insurmountable excitement and anticipation fills him with devastation. It feels like, like…there’s nothing he can compare it to. Not everything feels like something else and Finnick knows this kind of grief is very rarely experienced. 

What is he supposed to do? He hasn’t opened the last letter you sent, knowing it will be the last one that won’t carry the weight of mourning. He knows that you'll write to him again, that you won’t take this lying down. You’ll write and write, and he will...he will do nothing.

It sits in front of him, innocuous and unassuming. Something devastating folded in a green envelope and wrapped in your scent like a well-dressed bomb. Does his fear outweigh his longing for you?

He picks it up, holding it gingerly in his hands.

No, he realizes, it doesn’t.

He’s careful to tear the seal on the flap and your perfume wafts up like a surprise. He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent, trying to steel himself for what comes next.

Dear Finn,

I feel like I’ve missed you longer than I’ve had the chance to know you. It's been three months now, but maybe by the time this letter gets to you, we'll both be on our way to the Capitol. I'm working on being more optimistic, but that uphill battle is becoming steeper the longer I'm away from you. 

I keep thinking about when I first met you. When I looked into your eyes, I didn't see fireworks exploding or any of that other shit they depict in those gaudy Capitol romance novels. I looked into your eyes and saw you, something far more breathtaking than fireworks. And what a sight you were.

Three years back, you said something I never agreed with, that it was hard to love you. At the moment, I didn’t get to say what I really wanted to because I was eighteen and the thought of being so emotionally vulnerable made my teeth itch. 

I wanted to say that you aren't hard to love. I wanted to say loving you has been the easiest thing I have ever done. And that's why it was so difficult. I could never let myself love you—let myself have you because how could I possibly deserve to? But that’s the kicker. It’s not hard to love you, Finn, it’s impossible not to.

Something happened recently that made me realize that I’m not the most forthcoming person when it comes to my feelings. But, Finn, know that my love for you is never in doubt. How I feel about you may be complex, but it’s not complicated. I love you desperately, humanly, simply. Without even trying, you peel me back to my core, but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul. 

I miss you, more than I was prepared to—and I was prepared to miss you considerably.

We may not be next to each other, but we’re under the same sky, and each glowing point on that backdrop of black is a star—a sun at the center of someone’s solar system. 

In some other universe, on a different Earth, there’s a girl in love with a boy whose freckles run like constellations. On another, there’s a girl who’s in love with how her boy’s eyes squint when he smiles.

That's the one constant. There are billions of stars, billions of universes, and I love you in every one of them. 

Tears are blurring his vision before he can read how you close the letter and he has to sit back as the full weight of what he’s about to do hits him all at once. Your words are like a balm to his soul, but they burn him just as much as they soothe him. A reminder of what he’s losing just as much as a reminder of what he’s fighting for. There was never a need to put a label on what you two had, what you were to each other, because it would never be replicated. It had always just been ‘yours’ . Now, with a flick of his pen, it’ll be nothing.

Maybe , he thinks, maybe there’s a way I can explain why I’m doing this, some kind of code or something. Maybe I can still meet with her, just in secret. But Snow …It always comes back to Snow. 

Snow reads these letters, and surely he'll be more vigilant of Finnick to make sure he keeps his side of the deal. Besides, if you knew the real reason he’s doing this—that it’s against his will, that he wouldn’t even think to do this in his worst nightmare—you’ll latch on, consequences be damned. 

He’s doing this for you. He has to remind himself that it’s your life on the line here, not just his heart.

Still. 

He's careful when folding the letter back, only bending it along the preexisting lines. He sets it beside himself. 

He picks up a piece of paper from the stack in front of him tucked against the wall, twirling his pen along his fingers. His leg bounces, nails tapping on the desk. 

He writes something down and comes to a stuttering halt. It isn't good enough. He crumbles it up, throws it in the trash, and picks up a new one. 

Write, crumble, trash, repeat. 

He's stuck in a loop, unable to find the right words. The pressure is building, and he can feel himself starting to crack. He needs to get this done, needs to find a way to say goodbye.

Write, crumble, trash, repeat. 

He's lost track of time, doesn't know how long he's been sitting here. The words are eluding him, and he's starting to feel like he's lost his grip on reality.

Finally, he puts pen to paper and the words flow out of him like a dam breaking. He writes about his love for you, about how much he misses you, about how impossible it is to imagine a future without you. He writes about his fear and his grief, about the weight of the world on his shoulders. He writes you goodbye. 

When he's done, he holds your letter carefully, tucking it back into its envelope. He knows what he has to do, knows that there's no turning back now. 

With trembling hands, he picks up the tan envelope and slides his letter inside. He seals it with a kiss, feeling the weight of his decision like a physical burden. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and places the letter on the stack in front of him. It's done. The words are written, the decision made. 

He sits back in his chair, feeling numb and hollow. He doesn't know what comes next, but he knows that he'll face it head-on. For you.

Past (xii) - You 

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

Finnick's reply came faster than you expected it to. 

You plop down in your office chair, giddy as you rub at your sore cheeks. You've been smiling like an idiot since you picked up the letter from the Mayor's office. You tear into the envelope and pause. 

The words are kind of smudged, dried drops of something smearing the ink. Luckily, you can still read it. 

My heart, 

My moon and stars. 

I must have rewritten these words at least a dozen times by now. You should see the pile of crumpled paper next to me. You'd call it wasteful, but I'm sure you'd be secretly charmed by how nervous you make me after all these years. 

There's no way to dance around it, and I know how much you hate when people mince their words.

It pains me to think it, let alone write it. This will be my last letter to you. 

I know you have a hundred and one questions bouncing around that beautiful brain of yours, you'll want to know why. And the answer is, there is no why. I've decided that it's best, for both of us, to stop. Stop the letters, stop the meetings. 

It ends here. 

I don't want you to hate me. But if that makes it easier for you to stay away from me, then despise me. More than the Peacekeepers, more than the Capitol, more than Snow. Take that loathing and hold onto it like you used to hold me. 

But, selfishly, I want you to know what I'll be holding onto. 

Those little moments outside of time where you and I were the center of each other's universe, two stars orbiting each other. The balcony of my room, the floor of yours. 

I want you to know this because I don't want you to doubt that I love you. 

Because I do. I love you. I could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough. I could say it until my tongue falls off and I'd find a way to sign it to you. 

I could live a thousand lifetimes, be a thousand different people, and I will never love someone like I love you. 

I think of your smile and I fall in love again. I think of your touch and I fall in love again. I won't leave you without you knowing this. I'd sooner stop breathing. 

There are plenty of things I should be thanking you for, but if I tried to make a list, I'd run out of paper. 

I felt...free with you. As free as anyone can be in our situation. I've never felt so close to another person before—I never let myself. 

I thought it would pass eventually, like a sand castle when it's high tide. Noticeable, beautiful, but temporary.

But I can tell you now, that was such bullshit . Since that first dance, there was never a moment I wasn’t in love with you. I loved you before I knew I was capable of it, before I knew I had it in me, and you had my heart before I even knew it was there. I saw the thorns of your past and held my hands out, ready to bleed if it meant I could touch you.

And that scared me. The very thing that gave me strength was my biggest weakness. That’s a hard pill to swallow at sixteen and it’s just as daunting at twenty-two. 

Years ago, you asked me if I could wish for anything, what would it be. I still wish I was a different person, someone you could be proud of. And I wish that person got to grow old with you. 

God, you don't know how badly I want to grow old with you.  

I have no doubt that there's a planet out there under a different sun where we end up together. Hand and hand with the two kids we always talked about. A little girl that'll have me wrapped around her finger because she'll look just like you. And a little boy that'll drive you up the wall because he's a little too much like me. That universe is where my heart lives.  

We'll find it someday, just you and me. Until then, they'll find our love written in the stars. In every constellation.  

-Yours until words lose meaning,  

Finnick O.  

You reread the letter. Then reread it again. You keep rereading it until the words refuse to sit still, letters blurring together. 

It ends here? What’s he talking about? He can't possibly mean the two of you. He can't. 

But he’s ending it. He ended it . Why would he—? He said there’s no reason, but…but there has to be. 

You try to think of anything you did—anything you said that could have led to this but you're coming up blank. 

This doesn't make any sense. It doesn't line up with the Finnick you know. 

The letter says that he loves you, and you thought you knew he loved you, but it’s pretty hard to believe that when he’s leaving you.

He promised he'd stay with you, he promised , and Finnick doesn't break his promises. Not with you. No. Not after everything you've been through together. You only have each other. 

The paper falls from your trembling hands to the desk. 

No . You only have Finnick. But, Finnick—he doesn't want you anymore, right? So, where does that leave you? What else do you have? 

A grandfather clock ticks in the background, though it sounds muted to your ears. 

You look down at the paper and find wet spots, ink more smeared than it was before. Your cheeks are wet. Are you crying?

Stupid. You wipe at your cheeks roughly—angrier at yourself than you are at him. There are a million and one reasons this could have happened and they all begin and end with you. You have no one to blame but yourself.

You know what it feels like for your body to break. What it feels like to be drained down to your skin, nerves, muscles, and bones. You've come eerily close to knowing what it feels like to have your mind broken. 

But this is new. This is what it feels like to have your heart broken. It's sudden, and it rips you apart on its way in. Not an arrow, but a knife. Quicker than you thought it'd be, but it hurts just the same. 

You’re so cold. You don't think you've ever been this cold before. Not even when you were nine and you got such bad hyperthermia that you couldn’t work for the rest of the winter. He always ran hot, you think distantly. And all his warmth has left you. 

You hold on to yourself because no one else will. You would have preferred your body breaking. At least that heals. 

“I can’t,” you weep, stuttering over betrayal and loss, “I can’t do this on my own.”

You press your forehead into the desk, your body shaking with the sobs you’re holding back. It hurts so bad. Pain sitting rooted in your chest, sharp and rigid like a peach pit. Your heart doesn’t beat, it throbs . Throbs like a festering wound, irritated and infected. 

You pull at your shirt and dig your nails into your chest. Maybe if you press hard enough through the skin and fascia and muscles you could pull out the problem.

But that’s impossible. There’s nothing there. It’s the absence that hurts, that gaping Finnick-shaped hole. You wanted to give him your heart, but not like this.

Did you get ahead of yourself? Thinking anything could last with someone who shines as bright as him? Maybe…maybe if you were a little more like him, if you shined just as bright. 

You scoff. 

You’re not a star, you’re not even the moon. How can the sun love the same darkness it chases away?

He described the ocean to you once. Vast and endless, like it could go on forever. And he told you about all the people who get lost at sea. Now you’re one of them. 

You have capsized, water rushing up past your neck and into your mouth and nose, just as salty as your tears. Your lungs burn from the lack of air, you can’t breathe and no one will come for you because you're as good as dead.

Here you sit in your study in your home that isn’t really yours, far away from any ocean, but you're drowning anyway. 

You drown and you drown and you drown and you do it alone.

Present (X) - Finnick 

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL

It’s a last resort, a unanimous choice between them all. A wordless decision that the victors made to appeal to the Capitol citizens. Though they’re all using different means, it’s all for the same result. That’s what Finnick has to remind himself when he’s called on stage after Beetee. 

The crowd screams at his entrance and he locks his hands behind his back. He smiles while nodding to his adoring fans as he stands beside Caesar.

“Finnick, I understand that you have a message for somebody out there. A special somebody.” The crowd hoots and hollers at the dramatics of it all and the idea of one of them being the special someone close to his heart. He chuckles and looks down. The Capitols being painfully predictable is finally paying off. All according to plan. “Can we hear it?”

He could spew some generic flowery shit that could apply to literally anyone he’s come in contact with, but…

He looks at the camera. There will be fourteen victors coming up to perform before you, so you should still be in your dressing room. Are you watching? Watching him?

"My love, my star . My heart is yours. And…and if I had to pick a place to die, it would be in the warmth of your arms. Your smile, the last thing I see and your lips, the last thing I taste. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you.”

Caesar pouts at the audience as they coo at his love letter and he wishes they never heard it. He wishes he could have said it to you directly. Those words, they’re yours and they should have been for your ears only. And, yet, here he is, relaying his heart to you through a screen. Look how far we’ve fallen, Star. 

“Oh, my. That’s very touching, Finnick. Isn’t it? I’m sure whoever it is, is listening and feeling truly loved.” 

“I hope you’re right, Caesar.”

They allowed Mags to opt out of her interview on account of her not being able to speak. How kind , he scoffs. And as he settles on the raised platform beside her, he briefly squeezes her hand. 

You okay? He mouths and she nods with a smile. 

One by one, each victor comes with their own approach to sway the masses. Oh, he knows there's no way they'll be canceling the games. Finnick is more likely to drain the ocean with a teaspoon before Snow even considers stopping this cruelty. But it’s worth a shot, he supposes. It can’t possibly make going into the arena any worse.

Besides Johanna's impassioned speech, nothing the other victors do stands out to him. Then, you're called out.  

He sinks his teeth into his lip as the audience applauds at your entrance.

From what he can recall, your outfit is a remix of the dress you wore in your first interview as if it has aged and matured with you. It’s gained a long train and the hip-high thigh slits that your stylist is known for.

You blow kisses to the crowd and they, understandably, go wild. You turn to Caesar with a smile and the overhead lights shine on you, painting your skin in soft lighting like a blanket. He takes a breath. And another, until he notices he’s breathing in sync with you.

He blinks when the crowd breaks into raucous laughter and he realizes he’s missed something.

"Oh, we all know just how shy you are." Caesar smiles, holding his laugh behind clenched teeth in that way of his that reminds Finnick of an overachieving beaver. The crowd laughs with him and your cheeks must hurt from holding that coy smile. "Now, the last time we talked, you said you were composing a new piece." Caesar pulls a violin out from…somewhere behind him and presents it to you like a gift. Finnick doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he didn’t think you’d use the violin as your strategy. Mostly because of how much you hate it. Or maybe you don’t anymore. Maybe you’ve grown to love it and he’s none the wiser. “Can you play it for us now?" The crowd clamors in ooohs and ahhhs at the idea. It has always been a privilege to hear you play. Finnick watches your face closely.

It wasn't your favorite thing to do, by far, but you took to it like a fish to water. Usually, Snow would have you play at the more "personal" get-togethers. But every once in a while, you would compose a song for Finnick . And when it was just the two of you, you'd share it with him. He'd sit in front of you in awe as you played. He doesn't have a musical bone in his body, but he can hum every piece from memory. 

“You’re kind of putting me on the spot here, but, sure. I would love to play it for you all.” You laugh. You place the instrument under your chin and position your fingers and bow.

And you play .

It's not showy like the pieces you usually play for the public. Not grand or performative, but soft and soulful. Melancholy. It feels nostalgic almost, like something you would write for him. 

The haunting melody carries throughout the silent room as if everyone is breathing with the lilting notes. Everyone but Finnick—who holds his breath. 

He looks down, squeezing his eyes shut, nose scrunching as he fights back tears. Because as much as you may hate the instrument, you play it as if it's an extension of your body. And you've always been better at showing how you feel than saying it. 

It sounds like a goodbye. 

You come to a stop and Finnick's lungs stop constricting with your movements.

When you finish, it’s quiet before Caesar clears his throat and gives you a small smile that almost looks genuine.

“That was marvelous , my dear. Truly moving—wasn’t that moving?” He asks the audience, and Finnick will be surprised if there’s a dry eye in the crowd. Even their applause sounds sad. 

“Thank you, Caesar.” You nod at the praise. “You taught me so much—all of you. If I had known this would be the last time I got to play for you—” You trail off into a sob and the crowd coos. The words may be fake, but he isn’t too sure about the tears. He wonders if you think you won’t make it out of the arena alive—not that he would let that happen. If he could just talk to you, and have an actual conversation, he could know what you’re thinking.

Caesar pats your lower back and Finnick’s eyes narrow. “And you played beautifully.”

You hand the violin back with a watery smile and, fake or not, Finnick hates to see you cry. 

You’re met with a standing ovation as you climb to your place on the platform. With the way the victors are positioned, he stands directly behind you. Or, well, strictly speaking, he’s more diagonal than directly behind you. Still, how lucky is he? He could, theoretically, lean forward and catch a whiff of your perfume—

He gathers himself, straightening up and lacing his fingers behind his back. He squeezes the space between his thumb and forefinger.

Katniss spins and her wedding dress transforms in a flurry of fire before their eyes. 

“Again with the fire.” He mutters under his breath.

The crowd is in awe as she spreads her wings, but he isn’t so easily cowed. Though, he might not be the target audience. Finnick’s never been particularly fond of birds, even if they are mockingjays.

"You know Katniss and I, we've been luckier than most. And I wouldn't have any regrets at all if it weren't…if—" Peeta stops himself, glancing around nervously.

"If it weren't for what? What?"

“If it weren’t for the baby.”

Now, that catches his attention. Gasps echo throughout the room at Peeta’s revelation. Finnick’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline with how high they raise. Caesar tries to do damage control, but the situation is quickly escalating. 

“Call off the games!”

“This is cruel!”

He purses his lips around a growing smile, but he can’t hide it for long when the crowd starts shouting. That’s…that’s certainly one way to get the audience riled up. He catches the slight smirk on Peeta’s face as he watches the commotion he caused and Finnick’s a little jealous. 

Chaos unfurls in a way he never thought the Capitols were capable of. They’ve always been so docile; sheep shepherded into any direction Snow leads them. But it makes sense. The romance act was meant to fool the Capitol and fool them it has. He hides the vindictive glee he feels at the riot breaking out in the name of the victors, but only barely. He would kill to see Snow's face right now. 

How does it feel, he wonders, to see your people rebel in support of the savages you tried to paint us out to be?

He looks over, brows furrowed, as Mags takes his hand with a proud smile and he glances down in time to see you take Chaff’s hand. He pauses for a moment before taking the hand the woman from Five offers him. In sync, the victors all raise their hands in a show of solidarity. 

“Stop the games!”

“Call them off!”

Finnick grins big at the mayhem unfolding before him and they keep shouting long after the lights cut out.

Present (X) - You & Finnick

[23 & 24 ] - THE CAPITOL

“Star!”

It didn't take long for the tributes to be escorted off the platforms and as he chases after you, Finnick realizes that he vastly underestimated just how many people stood between you and him. He isn't sure if he's too far away for you to hear or if you’re actively ignoring him.

”Star!” Finnick pushes through the crowd of victors and stage crew to get closer. Chaff glances at him and now he knows for sure that you’re ignoring him.

“Stubborn.” He mutters as some of his fellow victors let him pass, glancing at him before continuing their conversations. But, as he’s said before, he’s just as stubborn as you. He racks his brain for something that’ll catch your attention before he loses what might be his last chance with you. “ The message was for you! ”

You pause at the entrance of the elevator at Finnick's shout. You're so close to getting away, so close. Your escape is a hair's breadth and a footstep away, but you remember how you felt sitting in your dressing room watching Finnick's interview. Was there a pang of jealousy over the possibility of the message being for someone else? God , it couldn't even be categorized as jealousy. 

You look over your shoulder and his lungs stop constricting. He’s got you. Now, for the hardest part: keeping you.

There are dozens of eyes on him, people milling around as if they aren’t honed in on whatever this is. He can’t blame them for being curious, he’s a little confused himself. He went into this with no plan, not that he would have been able to stick to one with how you’re looking at him.

“What?” The lingering crowd fully parts for him as he approaches, and you regard the gathering audience warily. 

“What I said, the message—it was for you.” He repeats. 

He can’t afford to be coy, that hasn't worked the last dozen times he's attempted a conversation with you and it definitely won't work now. He knows if he doesn’t catch you now, there won’t be any more chances.

Peeta dropped a baby bomb, and, somehow, this is the most dramatic thing to happen tonight. His eyes are locked intently on you, either unaware of all the attention he’s captured or just uncaring.

You look over to Chaff for some kind of help and he smirks at your growing embarrassment. You watch in disbelief as he walks away using the excuse of finding Seeder to escape. 

“Finnick, this isn’t the time.” You glance between him and the floor, tracing the threading in his boots instead of the desperation in his eyes. 

"Can you please just,” he shifts his weight on his feet, "can you look at me, Star? Please, just look at me." He lifts his hand like he aims to reach out to you, but hesitates. 

This situation is developing into something far more intimate than your current company should allow. More intimate than you should allow. You can always just walk away, turn your back to him and get on one of the idle elevators—let it end here once and for all. The only thing stopping you would be the completely unfounded guilt. 

You don't owe him anything, let alone your time. 

And, yet. 

Maybe you can get some kind of closure and set clear boundaries before you go into the arena—and that reasoning sounds weak even to you.

Both of you could die tomorrow and truthfully, you don't want to walk away from him; you've never wanted to.

Besides, it's not like he can hurt you any worse than he already has. 

Finnick jolts when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist, a sensation he should be accustomed to but has grown foreign. 

You pull him aside away from eavesdropping ears, but not from nosey eyes. You feel like a spectacle, with how front and center Finnick has made this, but when haven't you?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You question him in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know what this is or what you think this is, but it is not the place for it. What if this gets back to Snow—”

“I don’t care.”

“—There’s already so much…what?”

“I don’t care.” He shakes his head, and for once, he’s not lying. “I don’t care if they hear us, or—or if this gets back to Snow.”

Your jaw shifts as you narrow your eyes up at him and there’s that anger he’s been expecting.

“Please, Star. Just…just let me speak.” He begs. Your face goes blank, a mask slotting into place like a lock with a key that Finnick has long since lost the right to. He blocks out the chatter around him. 

“Not here.” For a moment, he thinks he’s being rejected until you grab his wrist and drag him behind you. The elevators are filling in droves and you just so happen to pick the one housing some of the last people he wants to witness this. 

Haymitch takes one look at your faces and the grip you have on his wrist and raises his hands in defense. 

Haymitch turns to Katniss and Peeta. “Nuh-uh, believe me. You do not wanna be locked in here with them.” He shakes his head and steps out without a backward glance and you contemplate going with him. “I’ll meet you guys up there.”

Johanna steps on in his place, elevator doors closing behind her. She looks between the four of you and whistles. Finnick sighs.

“There’s the happy couple.” You glance at Peeta and Katniss because she certainly isn’t talking about the two of you. “You caused quite the stir out there. Why didn’t you tell us you were expecting? We could have thrown you a baby shower.” You sigh through your nose. You don’t even have it in you to intervene in this conversation.

“What the hell is a baby shower—”

“We didn’t know how everyone would take it.” Peeta cuts Katniss off. “We’re already the newest victors. The baby might’ve painted an even bigger target on our backs.” He says without stuttering once.

“That’s a fantastic answer, Peeta.” Johanna crows sarcastically. “Did Haymitch prep you on that one or did you come up with it on your own?”

“No. No, it’s all me.” He assures with a downward smile. It certainly is all him. He’s the mastermind behind all of this, right? Ironically enough, Finnick doubts Katniss had any real part in making this ‘baby scandal’.

Finnick opens his mouth to make a quip but thinks better of it. You’re already aggravated at his presence and he honestly doesn’t want to remind you that he’s here. His only consolation is that you’re still holding his wrist, all five pads of your fingers are searing points on his skin.

Peeta gives you an imploring look, eyebrows raised as if to ask if you’re alright and you nod and—when did that happen?

It’s quiet, with no other sound than the nearly inaudible woosh of the elevator going between floors. No one makes an effort to break the steadily growing awkward silence. Finnick does, however, make the mistake of making eye contact with Johanna. She mouths you’re dead at him over your head and, yeah, that definitely fills him with much-needed confidence. 

Present (X) - Finnick

[21 & 22] -  THE CAPITOL; TRAINING CENTER; ELEVENTH FLOOR

“Alright. You wanted to speak.” Your dress flutters around your legs as you settle into a big green chair. That same giant green chair you sat in three years prior. You’ve both grown considerably since then. Just in two completely different directions. What a juxtaposition. “Speak.” 

He stays where he’s standing a couple of feet away. He probably should have figured out what to do on the elevator ride, but, again, he’s without a plan. “Did you hear my message? When I was up there with Caesar? I know you were still getting ready—did you hear it?”

“I might’ve.” You shrug and cross your arms, still so stubborn. “Great strategy by the way. I’m sure you’ll reel in plenty of sponsors.”

“God, Star, it wasn’t for them. It wasn’t even for the fucking movement.” You raise a brow at his words but give no further outward reaction. He moves to stand before you, each step more unsure than the last. Your glare is scorching, but there’s been enough space between the two of you to house the sun. “Do you remember when you said my poetry was a gift? And—and that I shouldn’t waste it on them? You said you would never be tired of anything I do. Do you remember that night? What I said?” He implores. It was a special night full of promises and you gave him more than he deserved.

You look him over with a critical eye long enough that he’s sure you’re just not going to answer. Especially when you turn to stare off to the side before sighing out of your nose.

“My heart, who am I to deprive you of what's yours by right? The air in my lungs, I breathe for you. The blood in my veins pumps for you. A leaf can’t stop itself from falling and neither could I. Everything I do, I do for you.” It only takes him half a second to recognize the lines and he’s stunned, transported back to that garden under the stars. “I remember all of them…I remember everything you’ve made for me.” You give him fleeting peripheral glances and avoid his gaze like you’re ashamed of that. 

He nods, frantic and eager. He’s making headway. He honestly didn’t think you’d let him get this far. Your eyes widen when he drops down into a kneel before you smooth your face into a blank mask. “They’re all yours. And they’ll keep being yours even if you still hate me when I leave this room. Everything I’ve written since I met you has been for you.’’ He confesses, hands moving to grip the arms of your chair, but is it really a confession? The Capitols love his poetry because they adore the idea of Finnick Odair being devoted to them, longing for them and, for that, you’ve always been his inspiration. 

You stare down at him, giving no indication that anything he’s said has swayed you. He grits his teeth through the sting of rejection and sighs, arms falling to his sides.

“I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Why now?” You cut him off. “It’s been two years. You don’t owe me anything, Finnick, so if this a guilt thing—”

“I–It’s not. I mean, it is, but it’s not…it’s not why I’m here.” He sits back on his haunches, running a hand through his hair. “We could die tomorrow. And I don’t want you going into that arena thinking that I don’t love you or…or that I wanted to leave you.”

You squint at him, face twisting into a sour scowl.

“You said,” you drawl, slow and drawn out like you’re explaining something fundamental to a child, “you thought it was best if we ended it.”

He shakes his head. “I lied. I had to and I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I hurt you and I know saying sorry won’t be enough, but please know sending that letter was the last thing I wanted to do. Leaving you was the last thing I wanted to do.”

“What? What are you talking about? You said—”

He holds his hands up, stopping your completely warranted stream of questions.

“I know. I know what I said and I never would have said it if Snow hadn’t shown up at my house—”

“Snow showed up at your house?” Your arms unfold and you lean forward so suddenly that he almost flinches back. “When?” 

“Uh, a few weeks before I sent the letter. He’s the only reason I even sent it.” He scoffs, remembering the state he was left in after Snow offered the ultimatum. He doesn’t need to try to remember the words written in the letter he sent you because he’s never forgotten. They’re tattooed on the back of his eyelids, seared into his memory every time he blinks.

“What did he want? What did he say to make you…” He watches you try to articulate your confusion. What led to this ? What could have possibly been worth giving you up? 

“Snow he–he was convinced that our relationship would somehow lead to—civil unrest. His solution was to get rid of one of us, get rid of you . I couldn’t let that happen. He never explicitly said it, but you know how he is, how he speaks …I was scared. I was. I didn’t—” His voice cracks and you stare down at him with stunned, wide eyes. He wants to shuffle closer. He wants to sway into you and take some kind of comfort. But he doesn’t. “I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t just tell you because you would have tried to find some kind of loophole and we couldn’t afford to make him more hostile than he already was.”

You look to your left out of the wall-length windows and smirk, completely throwing Finnick off. 

"Star?"

You stand. He watches as you pace the length of the room before turning on your heel and walking onto the balcony. He can do nothing more than follow you. 

“He came to my house too, you know. Around the same time, I think. He wanted to remind me about how privileged I am.” You snort and that sick feeling is developing in his stomach, organs twisting to make room for the settling dread. He isn’t sure what he thought you’d do in light of the revelation, what he expected you to say, but it’s not this. “Went on about how thankful I should be that he was allowing us to be in a relationship and…and that as long as I kept myself in line, I could keep you.” You sigh, propping your elbows on the railing and placing your face in your hands.

He doesn’t know what to do. Speechless doesn’t even cover it. His anger is there, and he doesn’t see that ever leaving him...but he’s been angry for so long and he’s been tired for even longer.

“We played right into his hand, Finnick. He gained something from this, bastard that he is.” You scoff. You turn and sit with your back against the glass railing. "That's all that matters to him."

Finnick stews on it and many things are starting to make sense. In the months leading up to the event, the two of you started seeing each other less and less. Long periods where all he had was your perfume and words to keep him company. And considering Snow was the only way either of you were allowed to come to the Capitol…Of course. It all seems so fucking obvious now .

"I should have known better. Snow was never gonna kill you, he's too fucking— God .” He stops and shakes his head. All of the lost time, the unnecessary pain. 

“Come sit down, Finn.”

Finn. 

He hasn't been called that in a long time. He takes a second to stare unseeingly at the stars before sliding down beside you.

It's quiet. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there's anything he should say, and he's sure you feel the same. But he does know if it was up to you, you'd both sit in silence for the foreseeable future and he has two years' worth of confessions to make. 

“The mo—” he stops, overwhelmed by how much he wants to say, but nothing feels good enough, “I loved you the moment you laughed at my stupid joke the first time we danced together and I have loved you ever since. Even when I wasn’t there to show you, even when I—I left you. I’ve loved you the entire way, Star. There are billions of suns out there, billions of universes, and I love you in every one.”

Your head whips up.

“I remember everything you’ve made for me too.” Your mouth twists, brows furrowing as you stare at him and he can’t express in words how good it feels to be seen.

"I don’t hate you.” You shrug a shoulder, smiling small and quick. “You said ‘even if you still hate me’, I don’t hate you.”

“...You don’t?” 

“I tried to. For a while, I thought I did." He shouldn’t be surprised by that. He shouldn’t be hurt by something he explicitly told you to do in his letter. Finnick shouldn’t be a lot of things that he is. “But I just… couldn’t . I didn’t even want to, after a while. I was just tired.”

His head thumps against the railing. He closes his eyes. There's a question on his tongue, an answer he shouldn't need but wants regardless. 

“Is that why you stopped sending letters?” When he opens his eyes again, he’s relieved by the fact that you’re still facing him.

Your face twists like you’ve tasted something sour, something rotten. “I just…I was fine waiting for you, Finnick. It was hard, but it didn’t hurt. Not too bad, at least. I would’ve waited a thousand years because it would have been worth it to hold you for a second. And I could get through that because I knew you were waiting for me too. But, I realized you were never coming. And, eventually, I realized…you weren’t waiting either." You whisper, wrapping your arms around your legs as you pull your knees up. He stiffens, freezing in place as he tries to slow his heartbeat. 

He drops his head, brows furrowed as he tries, and fails, to stop tears from forming. It's just, it's cruel . The one thing he promised himself he'd never do—leave you, hurt you—he had to do for you. 

He wipes his face, pressing the base of his palms into his eyes. 

"Star, I…I would never…It killed me to write that letter, you have to know that, right? Right ?" He implores, voice rough while his breath hitches repeatedly. His throat feels tight and swollen as he stutters over the words in his chest. The words you have to hear, the words he needs you to hear. You stare forward, refusing to look at him anymore and he turns to face you full-on, refusing to look at anything but you. "How can I let you know that? What can I do—to prove—that I'm sorry ?"

He thought you both had changed, changed too much to be fluent in what you two used to have. He thought it was a different language, but here, up close, he can see that it’s not so much a new language as it is a cipher. You just had to let him get close enough to understand again. He had always thought you had such an open face, it was a wonder to him how you were able to lie so eloquently when you could never lie to him. But it wasn’t until he was shut out that he realized you were letting him read you, subconsciously or otherwise. He reads you now, eyes tracing your face eagerly—hungrily, and finds…remorse?

"I know you’re sorry. I know. And logically, knowing the truth should make it easier to get over it.” Your mouth opens and closes, hesitating. “But you left me." He nods hard enough to hurt his neck. "I did." And he's sorry, he's sorry, he's so sorry. He doesn't think there's enough air on the planet for him to tell you just how sorry he is. "You left me, Finnick. I know it isn’t rational to feel this way knowing you didn’t want to, but…” You lick your lips, resting your cheek on your knee. When you look up at him, actually look at him and not somewhere over his shoulder, the glossy state of your eyes has him digging his nails into his hands to ground himself. "It’s just—it’s more than a little hard to dissociate you from that hurt." I’d take that hurt from you if I could, he thinks. I’d grit my teeth through the pain and wear it proudly if it meant you’d have a moment of relief. He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, "I'm sorry, Star." Because, really, what else is there to say? There’s no way to describe everything he’s sorry for.

"...I'm sorry too." You say and he wants to tell you there’s nothing to apologize to him about, but you lock your pinky with his and it’s entirely unexpected and truly enough to make his throat tighten, and all he can manage is a wistful sigh at the feeling of coming home.

Far below them, the sound of the city is dampened by the distance but no less heard. He goes to speak but spots a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. It’s your ankle. Or specifically, what’s on your ankle.

“You wore it?” He asks, touching the fraternal twin of his own bracelet. He appraises what he thought was lost reverently. Tracing the grooves of the shells, the divets in the charms, the rough twine of the rope—it all feels like a live wire under his fingers.

“I never took it off.” You slip your heel off, loosening the straps of the bracelet and wiggling it down your foot. “I just thought it might be a little sad to parade it around when you didn’t want me.”

“There will never be a moment on this Earth of me not wanting you, not while I still have air in my lungs. Not even after.” 

“And how’ll you manage that?” You ask, your eyes crinkling in that old mirth you used to wear around him like a beauty mark.

“For you? I’ll find a way.” He promises.

You hum, appraising the jewelry for a second before passing it to him. He can’t help but smile when you lift your hand, silently prompting him. He places the bracelet on you, tightening it on your wrist. It feels like muscle memory when he lifts your hand to place a kiss on the center shell.

The corner of your mouth twitches up and you nod. “Okay.”

He leans in, placing a hand on the base of your neck and pulling you towards him and he’s still in awe that you actually let him. He holds the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his slender waist. 

"I'm not asking for forgiveness, it wouldn’t be fair to.” He murmurs into the crown of your hair. “But after we do this, I want the chance to make it up to you." He'll spend the rest of his life mending what he tore apart if you let him.

“I think…I’d like that.” You speak into his chest and he feels your voice more than he hears it. “It was for you too.”

“What was?”

“The song I played onstage. I wrote it after it all happened. Honestly, I couldn’t touch the violin without thinking of you, Finn. You were the only person I ever wanted to play for.” You whisper and it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Finnick’s taken by the sudden need to look in your eyes more than anything, to see and know you and be seen and known in return. He pulls back enough to look down at you.

“ Star .” He begs you beseechingly, and there’s no hesitation when you look up at him and he grins. It feels like it’s been years. “There you are.”

You smile. It's small and heavier than he remembers, but it's there and he is as whole as he will ever be.

A/N: IMAGINE POURING YOUR HEART OUT AND EXPRESSING HEARTFELT INTIMACY TO THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE JUST TO GET DUMPED yeesh. fun fact: "...but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul." I actually texted this to my beta reader about Finn from Adventure Time after seeing an edit bc I love him so much, but then I converted it into Finnick love. also, Finnick's letter was one of the first things I wrote for this story months ago. That balcony talk was inspired by Hozier's Unknown/Nth WE IN THE ARENA NEXT CHAPPY

[redheadspark]

Hello! Can I request #1 and #3 with Barry Keoghan? ❤️

AN - Thanks for the request, anon!

Thanks To You

Summary - Barry brings you peace when your world is rocked

Warnings - Angst with barely any fluff

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,”

Barry’s fingers that were in your hair paused, hearing the tension in your voice as you were watching the window outside, seeing the snow falling gracefully from the sky and cars driving along the street.  The world was still rolling by, though it felt like a standstill in your little apartment while the soft sounds of the fireplace were heard in front of you both.  Curled up on the couch, head in Barry’s lap as he was giving you both the intimacy of being close to you and space to let you talk about how heavy your heart was. 

The heaviness of your mother kicking you out of her home.

The last few years living with her was hard for you, her hardened heart was always on her sleeve and she was never shy in showing it to those who would defy her.  Ever since your parents divorced and your father found love with a new wife, your mother did the divorce rather hard and became bitter because of it.  You were merely living with her to both save up some money to move out on your own and to get some money in your savings.  Plus it was easier for you since your work was right down the street from your mother's house, but it was also a literal hell.  

The only ray of light that was in this whole mess was your boyfriend Barry.

You made sure Barry and your mother were never left alone in the room.  She briefly met him when he came to pick you up for a date, already analyzing him since he was an up-and-coming actor.  You knew she was judging him, even when he introduced himself to her and he was beyond courteous and polite.  It made you feel embarrassed, apologizing to him when he drove you off to the dinner.  Barry wasn’t worried about it, winking at you, and then laced your hands together to show you that he was okay with it.

“I don’t care what she says about me,” Barry reassured you when you slept over at his apartment one night, “I’ll use my Barry charm on her to win her over in due time,”

“It might be impossible with her,” You said with a groan as he chuckled, “It’ll be an uphill battle when it comes to my mom,”

“Challenge accepted then,” Barry said in a cocky manner, though you poked his side and he laughed.  You loved that Barry would make things light for you when he knew you were stressed out with your mom.  He whisked you away on weekend trips or mini-vacations that he would take thanks to a recent movie gig he landed.  Those little mom tens, pockets of joy even, made your heart grow for him.  

The last thing you expected though, right before Christmas of course, was to get into a fight with your mother over Barry and then get kicked out because she was filled with spite.

Barry came over to your house as soon as you texted him and told him what happened, helping you pack your clothes and a small cluster of things that you wanted to keep with you.  He said nothing to your mother, who was scowling out on the back porch a you were crying in your bedroom and trying to get the rest of your things in the small bags that you did have.  After a few minutes, Barry took your bags and walked you out of his car.  He drove off with you, leaving your past behind without your mother not even saying goodbye.to you.

You called your father when you made it to Barry’s apartment, telling him all that happened.  Ever thankful that your father was supportive of you, he made sure to wire you some money to get on your feet and made sure you knew that his home was available for you to come to.  Yet you were safer with Barry, on the other side of town a bit away from your mother.  The first thing you said to Barry after hanging up the phone, seeing him watch you with Conner in his eyes, were four simple yet moving words that made you feel so small.

“Please just hold me,” you whimpered, feeling overwhelmed from all that happened within an hour.  Barry had you within his arms instantly as you sobbed and unleashed all that pain that was festering.

“You don’t have to hide your tears from me,” Barry reassured you as you moved your head on his lap to look at the ceiling, noticing a tear escaping from the corner of your eye as Barry kept talking, “I know what’s it like with that kind of family.  It hurts, but it won’t last forever,”

“She said those nasty things about you, I couldn’t hold my tongue because I knew they were false.  But now…. I’m homeless,” You said in a defeated sigh.  Barry tutted as he shook his head.

“You’re not homeless,” he reminded you, then gesturing to the small apartment you two were in, “We’ve already talked about moving in together, so now this is your place.  We can get the rest of your stuff another time—“

“I don’t want anything else,” You gently interrupted as you slowly blinked, your heart feeling less heavy but still damaged.  You could still hear her voice in the back of your mind, bad-mouthing Barry and thinking of him as mediocre and cocky.  It killed you to hear that since you knew him to be far better.  He was kind, down to earth, and beyond generous.  He was a brilliant actor, as well as a brilliant human being, and for your mother to wish to see only the bad side of it was heartbreaking.  No matter that you two were on uneven ground or the bridge you two had was beyond broken, she was still your mother. 

Your mother who now shunned you and kicked you out of her life.

“She can burn the rest of my stuff for all I care,” You said bitterly, “I only got what I needed from that house, thanks to you.”

Barry smiled, though the look on his face seemed concerned about how you were reacting this way.  He knew you to be strong, tough as nails when it came to your work and fending for yourself.  He also knew you wore your heart on your sleeve and loved helping others when you could, there was no selfish bone in your body. 

So all Barry could do was simply watch you as you moved your head again to look out the windows, watching the snowflakes cascade along the window.  He was mentally telling himself that all he could do was simply be present for you in this time, knowing the plenty of times when you were there for him when he needed support.  You always took his hand, giving him sweet words of encouragement, there was never a time when Barry truly felt alone when it came to you. 

Now it was his turn to return the favor.  

The End.  

Hurt and Comfort Prompt Session

[trashpandato]

Lunge and Parry

Just a short little thing that was inspired by this Tweet

---

Lena is thrilled. Thrilled and sweaty.

She hasn’t had to be on her toes this much against an opponent in a long time and she’s enjoying every second of it. It’s not a big surprise; this is the championship bout after all, so the woman currently advancing on her would have had to win against top notch fencers in the tournament to get to this point. 

Lena isn’t very familiar with her. Kara Danvers is her name and as far as Lena knows, she hasn’t been fencing competitively for very long, or else their paths would surely have crossed a few times already. The world of fencing is small, and even smaller once you get to the level where they are at, competing for one of the few remaining spots on the Olympic fencing team.

Either way, Lena isn’t about to let some newbie beat her. She’s worked too hard for this, and Lillian likes to remind her of that every chance she gets, like now, when she yells at Lena from the sidelines while Lena works to parry Kara’s current attack.

“That was pathetic,” she hears her mother scoff. “I’ve paid your coaches thousands of dollars and this is the best you can manage?”

Lena tries to tune her out as she bounces backwards on her feet. Kara’s fencing style is aggressive. It’s effective, the score is close, but Lena sees that Kara is a little bit reckless at times, and she’s been scoring points off defensive moves more than she usually does in her bouts.

It works. She’s up 12-9 and there are less than 30 seconds left. Lena figures she can goad Kara into one or two more lunges and either avoid contact or score her own points off a defensive thrust. It’s an uphill battle for her opponent, and Kara is likely to go all in on her offense in an attempt to even up the score.

It’s a solid strategy, defend her lead and win. But then, as she takes a quick step back in the wake of Kara lunging at her, Lena’s right knee buckles. She hears a pop and loses her balance. As soon as her back hits the piste, Lena feels excruciating pain shoot up her leg, and she knows immediately that it’s bad. 

Then a few things happen all at once. Lena focusses on her breathing and on trying to muffle the sounds she is making. She doesn’t want to cry, not here, not in front of everyone, but the pain in her leg is beyond anything she’s ever felt before, and she can’t help but let out small whimpers as she tries to roll onto her side. Then, her coach is there, helping her pull her helmet off. He is asking her questions that barely register, and Lena tries to hold in a yelp when he touches her leg. But the thing that captures most of her attention is her opponent, Kara, who is kneeling down next to her with a deeply concerned frown on her face.

“Get up,” Lillian hisses from somewhere behind Lena. “Luthors aren’t quitters.”

Lena clenches her jaw. She doesn’t really see the point of trying to finish the bout. Even if she is able to get up and stand, she knows she can’t fence properly with her knee in its current state. There are still 20 seconds left and Kara would have no problem scoring enough points to win. If she stays down and forfeits, Kara wins, too. Either way, it’s over for Lena.

“Do you think you can continue?” Her coach asks.

As much as Lena wants to yell no and tell both him and Lillian to fuck off, she knows she’ll never hear the end of it if she gives up now. Lillian is going to spend the next twenty years reminding her that she’s a disgrace to the Luthor name, too weak, too soft. Maybe she can try and hobble on one leg for 20 seconds and maybe, just maybe it’ll be enough.

Lena nods. She’s not sure she can speak at this point, so she sticks to glaring at her mother and shifting around a bit to let her coach hook his arm under her right shoulder to help her up. When she wobbles immediately, Lena feels a second set of hands on her. Her head snaps around and she’s met with a very close-up view of blonde hair, tan skin and vibrant blue eyes.

“Careful,” Kara says as she helps Lena to her feet and lets her lean against her for balance for a few seconds.

It’s only when Kara is sure that Lena can stand on her own that she lets go, and Lena immediately misses how steady her hands felt on her body. They lock eyes and Kara asks:

“You sure you want to finish the bout?”

Lena isn’t sure. She can’t put any of her weight on her right leg at all, and the throbbing pain is so distracting that she completely misses her coach’s instructions for what to do now. But she nods anyway. She doesn’t think she has much of a choice. She’ll try to stay upright and maybe, with some luck, she can stay out of the way of Kara’s attacks long enough to maintain her lead. It’s 20 seconds. All she has to do is get through 20 seconds.

Kara nods back at Lena and then, just before she slips her helmet back on, Lena thinks she spots a small smile on her opponent’s face. Her stomach sinks. Kara isn’t stupid. She’s a talented fencer. She’ll know how to outmaneuver a severely limited Lena with ease to score enough points to win three times over. And that smile on Kara’s face tells Lena all she needs to know. Kara is probably already planning her victory celebration.

Lena sighs, puts her helmet on and hobbles into position. She can barely move. Anytime she jostles her right leg by hopping around on her left, the pain shooting up and down her body makes her feel dizzy. Even just keeping her balance enough to stay upright seems like an impossible challenge.

The referee tells them to get ready and Lena lifts her foil and her chin, and tries to drown out the run-on commentary coming from her mother. She knows she’s going to lose, but she can at least try and keep her pride intact. 

“Allez,” the referee tells them and Lena hobbles backwards to put distance between herself and Kara. Her main strategy now is to stay out of her way as much as possible.

Kara, as she has done throughout the bout, bounces on her feet and gets into position to lunge. Lena braces herself for the attack but then Kara simply bounces backwards, toward her end of the piste. Lena is confused. It could very well be a set up for a running attack, one where Kara needs more space to generate momentum, but it’s not something she’s seen Kara do before. Still, she tries to set her feet as much as possible to give herself a chance to dodge whatever move Kara has planned.

But nothing happens. Kara continues to bounce on her feet far away from Lena. Her foil is up and ready but it doesn’t look like she’s going to approach at all. Lena can hear Lillian’s voice, biting and loud as always, but she can’t hear what her mother is saying. She is too focussed on Kara and the fact that she’s not attacking at all.

And then the buzzer signals that time’s up, that the bout is over.

Lena moves towards Kara. She’s on autopilot, hobbling two steps but before she can even reach the middle of the piste to shake her opponent's hand, Kara is there, pulling her into a hug that Lena knows is meant to be congratulatory but ends up feeling more like something else. Kara is a bit taller than her, her shoulders broader, and in that moment, Lena feels cocooned and safe even as her thoughts oscillate between confusion, elation and irritation.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Lena snaps.

They’re still hugging and Lena doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

She feels more than hears Kara chuckle. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have let me win.”

Lena expects Kara to pull away, to tell her to go fuck herself. It’s what she would do if their roles were reversed. Instead, Kara only hugs her more tightly and even presses a soft kiss to Lena’s forehead before she pulls back a little to look at her.

“You won fair and square,” Kara tells her with a smile on her face before pulling Lena back against her body, one hand gently cradling the back of Lena’s head.

The whole moment feels like an out-of-body experience to Lena. They’re competitors who barely know each other, and here she is in Kara’s arms like they’re best friends. Kara even kissed her fucking forehead. A part of Lena wants to pull away and ask her what the hell her deal is, but something about this moment feels too good to fight it. 

So Lena doesn’t.

“Will you let me buy you a drink,” Lena asks and her voice is muffled because her face is still pressed against Kara’s shoulder. “To make it up to you.”

There’s another chuckle and then Kara takes a careful step back but holds Lena up with firm hands on her upper arms.

“Let’s get your knee sorted out first, okay?”

And just like that the spell between them is broken. Lena sees her coach approach her, and somewhere behind him are two EMTs who are pushing a wheelchair towards her. Lillian is there, too, of course, barking instructions at the EMTs to take Lena to Lakeview Hospital, even though that’s on the other side of the city, but Lena knows the Luthors have connections to several surgeons there.

In the flurry of activities around her, Kara disappears out of view as soon as Lena is helped into the wheelchair. Lena is sure she won’t see her again, at least not for a while. Fencing will likely be out of the question for a few months until her injury heals, and that’s pretty much all she knows about Kara, that she is a fencer. As she is pushed out of the building and into the back of the waiting ambulance, the door closes with a loud bang. Lena tries not to cry.

Lillian’s connections and large donations to the hospital mean that Lena heads into surgery that very same evening. Both her ACL and MCL are shot, and while the surgeon manages to repair both, he tells her that recovery will take many months and a lot of hard work. It’s not something Lillian likes to hear.

“She can’t miss that much time. She’ll have to prepare for the Olympics.”

The drugs in Lena’s system allow her to doze off during the argument between her surgeon and Lillian that follows. 

When Lena wakes up the following morning, Lillian is gone and Lena is thankful. The nurse tells her that her mother had to take care of some business matters but would return after lunch, and Lena can’t help but hope that Lillian might stay away longer. Her hopes are dashed when she hears a small knock, but when she looks up, it’s not Lillian who is hovering in the doorway. 

It’s Kara.

“Hey.” 

Kara is holding a large bouquet of flowers and is sporting that same small smile that Lena saw the day before just as they were about to finish their bout.

“You came,” Lena says, her voice still a little drowsy from sleep and the pain medication. 

Kara grins and pushes off the doorframe. Lena watches as she comes closer and deposits the flowers into a pitcher of water that’s sitting on the small table next to her bed. She’s pretty sure the water was meant for her to drink, but she feels too mesmerized to say anything to Kara, who is now standing right next to her bed.

“I did. Is that alright?”

Lena’s eyes drift towards where Kara’s hip is leaning against her bed and without thinking, she shifts her hand and reaches out to touch Kara’s, loosely letting her fingers curl around a warm, soft palm.

“More than alright,” Lena manages to say even as her eyelids droop.

Kara laces their fingers together and squeezes.

“You should rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Of course. I need you to be rested and lucid when I ask you for your number later.”

“Mhm,” Lena mumbles, barely awake. “I believe I asked you out first.”

That prompts a proper laugh, a sound that sends pleasant shivers down Lena’s spine.

“You did. You win.”

[aettuddae]

hole in one — chapter 130.

⌕ synopsis: at one of the most prestigious universities in the country, where everyone is battling to be the center of attention, yu jimin is just a regular. people want her because of her beauty, but all she cares about is sharing her freaky stuff with her friends and passing her subjects. although there's one thing that might push her out of her comfort zone, revenge. when nakamura kazuha, one of the richest and most well-known students of NCU, starts to spread gossip about her for thousands of followers to see, jimin decides to get back by taking away the thing kazuha cares about the most: her perfect girlfriend, the young golf star, kwon haru.

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[written chapter]

all the guests were already in their seats at the wedding venue, a garden at the top of a mountain.

although minhyuk had complained all the way to the top, the view was enchanting. everyone was arranged in spruce chairs, grouped in a single set in the center. on either side of the guests, two walkways with flowers along the edges that connected at the altar, through which both brides would enter. and the altar was the best part, a majestically tall archway made of oak trunks from which vines fell with grace. and behind it rose the magnificent view that the location offered from the top of the site, abundant with nature, trees, miles of green land, and in the distance the magical city of taipei.

despite having been sitting there for a while, the boy was still complaining about all the effort he had to make walking uphill, until he was finally interrupted by the music that signaled the entrance of the procession.

since there was no groom, the entrance did not start with him, but directly with the bridesmaids. from the beginning of the wedding aisles, two groups of them began to enter, one led by ningning, and the other, the one on the side where haru and her friends were, led by karina.

jimin knew how important this day was for yunjin and minjeong, and that she had to be careful not to ruin anything since she was part of the opening ceremony, but she couldn't contain her desire to turn to look at haru.

she had already met her with her gaze from where she stood before entering, and she was surprised that the golfer hadn't felt her intense gaze on the back of her neck like a laser beam. it was embarrassing, but she couldn't control it. after so long, her brain couldn't finally assimilate being in the same space-time as her. somehow, she kept thinking that if she touched her, maybe she would fall apart, or that she herself would wake up from a dream.

jimin made it to the altar without causing any inconvenience, but the moment she was in position, her head could no longer keep still and she was caught in a vicious circle of turning to look for the woman and returning to the event.

she had already seen haru on television, she knew what she currently looked like, but there was something different about seeing her in the flesh. maybe it was because the cameras didn't know how to capture people's essences, and that was the most beautiful part of haru. she shines among people, it's like being in the presence of a fairy. aside from her aura, her physical appearance was slightly different. her features a little more marked, her hair a little longer. jimin always found the athlete heartbreakingly attractive, but she had only become harder to take the eyes off of her.

in front, yizhuo had already noticed her attitude and began to beckon her to concentrate, but jimin only responded by pointing at haru and leaning her head to the side, denoting obviousness. trying to say that it was known by everyone that she would not be able to keep her full attention on the ceremony.

as the two exchanged hand signals and mouthed words to each other, seungkwan walked past them with the rings and positioned himself next to the center.

"your best friends are getting married." he reminded karina trying not to modulate with his lips so no one would understand what he was saying.

"the love of my life who i haven't seen in two years is sitting three feet away from me." she countered by speaking in the same way.

"friendship."

"two damn years."

"they're about to enter, be quiet." ningning warned, speaking normally without worrying about being overheard.

the wedding march began to play and yunjin and minjeong appeared from each end.

the wedding continued smoothly, although jimin wouldn't know what was going on around her because she couldn't look at anyone but the sports player. it wasn't that she was completely disconnected from the situation, she was clearly enjoying and honoring the union of love of two people so special to her, but kwon's presence disturbed her. the girl had already noticed it, and kept trying to avoid her gaze.

seungkwan went ahead to present the rings, and ningning and karina had to pass them on to their friends. but jimin was so engrossed in the existence of the girl she loved that she forgot for a moment about her task, delaying slightly, just a few seconds, in doing what she was supposed to, but it was enough for the guests to notice and some of them let out a short laugh at her confusion. she stretched out her hands with the ring towards minjeong and then returned to her place, noticing the golfer in the process, and that she too had a smile on her lips, which faded when she noticed that she had been caught.

haru didn't want to smile at anything the girl did. in fact, she was in a very bad mood at the idea of having to be in the same place as her, and her constant staring was starting to make her desperate because she didn't want, for any reason, to end up having to interact with her.

but there was something inside her that died of tenderness when it came to jimin. she couldn't suppress the urge to smile, to cherish her despite all the resentment she held. and something about that little mistake was so unapologetically her that it made her feel nostalgic.

finally, minjeong and yunjin closed their eternal pact with a kiss that ended the ritual, and all the guests began to move towards the reception hall, which was located down the hill.

minhyuk definitely complained again.

"yunjin is about to throw her bouquet." announced ningning to seungkwan and karina who were the only ones left sitting at their table.

"you have to go." warned the disinterested boy as he brought more food to his mouth.

"but i don't want to get married." complained yizhuo.

"the person i want to marry has a girlfriend." surprisingly, that wasn't the first time jimin had said that phrase that day.

"you're the bridesmaids." he said obvious.

"you go." pointed out the youngest of the three.

"i already have a boyfriend." he indicated his finger to minhyuk who was across the room with a mouth full of cake. "go."

"you'll pay for it." threatened yizhuo getting up from her chair.

"not all men," jimin followed her friend. "but somehow always a man." she accused the boy with her index, but he just continued eating.

both girls joined the group of people waiting for yunjin to throw her bouquet so they could catch it.

"pretend to be excited." ordered the younger one, to which they both began to jump up and down and let out amused squeals.

the redhead turned and counted to three loudly and then catapulted the bouquet from her hands into the air. the crowd of people became chaotic as they began to chase after it, but eventually it landed

into karina's hands.

once her hands closed around it and all the others who had tried to get it stopped to watch her and chirp in celebration of the moment, she stopped to analyze it, a little confused as to how such a thing had happened. she smiled and pretended to be happy to keep the mood light, then spun on her heels ready to return to her table.

right behind, watching the whole event, apart from other guests, were haru and giselle. the former couple made eye contact for a moment, and karina felt the urge to gift her new acquisition to haru, but she quickly dismissed it and kept walking.

they had already been at the reception for hours and nothing had happened.

well, minjeong and yunjin were completely drunk and all over each other, which was valid because it was their wedding. seungkwan and minhyuk were long gone, ningning and giselle had joined in their drunkenness and were happily talking to a group of strangers, of which karina was also a part, until she chose to step out to go outside to drink her glass of wine in silence, and also so she wouldn't have to see haru being kissed and pampered by eunseo the way she wanted to be doing it anymore.

but between haru and jimin nothing had happened.

jimin hadn't tried anything either. she was panicking. she had been thinking all night about going over and telling her how happy she was for her for winning the golf tournament, but she didn't dare. she was afraid of being rejected, denied by someone she loved so deeply. and every time she seemed to get up the courage, juyeon would show up.

it was strange how those two weren't on top of each other all the time, they had barely touched all night, but just talked and laughed as they always did. it wasn't until juyeon became noticeably drunk that she began to seek haru's affection, which made jimin's bitterness hit.

the girl finished the contents of her drink and set it down on a table that no one was occupying. she took a deep breath, preparing to re-enter the place where someone else was making out with the love of her life, and made her way inside.

she looked around, trying to locate her friends, but finding none, so she began to walk aimlessly searching. by casting a glance at the dance floor, through the crowd, she distinguished ningning, so she walked over to her, pushing and asking permission from the others who crowded the place to get to her friend.

"excuse me." she repeated to a boy so he would give her room for her to pass through where he was. "i'm so sorry!" exclaimed exalted as she bumped into someone and caused them to stagger slightly.

hearing no response, she thought the person hadn't heard her, so she assumed it was because she was facing the ground, so her voice was hard to hear. jimin raised her head, ready to apologize again, only to meet kwon haru's serious countenance.

"sorry for pushing you, there are a lot of people." she spoke without thinking about what she was saying. her eyes lost, almost hypnotized by the girl in front of her.

she felt like she was about to throw up.

"did you see juyeon?" the older girl asked without changing her bored expression. it was clear on her face that she was only talking to her because no one else had been able to help her find her girlfriend.

"what?" she was so shocked at the situation she was in that she didn't listen to her.

haru had just spoken to her for the first time in two years.

"if you saw juyeon."

"oh..." she looked around as if trying to find her. "no, sorry." she shook her head.

the golfer, still with her acrimonious expression, turned around ready to ignore her again and go on her way, but jimin, perhaps because she now did have enough alcohol in her blood to lose her fears and cross her boundaries, held her arm and kept her close to her.

"haru..."

"i have to look for juyeon." she cut her off quickly.

"wait, i just wanted to tell you that," she swallowed hard trying to relax. "i just wanted to congratulate you on winning the championship." she sketched a shy smile and once she finished speaking, she let go of her arm, free to leave.

"thank you." she nodded her head slightly.

jimin copied the gesture, looked down, and got ready to go, only for haru to be the one to stop her this time.

"did you really watch it?" the older woman asked curiously, slightly dropping her annoyed expression.

"what thing?"

"did you really watch the tournament?"

"i watched all your matches for the year." she admitted without thinking much before.

"what?" surprise took over her face. "you saw everything? really?"

"i know how much you love golf," she spoke loudly so haru could hear her over the music. "what kind of person would i be if i didn't watch your games?"

haru's eyebrows were raised in astonishment, the indifference and seriousness had left her face a moment ago.

the girl knew that jimin had found out when she won the championship, or so she assumed when she saw that one tweet. but she never imagined that she had actually watched the matches, let alone every match of the year.

why did she care so much? why did she still care? didn't she hate golf?

the older girl opened her mouth to say something, but just then the background song changed to a tune she knew perfectly well.

"exo!" she shouted euphorically, completely out of the context she was in, distracted by the first notes of her favorite song.

the girl's joy at hearing her favorite band was in complete contrast to the slow song that had just started. at that moment, karina realized that the woman was also a little drunk.

she herself was too a little dizzy from having been drinking continuously throughout the night, but it was nothing she couldn't manage.

the blackhaired couldn't suppress the smile that escaped her as she saw the other one happy and excited for the artist she loved most in the world. that was her haru, her favorite person, and she was finally in the same room as her.

exo's "don't go" flooded the room, and enveloped their ears. the song that had made them connect for the first time.

"i love this song." she assured once she calmed her excitement.

"i know." yu said as she looked at her with eyes laden with adoration. "do you want to dance?" she proposed during a rush of courage.

they both looked at each other without saying anything, the contentment pulling away from them because of the implications of that idea. jimin again felt the fear of haru's rejection, as the latter remembered why she didn't want the younger girl around.

but it was her favorite song, and as she looked around, she noticed that everyone was slow dancing to it. they were at a wedding, love was in the air, and alcohol was in her body.

maybe she'd regret it later, but for now, fuck it.

the golfer accepted by nodding her head with a bit of embarrassment, and karina's heart began to beat in such a way that she thought it was seconds before it would come to a full stop. she brought her now trembling hands to haru's shoulders and rested them there, while the older woman's gently positioned them on her waist. the two of them began to embrace the rhythm of the song.

there was no need for words. haru was enjoying the song she loved the most, jimin the person she loved the most. there was nothing to say. this moment was precious, perhaps unique.

kwon's attention was captured by the girl's hand moving to her chest, aiming to hold the necklace that decorated her collarbone.

the necklace they shared.

"hey, this is mine." she suddenly joked.

"it's been with me longest." defended with a thoughtful face.

she touched her own neck, reaching for her piece of the accessory and once she was holding both pendants, she pulled them closer together, causing the magnets to join.

"i still think it's cool that it has magnets."

"why do you keep wearing it?" the student questioned without minding what she said.

"because it's pretty." haru casually replied, her attitude serious, taking some distance, though without removing her hands from the girl's body, except one of them to separate both accessories.

"sorry." she said embarrassed seeing the defensive stance she had taken.

she got no response other than the straight look on her face and her beginning to avert her gaze.

"haru, i..." she thought before continuing. "i've missed you so much-"

"how's your relationship going?" she blurted out of the blue.

"wow, how do you know about that?" her eyes widened in unexpectedness.

"juyeon is incredibly nosy." she explained without making a big deal out of it.

"your girlfriend tells you about my relationship?"

"my girlfriend?" kept disoriented for a second. "and how do you know about that?"

"well, you were kissing just a moment ago." she shrugged in annoyance.

"right, you've been watching me all night." she recalled sarcastically.

"excuse me? we were just talking about how, curiously, you know what i've been doing with my life." she recaptured offended.

"we literally ended up in this situation because you told me you watched all my games for a year even though we didn't talk to each other." haru raised her eyebrow, judging her.

"don't pretend your eyes didn't sparkle when you heard me say it." karina frowned. "and yujin and i broke up."

"that's terrible, why?" she pryed with a high-pitched voice, like an inquisitive child.

"look at you all intrusive, do you care about me that much?" she returned flirtatiously.

"did you lie to her too and tell her you loved her?" she kept that annoyingly high voice.

"hey, our problems are about other things, that i love you is true." she angrily contradicted, not pondering her words.

"love, not loved?" she cocked her head to the side like a puppy dog.

"why would i watch all your golf games if it wasn't because i love you?" she blurted out sharply, her mind not being able to function at the same time as her mouth due to the alcohol and the irritation haru's comments and childish attitude were generating in her. "it's obvious that i love you, everyone at this wedding already noticed."

and again there was nothing to say, so nothing was said.

haru could imagine that jimin still had feelings for her, after all, she had been looking at her all night, and there was her history of strange tweets that always appeared on important days of kwon's life. but to hear jimin admit that she loved her even so long after, stunned her, she didn't know how to respond, and maybe, she didn't want to.

she remained quiet, lowering her confidence and starting to act more gently. jimin's words had made her have some sympathy for the girl.

karina felt a little embarrassed for having said such a thing so abruptly, but she had no regrets. at the end, it was the truth, and she hadn't been doing a good job at hiding it. she secured her grip on her crush's neck and moved a little closer, enough to hide herself in haru, so that the woman could not see her face without having to break away.

the song was coming to an end. that conversation had felt like hours, but it had really happened in the span of three minutes, or less. haru began to sing the last verse under her breath, and the younger girl was lost at the sound of her voice, loving that moment even though they had just argued.

"...i'll follow you even at the end of the world," karina knew the words so she began to accompany the older. "please don't escape from my vision," she was close enough to lay her head on kwon's shoulder just by moving a little, so she did. "don't disappear even when morning comes," she sang slightly louder, she wanted haru to hear that part. "your small hand movements, puts my heart in a whirl." they finished together.

the instrumental continued for a moment, and they swayed to it softly, until it inevitably ended. they held each other just a bit longer, even as the song that continued was incredibly hyped. the blackhaired brought her fingers to the older woman's cheek to caress it and detached her head from her body, but still in her arms. with the hand that still hung around her, she began to draw circles on the back of her neck, and her pupils fell to her lips. she started leaning forward, haru frozen in place, not going away, but not corresponding.

"haruru!" eunseo's loud voice was suddenly heard.

the interruption caused the older one to regain her sense of reality and quickly let go of jimin, recomposing her cold and distant facade.

the younger one, seeing who she claimed was the golfer's girlfriend, fled in horror, disappearing into the crowd.

"no! kristine!" exclaimed the newcomer, stretching her arm toward the place she had gone, as if that would stop her.

"karina." corrected haru.

"karina!" she exclaimed again without changing her position.

"haruuuu!" called giselle extending the last letter until it captured the athlete's attention. "could you get my coat? i forgot it." she asked when the girl looked up at her.

haru nodded and reentered the room to head back to the table they were seated at. the girl hadn't passed by this one before she left, as eunseo had reached for her things.

so she was surprised when she noticed a bouquet on the chair she had been using.

she took aeri's coat, and then the flowers.

how had they gotten there?

her mind began to search for events of the night in which such an object had appeared, but she remembered nothing.

she wasn't drunk enough to forget things, was she? maybe she was just too distracted thinking about her encounter with karina to remember other things.

oh.

karina.

she dropped her gaze back to the bouquet she was holding.

it was the one that yunjin had thrown and jimin had caught at the beginning of the night.

it seemed no coincidence to her that this had just appeared on the seat she had been in. jimin had left it there for her.

she smiled at the detail.

[majorblinks]

when cameras are flashing (ive yujin)

(smut, idol yujin, daddy kink, age gap, choking, "quickie", oral, 5k words)

“So,” you say, and Ahn Yujin smiles brightly at you across the conference table. “How’d you manage to fuck up this week?”

It’s barely professional, but you’re you - you’re past all that, over courtesy, propriety. Yujin’s manager clears her throat, levels you with an unamused glare. You cock your head, spread your hands out in surrender: “Look,” you say, “I’m just trying to get a feel for the situation.” 

“Oh,” says Yujin, in her carefree, entirely charming way. “Well, if you’re just trying to get a feel for it.”

You raise an eyebrow at her. She raises one right back, sweetly challenging. Hey, here’s how it goes with her: another day, another scandal. 

It’s actually kind of insane, considering Yujin is hands-down one of the most normal, sincere, well-intentioned celebrities you’ve ever worked for - and that’s a long list. It’s almost hilarious, that people go after her the way they do, because as far as you can see, she never does anything wrong. She’s practically angelic, by standards of fame. No boys, no bullying allegations, no benders.

Still - and you can say this, because you’re one of the best publicists in the game - being famous at her age and with her face is a largely uphill battle. Gorgeous enough to attract jealousy, genuine enough for all the people jumping through hoops to maintain their personas to despise her, young and talented and charismatic enough for the rumor mill to love her and hate her at the exact same time. There’s sympathy, and of course you have it - but then there’s that look on Yujin’s pretty features, in front of you now.

Nothing gets to her. You find it impressive, a little fascinating: there’s a reason she’s one of your favorites.

“And?” You lean back in your chair, gaze shifting from Yujin to her manager and back again. “What are we dealing with?” 

You’re observing Yujin carefully, trying to get a feel on how bad this is going to be - her long, glossy black hair falls over both shoulders, effortlessly flawless; the fluttering eyelashes, the dimple - then there’s the outfit, the tight white shirt, the pants, tapering in at her tiny waist; they’re an almost offensively vibrant shade of bubblegum pink, but she’s miraculously pulling it off-

Yujin’s manager clears her throat, again. 

You smile. If she’s bothered about you staring at her client, she can say it to your face. “Yes?” 

“There was a photoshoot,” says Yujin’s manager, eyeing you like she thinks you’re about to mount Yujin right there at the conference table - which is extreme. You’re a professional, you’re surrounded by obscenely beautiful people on the daily - and Yujin’s too young for you, anyway. It’s not even a question. Barely even a thought in your head. “Here, take a look-” 

Yujin’s manager passes her phone towards you, lets you swipe through the photos, and - well, shit-

Okay, it’s more than barely a thought in your head. 

“Hm,” you say, keeping your face studiously blank; it’s something you’ve perfected over the years, but still, Jesus. It’s a series of pictures of Yujin in this silky, slinky black two-piece - there are her thighs, the defined cut of her abs, the way she tilts her head, parts her lips; the camera loves her, but who wouldn’t - and it’s sex, it’s sin, it’s every dirty word wrapped up in one - but like you said, both Yujin and her manager are staring straight at you right now, and you’re a professional. 

You place the phone back down on the table, summon all the nonchalance possible. “Looks fine to me.” 

Clearly, you’ve failed, at least on some level. “Dial it back,” advises Yujin’s manager, disdainfully.

“Yeah,” echoes Yujin, cheerfully, fingers laced underneath her chin, dark eyes dancing. “Dial it back.”

You fix her with a pointed glance, cautionary. She’s always a little flirtatious, but that’s her thing, her trademark - it’s easy for the whole country to fall for her when she talks to everyone like they might be able to touch her if they play their cards right - but there’s something a little more obvious about it today, and you don’t know how to take it.

“Sure,” you say, relenting; you don’t know what game she’s playing and you’re not sure you want to. “What are people saying?” 

“People think it’s too suggestive,” says Yujin, raking a hand through her hair, the delicate point of her wrist only a little mesmerizing. “Or seductive, or something. Which is crazy, because it’s just me being hot and existing.”

Somehow all her comments come off as charming rather than arrogant - or she manages both, all at once. It’s that smile: goddamn irresistible. You get why she bounces back from every stupid scandal, and it’s not just that you’re helming the ship of her image. People hate her, they love her, they do both at the same time. Price of fame: it’s a fickle thing. The one constant is that it’s Ahn Yujin, and people never really stop talking about her - and in the end, for a girl like her, that’s the ultimate goal. 

“They’re overreacting,” says Yujin’s manager, but her eyes are back on her phone, her fingers suddenly flicking fast. “It’s not - ugh - I mean, it’s such an insane double standard, the way they treat you versus the way they - fuck, I’m sorry,” she says, right when her phone rings. “I have to take this.” 

“Go ahead,” says Yujin. There’s a goal, here - her eyes dart to you, smile drenched with intention - and she tips her chin up at her manager as she stands. “We’ll behave.” 

This gives her manager pause, right in the doorway. She holds her phone in her hand, lets her gaze do circuits between it and the two of you - but she’s responsible, so she doesn’t have a choice.

“You’d better,” she says, a warning meant solely for you; it’d be insulting, but she probably knows better than anyone how men like you act around girls like Yujin. “I’ll be back in, like, two minutes.”

Then the door’s clicking shut - the sound is like a latch to a coffin, a vault decimated and snapped right open - sealing you in, sure, but opening up something else entirely. Yujin runs her tongue under a canine, studies you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room; you can’t figure out her angle. 

“So,” you say, coolly - you’re trying to maintain some approximation of control. See, you’re far from the most fascinating sight in the vicinity; you’re on one of the highest floors of the building, and all the windows are spotless, glass gleaming - there’s a view to die for, streets and cityscapes and all that open sky - and she’s still looking only at you. 

“I think you’ll be fine,” you continue. You’re not that intimidated by a pretty little pop star, so you’ll hold her gaze. It’s one challenge you don’t mind taking. “It’s not that much to dig you out of. It’s not like the photoshoot was anything majorly scandalous - people are just blowing things out of proportion, but that also means it’ll blow over fast. Because, really, it’s like you said. It’s just you being - well - it’s just you existing.” 

Yujin looks mildly entertained by your fumble, like she knows it was an amateur move. “It’s just me being what?”

You pin her with a look, but she presses on, smile curling at her mouth - it’s a slip-up she’s not going to let slide. “Are you afraid to call me hot?”

“Afraid’s a little strong,” you say, dryly. “I’d say I’m being mindful. Respectful. Professional, if you will.” There’s that word again; you’ll hold onto it like a lifeline. 

“Oh, yeah?” There’s a turn she’s taken, something sneaking into her tone, something primal saturating her dark eyes. Yujin sits up straight, drops her elbows on the table, inclines her head like she’s assessing you. “You think admitting that you think I’m hot would be unprofessional?”

“Deeply,” you say, flexing your fingers so you don’t do something stupid like stand up, like walk over to her, like grip her hair in your fist and trap her body against the conference table. “It’d be a scandal waiting to happen.”

Turns out all your self-discipline is a moot point. Now Yujin’s the one standing from her chair, approaching you slow - there’s something about the way she moves her body, so aware of every dip and curve; it’s like a weapon she’s flaunting, a knife right to your jugular - and she stops right in front of you, propping her hip to the table. She’s standing, and you’re still seated. She’s not exactly short, but she’s tiny compared to you. You shouldn’t think about it, but you’re thinking about it.

“Like I care,” says Yujin, grinning. “Besides - there’s no scandal I could get in that you wouldn’t get me out of, right?”

“You’re feisty today,” you comment, still wrestling for the upper hand. “Does the threat of losing your career get you going or something?”

“I’m not going to lose my career,” says Yujin, airily, like she finds the prospect hilarious. There’s that arrogance, and it’s so much more enticing than it has any right to be. “And - no, it doesn’t. But watching you try to keep your cool while looking at pictures of me when it’s so obvious that you want to fuck me - yeah, I’d call that a turn-on.”

There’s that weapon, aiming and firing; there’s that blade, straight into your neck. There’s your lifelines, sliced to ribbons. “Who says I want to fuck you?”

Yujin laughs at that, full and musical. “Come on,” she says, and it’s a battle you’ve already lost. “Everybody wants to fuck me.”

Your eyes flicker over to the closed door. “Your manager said she’ll be back in two minutes.” 

“She’ll take twenty, minimum.” 

“This is a bad idea,” you warn, but it’s a half-assed cover, barely concealed - you’re not scared of her, but then there’s everything touching her would trigger. She’s got her weapons, but you’ve got your own. The flat of your palm finds her hip, and you won’t stand; you've got other plans. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” 

“Why do I have to get into anything?” Yujin’s hands drop, and now she’s popping the button of her pants, sliding the zipper. “It’s just sex,” she says, watching your expression, perfectly cavalier. You grit your teeth. You don't go for it yet. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

“For a girl like you?” you ask, and now she’s dragging down her pants, revealing her panties, thighs, inch by mouthwatering inch. “It would be close.” 

You’re talking about reputation, about the ever-present threat of social suicide - she’s a perpetual hot topic, and just her face sends tongues wagging, so this’d be doomsday - but Yujin’s got her pants pushed down to her knees, and there’s an undercurrent to it, a desire that goes somewhere beyond sexual. You'll bite:

“What’s your angle?” you ask finally, surveying her. Ah, you’ll give her what she wants, but it’s the nature of your job: you need to find every possible way to spin it, all the light and shadow and nuance. “I’ve been your publicist for this long, and you just decided out of the blue that you wanted me to fuck you?” 

Yujin pauses, eyes glimmering, keening into your hand on her hip. “Most guys wouldn’t ask this many questions.” 

“I’m obviously not most guys.” You’re older, you’re smarter, you run her fucking career - if she falls, you do, too. “Are you done deflecting?” 

Oh, talk about light: Yujin tips her head, silky hair spilling over her collarbone, sunlight filtering in through the windows - she’s drowning in it, catching it in her irises like gold, her glint of teeth like there might be already cameras flashing - and slowly, you ease her up onto the table, until you’re sitting in front of her, right between her legs. She’s criminally gorgeous, she’s filthy, she’s everything; she’s staring down at you, deliberating, mouth curved in something like victory. 

“I guess I just realized that I’m getting the reputation of being slutty without actually having any of the fun,” says Yujin. “And I guess-” She plants her hands flat on the table, lets her legs part. “The first person I thought of to help me fix that was you.” 

“Smart choice,” you commend, your hands on her thighs, your thumbs already hooked into the waistband of her panties; you’re touching her now and you’re not sure how you’ll ever stop. 

“I always wanted you to fuck me,” Yujin says, letting the confession slip like it’s weightless. “I promise you it’s nothing new.” 

Well, and that’s-

That’s something that shuts your brain off entirely, reduces you to the tactile - you forget why there was ever a need to hold back, so you won’t; you’ve got your fingers on her skin, spreading, pants shoved to her ankles - you tug her panties down and flick your tongue up, and Yujin whimpers, “Daddy.” 

You stop short, focus flying to her face, and her dark-eyed stare slams right into yours.

“Yujin,” you say, when you finally manage to unstick her name from your throat - it comes raspy, a little ruined - but there’s her attitude, and all that tension between the two of you. The age difference, and the power, and there’s a dynamic, a connotation - and maybe you really should’ve seen this coming.

“Daddy,” Yujin exhales, again, voice tripping to breathy, needy - and, fuck, you think she’s gonna kill you. “I need your mouth.”

You don’t break your gaze on hers, searching - her hands tremble on the table, restless with an urge; she’s used to making demands, but she knows how to read a room. She may have instigated this, but now you’re in it: there’s a switch flipped, a shift in control. You’ve got both hands on the wheel, foot to the gas. She won’t get anywhere by being bossy with you.

“Fine,” you say, smile slipping dark. You can’t say you’re a man who hates having power. “But no touching me.” 

Yujin tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, nods quickly, frantically - it’s not good enough. You hold her eyes, dig your thumb harder into her thigh: “Words, please, Yujin.” 

“I won’t touch you,” Yujin swears. She’s so wet - you can still taste her cunt on your tongue, so you’ll take more. Your mouth’s so close she’s barely forming sentences, squirming with anticipation - “Daddy, I won’t, I just need you-” 

There’s an invitation, and you can’t pass it up. This is a girl who always gets exactly what she wants, and you’re not going to be the one to break that streak, so you lower her mouth to her pussy - there’s her clit, and she’s soaked, she’s mewling - and she’ll be pliant in your grip, in your tongue right where she needs it: “Daddy,” she’s saying, over and over, like it’s the only thing she can remember - oh, you kind of like her that way. “Daddy, daddy-” 

Yujin’s hips stutter like she wants to grind on your mouth, like she wants to dig her fingers in your hair and ride your tongue - but your fingers press into her skin like a warning, and her fists stay staunchly clenched at her sides, fiercely white-knuckled-

“Good girl,” you mumble, against her cunt, listening as Yujin’s moans tumble from her mouth. “That’s my good girl.”

“Daddy, I’m gonna cum-” 

She says it, but she doesn’t have to - her eyes are shut tight, her perfect face screwed up like she’s on the verge on collapse - she’s shuddering, she’s on a precipice, she’s so, so close-

You scrape your nails lightly down her thighs - I could hurt you but I won’t; there’s always an implication - and then Yujin’s cumming in your mouth. 

You'd let her settle, let yourself linger, but you really don't have the time: “Baby,” you say, and you’re rising, licking your lips - she tastes like something holy, but that’s a given. "We only have twenty minutes, so if you want me to fuck you, you better get moving.” 

“Can I touch you?” You’re helping Yujin off the table; you’re dragging her towards the windows. You’ve got an agenda here, and her fists are clenching, unclenching - she’s got her gaze trained on your cock straining your slacks. “Let me, please - I want your cock-” 

“Look at you,” you say - you nudge her until her back hits the glass, and she’s facing you, pants wrapped around her ankles - she’s gorgeous, she’s waiting; she’s impatient but tamping it down just for you. It’s those eyes, so expressive: if her mouth wasn’t saying it, you’d still know exactly what she wanted. “Asking for permission.” 

“Daddy.” 

“Yeah, baby,” you say: it’s not a relinquishment of power, it’s a reinforcement. “Get my cock out.” 

Yujin does, in record time - she’s keyed up, deliciously wired, but her hands are certain, don’t fumble a bit - you’re skipping lines and walking them right back, so you kiss her first, catch her mouth with yours: there’s a surprise to the way she loses her own breath against your lips, and then a surrender, a giving in - you’re grinning, devilish. You’re sure she can feel it.

When you pull back, she’s panting, lips slick. She can taste her pussy on your tongue and you know it. “Tell me,” you’re saying: you need to hear it. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” 

“I want your cock.” There’s not even any hesitation - Yujin’s so far past that. Hey, maybe she did know what she was getting into: she knew exactly the way you’d treat her. “Want your cock in my pussy, want you to fuck me, want you to make me cum around your cock-” 

There’s her perfect face, crumbling to pieces, pupils blown so wide they’re drowning her dark irises - you flip her around and skim your hands down her flawless ass, push her up against the floor-to-ceiling windows - it’s all so ruthlessly transparent, like you’ve gotten into a museum just to vandalize the art, mark it up and make it yours, destroy her encased behind glass - and Yujin’s soundless, so wanton and wet she can’t even form words, noises-

And then you slide your cock in her cunt, slowly, torturously, and her voice gets ripped right out of her throat. 

“Daddy-” 

Her throat - oh, there’s a corner to cut, a sculpture to tear up and ruin - your fingers wrap around her neck from behind, rendering her helpless, strangled. “Shh,” you murmur, sinister, low, “sweetheart - you don’t really want to get caught like this, do you?” There’s a thrill, there’s a high - you’ve got her against the glass like she’s suspended in thin air, and there’s her smile on a billboard across the street, there’s all those people who know her name crowding the sidewalks below - and she’s all yours. “Getting your little pussy fucked during a professional meeting because you’re just too slutty to control yourself?” 

Yujin’s shirt and bra are pushed up roughly, carelessly, her perky tits bouncing, nipples skimming the glass - she’s leaking all over your cock, and you’d hate to be the janitor after this, but at least they’re getting paid well - it’s all about scrutiny, about secrecy, hiding behind tinted windows and sunglasses and silver-screen smiles, and you’re destroying all of that just by using Yujin’s suffocatingly tight cunt, tensing your hand around her throat-

Your thumb digs into her jaw. “Answer me.” 

 “I - I don’t - I don’t fucking care.” She’s barely getting words out under your grip on her throat, between the lungfuls of air she’s chasing after, faint and flightless - “I don’t care, daddy,” she’s insisting, and her vehemence is fucking consuming, addicting - “Don’t care, I just want your cock in me, just need you to fuck me, just need you to make me cum, make you cum, fill me up-” 

“I’m not cumming inside you, baby.” 

“What?” She sounds so horrified that you can’t help but laugh, and the sound rings cruel, sharp; people call you cold in this conference room, sometimes, conniving, callous. It’s nothing, to you: you do what needs to be done and you keep it at work and work alone - or you did, until her. “What? But - daddy, please, daddy - please-” 

She's being too fucking loud - you’re bottoming out inside her pussy relentlessly, recklessly - you’ll spin excuses later, or you won’t. The worst thing anybody can do is talk, and you’ll talk over them: your PR training wasn’t for nothing. You could manipulate the apocalypse out of the press as long as you find the right angle. You weren’t lying, earlier: anyone catches her like this and it’d be close. 

“Doesn’t matter how much you beg for me, Yujin.” There are caveats, barriers you won’t cross; not with a girl like her, not yet. “You might be fucked up enough to risk your career just for a load inside your cunt, but I’m not. Your career is my career, sweetheart. If you fuck up, it’s all on me.”

It’s like the atmosphere is electric, wired with sex, sensuality - anyone who walks into this room after this is going to know exactly what you’ve been doing to her - anyone on the sidewalk who so much as glances upwards is going to see-

“You don’t wanna fill up my pussy with your cum?” Yujin’s cunt is so tight that she’d probably be able to convince anyone of anything, and then there’s that voice, throaty and heated, letting filth pour as easy as her moans. “You don’t wanna use me as your - fuck - your fucking cumdump, daddy?” 

That’s a question she’s posing and precariously, a proposition so tempting you’d call it fatal - but there’s your fist around her throat, there’s you in control, drafting rules, contracts. You're too experienced to fall for it. You’re on the clock even when you’re not. You know just how far to take it and when to pull it back.

“Nice try,” you say, and your hand presses down on her neck in a warning, your cock burying in her pussy in an emphasis, “but I’ve been on this scene a long time, Yujin. Your pussy’s great - but I’m sorry, baby, my career’s just a little bit greater.” 

It’s so degrading - it’s you, older and condescending and cutting her down to size with a smile - and she loves it, she lives for it. You shouldn't have expected anything less.

“You think I’d give it all up for some slutty little pop star?” you press on, and you’re rubbing it in, salt in the wound: “You idols are all the same.” Another thrust, another moan: here’s how it goes with her. “All that fucking ego.” 

Her whole body’s tightly wound, a spring coiled and ready to burst - she’s so wet around your cock, she’s so ready - “Daddy,” Yujin begs, syllables rasping prettily, and even the way she gets fucked is like music, “I’m gonna cum - gonna cum on your cock-” 

There’s no acoustics that could ever do that voice justice, no photoshoot that could ever capture that body, every creamy curve, her ass as your hips thrust - the arch of her back, the column of her throat, architecture made soft and breakable and shattered - your hand drops to her clit-

“Cum for me, baby,” you murmur, and shove her tits against the window: if the world wants to see Ahn Yujin like this, all they have to do is look up. “Cum for daddy.” 

She follows the order so easily it’s practically compulsive; it’s the sound of your voice, your fingers on her clit, your dick pounding at her cunt, it’s everything - and Yujin’s whole body contorts, convulses, slumps against you as she cums, a high noise trapped in her throat. It’s some attempt at your name, or at least the one she’s calling you now. 

You nip at her neck on the comedown, allow her to ride it out. “Get on your knees,” you murmur, then you let your teeth sink. 

It barely takes a second - she’s not even coherent - but Yujin’s neck arcs, gives you access; you’re not sure she understands a word until she’s falling right out of your arms, off your cock, dropping dutifully to the floor. You can’t fight the smile: she’s so easy, in this context and no other, her shirt shucked up and her pussy slick, glistening, her mouth opening expectantly like she’s just waiting for you to use it. Your hand finds her cheek, suddenly soft: she’s been good, she deserves it.

“Yujin.” 

Yujin doesn’t say a word, just lets her jaw slacken, her eyes wide and wondrous, gorgeous; you see the dimple flicker in her cheek, an aftershock, betraying her own satisfaction. She can’t even control herself. Her thighs are still trembling, expression mildly dazed. 

“Sorry I couldn’t cum in your cunt, sweetheart,” you say, loftily. It’s hardly genuine, but she’s too sated to care. “You think I can settle with your mouth?”

There’s that dimple, deepening; she’s somewhat incapable of saying no to you, and that’s a new development, that’s something you’ll prove over and over again - Yujin jerks forward, and wraps her salivating mouth around your dick. 

Her tongue’s sloppy around your cock, spit-strung, messy, like she’s so well-fucked she doesn’t remember how to work it - it’s your job, so you’ll take it all into your own hands; hey, it’s what you’re used to, it’s the part you were always meant to play - there go your fingers, digging tight into her hair, forcing her jaw deeper, forcing tears from her brilliant eyes-

“You better swallow it all,” you tell her, low and dangerous; your nails scrape her scalp, and she chokes around your cock at the feeling - it’s that hint of pain, humiliation, her on her knees in your conference room. “You wanna be good for daddy, don’t you?” Your hand finds the back of her head, shoves your cock down her throat. “Then swallow.” 

You cum so much you can hear the wet, huffy noise in Yujin’s mouth, the air through her nose - and she swallows it all, even as you pull out and it clogs her cheeks, and she’s staring at you with glassy, impish eyes like she’s got something to prove-

And then it’s all gone. 

“Good girl,” you tell her, a little wrecked. Hey, she fucking deserves it. 

Yujin trails a finger around her mouth, licks off the remnants of your cum, looks up at you through her eyelashes. It’s obscene, it’s dirty, it’s hot - and that’s your last thought before you drag her up from the floor and catch her lips with yours, because you can’t be bothered to come up with anything else. 

She tries to talk, slurring against your tongue. “You just-” 

“I don’t give a fuck.” 

“In my mouth-” 

“Yujin.” 

It’s something about your tone, accidentally petulant rather than bossy, exasperation soft and unmasked - all of a sudden Yujin’s laughing right into the kiss, her arms wound around your neck, the sound half-delirious, glorious. 

“You were so wrong,” she mumbles, licking hot like she’s readying for a round two. You’ve got her face in your hands, you can’t get enough of her: if you could you’d freeze time and indulge her, over and over again. “This is the best fucking idea I’ve ever had.”

She’s kissing you again, right back in it, and, well - you can’t really say that you disagree. 

-

“I think you were heavily exaggerating, by the way.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You don’t have the reputation of being slutty,” you say, a hand in her hair, watching the sun illuminate her eyes. That’s the thing about windows, all this glass and open space: they show off views, but they’re also creating them right in front of you. “I’d never let it get that far.” 

Yujin grins at you. “I know,” she says - she’s returning to form, letting the moment close. She’s back on top. It’s probably a good thing that you’re right there by her side. “You’re good at your job, or whatever.” 

“Now, you being slutty in real life-” 

“Shut the fuck up, old man.” 

Okay, you can’t possibly be that much older than her. “What happened to daddy?” 

“Daddy privileges are revoked on account of you being fucking annoying.” 

“That mouth,” you say, considering - there are ideas taking shape, but you’ll let them dissolve. You’ve already used up more time than you should have. “What would your fans say?” 

Yujin tips her head back and laughs. “I don’t care,” she says, smiling, and that’s the best view of all. “I have you to deal with that.” 

-

You and Yujin are on opposite sides of the conference table when her manager gets back, but neither of you are fooling anyone. Sure, you’re both remarkably cleaned up, stitched back together - but the room smells like sex, and her hair’s just a little fucked up, and you can’t stop looking at her; her dark eyes glint right on back, one leg demurely crossed over the other. 

“I don’t even want to know,” says Yujin’s manager tightly, firmly in the doorway, like she’ll get contaminated just from stepping into the room. 

“Good,” you say, “because you can’t know. Legally. I made her sign an NDA.” 

“What?!” Yujin’s manager splutters, irate, and Yujin laughs loudly, prettily, head tipping back, clapping her hands in the air - she laughs like her own amusement is something to spill over and share with everyone in the vicinity, alluringly infectious, and - yep, you get why the whole world is obsessed with her. You’ll join the club. 

“I’m kidding,” you put in, grinning at Yujin as she stands, lips puckering to hide her own mirth. “You remember what a joke is, right, Jihyo?” 

“Jesus,” mumbles Yujin’s manager. Hey, you and Jihyo came up in the industry at the same time, you’re not opposed to bringing out first names in the conference room with her - and you think any semblance of professionalism is pretty much gone at this point. “You know this is how rumors get started, don’t you?” 

You wink at Yujin as she goes to Jihyo’s side, towering over her almost comically. Jihyo may barely hit five-three, but she has enough behind-the-scenes pull and power to start or end anyone’s career with a snap of her fingers. You'll placate her, for everyone's sake.

“Well,” you say. “It’s a good thing my job is to get those rumors to stop, then.” 

“Like, how convenient is that?” Yujin tacks on, chirpily, flashing her dimpled smile at Jihyo. 

Jihyo’s eyes dart from you to Yujin, clearly agitated and annoyed in equal measures. It’s sort of bad already, but here you are pushing her buttons anyway; you’ll walk it back. 

“It’s already happening,” you tell her, because it’s not exactly up for debate. “Might as well get on board.” 

“This is your jurisdiction, buddy,” says Jihyo, throwing her hands up - it’s as close to a stamp of approval as you’ll ever get from her. “I’m not touching this.” 

Your eyebrows raise, and Yujin covers her laugh with her palm. “Uh, I sure hope not.” 

The innuendo, the scent of sex, the way you swear there’s a hickey forming on Yujin’s throat - it’s too much for her to handle all at once. “You two are fucking insufferable,” declares Jihyo, pretty mouth in a scowl; not a lot fazes her, but this is pushing her limits and hard. “I’m going to get permanent brain damage from being around both of you together. Yujin, come on.” 

Yujin wiggles her fingers in a wave, sends that adorable dimple your way. “Bye, daddy,” she calls to you, and pulls the conference room door shut behind her. 

In the retreating distance, you hear Jihyo choke on her own breath, audibly appalled. “What did you just-”

Oh, after all this, maybe it doesn’t really matter who hears. You’re you, you can talk your way out of anything - and then there’s Yujin, who wears fame like it’s something designer, something inherited by birthright and tailored just for her. She’ll never be out of the spotlight for long. She’ll always bounce back, in the end.

Plus - you can admit it now, since there’s no point in a trite thing like shame - there’s something so satisfying about the idea that you’re the only one who can get her out of this kind of trouble, but you’re also the only one who got her in it in the first place. Like you said: it’s all about power. You’ll keep it, you’ll nurture it. Yujin, to her credit, doesn’t seem to mind that at all. 

(She’s never been more right: it's just so fucking convenient. You’re pretty sure it’s a match made in hell, but a match nonetheless. You'll take it.)

-

The next time you see her is a week or so later, and it should shock you, but it doesn’t. She drops by, unannounced, unburdened by bodyguards or company representatives or Jihyo, shows up in your office doorway in jeans and a black top, hair tied back and bare-faced and heart-stoppingly beautiful.

“Hey, baby,” you say, like it’s instinct. It’s probably about to be. “How’d you manage to fuck up this week?” 

“No fuck-ups yet,” says Yujin cheerily, eyes trained on you as you round the desk. “I was kind of hoping you could help me get a head start on that.” 

Look - this is still probably a bad idea, or it would be, if you were anyone else. It’d be so difficult to find a way to spin this, if you were found out. She’s one of the most famous celebrities in the country. People are just begging to ruin her, to see her fall from grace. It’d be so easy for this to be a complete fucking disaster. 

(Ah, well - it’s pretty fortunate that she’s got you, then; she’s in very, very good hands.)

“You’re in the wrong place,” you tell her, blithely conversational. There’s a smirk unfurling at the corner of Yujin’s mouth - you know what kind of game you’re playing. “It’d actually be great for your career, I think, if you’re only fucking me and no one else.” 

“Is that your professional opinion?” 

You press your palm to her cheek, drag her face to yours; you skip her lips, drop your mouth to her forehead, instead. Yujin flicks her glittering eyes up at yours, her dimple winking at you. She’s not short, but she’s small next to you - you think she might like it that way. 

“Yep,” you say. “Whenever you want to avoid a scandal, call me.” 

“Ugh,” says Yujin. “You’re lucky I think you being possessive is hot.” 

You’re missing a reckoning by inches, skirting the end of the world by a thread: alright, you’ll let it happen. You’ve got a girl in front of you and you think you’ve met your match. You’ve got all that power, but she does, too - you’ll never say it out loud, but it’s possible she’s got you wrapped around her finger, she’s got you breaking rules. It’s all very delicate, this thing you’re getting into. 

“Sweetheart,” you say, and watch as her grin cracks wide open, sun through all those open windows - there’s no sight in the country that compares. “I think we’re both getting lucky.” 

Yujin groans, but then she kisses you, and that’s where you’re drawing all your last conclusions: you think you wouldn’t mind risking everything as long as she’s with you. 

-

<3

[campbyler]

i think you guys are doing a really good job of unreliably narrating!! i could be totally wrong but the way i have been perceiving it (and maybe also projecting when i read oopsie) is that will trying really hard. he seems like he tries hard at everything he does (i mean. the camp games just for one example).

acswy mike kinda gives off the vibes to me of having this ability to act super nonchalant sometimes and it doesn’t seem like will is able to function that way.

again i could just be projecting but if will “cannot turn off tryhard mode” byers has this contentious flirtation (and a history we as readers aren’t fully privy to yet) with mike “totally chill ‘what are you so worked up for dude?’” wheeler…of course his frustration is gonna come out more openly.

to me it seems like they’re both still playing games with each other (not in a bad way but like. rivals with benefits. that’s how it is) so how can will possibly ever feel like he has the upper hand when mike is so often just Chill And Unbothered.

add that to the whole rich boy who goes to brown thing and…why wouldn’t will feel like he has to prove himself. why wouldn’t there be a part of him that feels like it’s an uphill battle.

also if he wants to be temperamental about random shit for no reason i think he should be allowed regardless. maybe this was a totally incorrect perception of what you guys intended but regardless i think you are succeeding on the narration front!! it’s definitely working very very well as opposed to not working imo :)

anon i am smooooching your forehead this is Exactly It

[twoidiotwriters1]

Daughter of Olympus (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: You get Nico, as a treat-Danny Words: 2,013 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter / Next Chapter Listen to: 'Out Of My League' -by Fitz and The Tantrums

XXXIX: Fates' First Mistake Was Giving Me a Body, the Second? A Will

"Nico!"

"Ara!" Lily shouts, running after her friend.

Ara's never compared to her in speed, no matter how good she is at other stuff, so Lily reaches Nico way sooner.

"Don't listen to her!"

The boy looks at the girls with confusion. "What happened?"

"She made a fool of herself," Ara pants and supports both hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, gods, how can you run uphill like that? You're a cyborg or something?"

"You must be thirsty, Neeks, let's go get you something!" Lily tries to take him away.

"Wait," Nico smirks. "Is this boy-related?"

"Yes!"

Lily glares at Nico with determination. "Yesterday Leo used his shirt to clean his face and Ara was staring so hard she walked straight into a wall!"

"Connor heard Leo calling me sunshine," Ara acts like she didn't hear anything. "And he was making fun of us, so he called Lily 'My sweetheart' as a way to mock Leo, but Lily was drinking coffee—"

"He caught me off guard!"

"She spat it all over Connor!" Ara cackles. "Her face was redder than a strawberry!"

Nico never really laughs, but he enjoys hearing their funny stories, especially if they have to do with how they embarrass themselves in front of the guys they like. Ara and Lily rarely fail at stuff, so he thinks it's fair they suck at this.

"I hate you," Lily tries to seize Ara.

Ara sneaks away giggling, she uses Nico as a shield and he stays out of it. Nico moves forward while the girls chase each other around him until they reach the Big House.

"So you two are in your boy-crazy era?" He asks, sitting on the porch steps.

Ara wrinkles her nose. "Is that what this is?"

Lily blushes. "I'm not boy crazy! My brain works just fine, don't compare me to the Aphrodite!"

"You can judge me all you want, but I have a boyfriend and you can't even take a compliment without gagging."

"Lily's just playing the long game, aren't you?" Nico teases her. "I'm sure she'll tell Connor right before they die, so they can spend eternity together."

Ara snorts and Lily raises one fist as if to punch the boy, but he lifts one finger to stop her.

"Attenta, Saggio," he grins. "Don't wanna anger your patron, right?"

"Let me anger him for you, babe," Ara gets up to punch Nico, but Lily trips her.

"Stay away from each other," Lily warns them. "Now's not only my patron I've got to worry about, Nico. Did you know Leo can summon fire?"

"Leo won't fight my battles," Ara states calmly. "Especially when it comes to Nico. Kicking his ass is the highlight of my weekends."

"Likewise, hobbit."

We have no problem finding the palace, but Lily keeps glancing back at Cerberus longingly.

"It'll take a while for him to get in," I say, unable to utter Mike's name out loud. "We still have time."

Nico's sulking on the front steps of the palace, and as soon as he sees us he runs up to us. "How—"

I roughly seize him by the jacket. He's taller than me, but I'm too angry to care. "You backstabbing piece of—"

"Let go of me!" He snarls.

"Ara," Lily urges me, looking at the skeletons rushing forward to get us.

I toss Nico to the ground. "Call your father," I point at the dead guards. "And tell them to back off."

Hades agrees to see us, mostly because he's super insulted by my audacity. 

"I can't expect you to give up the fight, Lily Saggio," he says. "But I thought you knew better than to bring a Jackson to my palace."

Lily keeps her head down. "She's not here to offend you, my lord."

"No, of course not," he says with a hint of mockery. "An Aphrodite is no challenge for a god, and even if she's Perseus Jackson's sister, I'd like to think she's not as stupid."

"Lord Hades," I get on one knee in front of him. "If you let me, I'll explain why I'm here."

"And why would I care about that?" He asks.

"I know you won't fight if you're not promised respect, recognition worthy of your sacrifice," I glance at Nico without lifting my gaze, "and a place for your children amongst the rest of us."

"A charmspeaker, aren't you?" He points out sharply.

I go straight to my point. "I think can help, my lord."

"You think?" He presses.

I'm not sounding like I want to. Michael believed in me the most, and I'm not an expert at looking confident. Without him, I have no one to speak for me, so if I only have myself, I can't guess, I have to get things done.

"I'll give you what you want," I look up at the god. "If you accept my offer."

He laughs, but he doesn't throw me out of the palace, so I can still convince him. "What can you offer to a God that he can't get himself?"

"A daughter of Olympus."

His eyes flash greedily, but he isn't convinced. "Children of Olympus can't favor a god above others, Jackson."

"If the god favors them beforehand," I reply. "They can."

"You're asking for my blessing?"

"Something of heavier meaning. Show faith in me, obliging to my request."

He takes a heavy breath. "And what would that request be?"

"Fight with us," I look at Nico. "I'll make sure your son has a place in our camp, and you'll get to be one of the gods that didn't turn his back on us, you could be the first patron of the first daughter of Olympus."

He ponders this, looking me up and down. "Do you even know how to use a sword?"

I pull Almighty out of my pocket and show her off, now I have his full attention. "I've been trained, yes."

"Pantodýnamos," Hades's grip on the throne tightens, he leans forward, staring at my sword in awe. "How..?"

"The fates chose me," I continue confidently. "Will you?"

He fixes his posture and glances back at Lily and Nico. "I've heard enough."

"Thank you," I smiled politely, bowing to him. "I'll know you accepted if you show up to fight."

He mutters some stuff as we walk out of the palace. 

"That's what you were trying to do?" The boy inquires as soon as his father is out of sight. "I thought—"

"That I was going after Achilles's curse," I glance at him with annoyance. "That should teach you— When I ask you to do something, just do what I tell you."

He scowls at me. "I did what I thought you wanted—"

"You did what you thought would make you look better," I stop to face him. "You don't fool me, Nico Di Angelo. I know you're not a bad person, but you're very stupid if you think I'll ever forget this. I don't trust you, and Percy never will."

He reaches for his sword, but Lily yanks me onwards. "Let's go back now, or they'll realize we're missing," she says. "And I wanna sleep before our next fight."

I know we have a few hours left before we could be at risk of getting caught. Annabeth is injured and Percy's probably still sleeping—the only person who would've noticed our absence fast enough would've been Mike, but he's gone, and that's given us a type of freedom we never asked for.

"You want to be a hero?" I press, still glaring at Nico. "Convince your father, then maybe Percy will reconsider."

I'm being an ass for manipulating Nico like this, but I never said I'm not like the other charmers in my family. Also, I'm a matchmaker, and that works in more ways than just romantically. 

Hades is a good match for my ambitions, and Nico's a good match for the cause. I'm merely working with what the fates laid down for me. I can only hope... 

No. I believe this is enough.

Ara's studying a map in the rec room when Leo finally finds her. She feels him before she sees him, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses her cheek. "I've got something for you."

Ara glances up at him a little distracted. "What is it?"

"Two things," he pulls something out of his tool belt. "Here's a snack so you stay motivated for the rest of the month!"

Ara looks down and laughs. Leo is holding a stack of photographs of him in various places of camp. He made an effort to look ridiculous in every single one of them.

"What is this?" She asks, looking through them.

"I can't Iris message you every hour of the day, so these will have to do."

"How thoughtful of you!" Ara replies, half-amused and half-bashful. "Who took this?"

"The Stolls. Piper helped with the costumes, though."

"They're great," she puts them in her pocket. "I'll put them up on my ceiling back in New York, so you're the first thing I see when I wake up."

"Damn, you love me too much," He jokes, squeezing her shoulders.

"What's the other thing you wanted to show me?"

"Right! Look at this!" 

He steps away to pull a larger item from his belt: It looks like an ancient scroll, but when he rolls it open a projection starts playing on it. Ara gasps and picks it up.

"What!" She watches as a tiny projection of Leo walks around the bunker giving the viewer a tour. "How did you make this?"

"I'm very smart," he grins. "You like it?"

"This is so cool!"

Leo starts glowing, he's comfortable with her praising nowadays, though it still makes him slightly dizzy. 

"Last weekend you couldn't come cause you had a pile of homework, so I thought I could send you this with a weekly report. Everyone can record a short message for you, so you know everything that's going on around here while you're away."

Ara beams at the idea. "That's awesome. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he pinches her chin as a brief affectionate gesture. "It's the least I can do to help my stunning girlfriend."

"True," Ara nods solemnly. "That, and sharing your full name with me." 

He snorts. "Nice try."

"Leo!"

"Pretty close. It's Leobard."

"Liar."

He laughs. "Are you sure?"

"Why are you torturing me with this?" She scowls.

"You don't need to know my full name, sunshine," Leo brushes it off. "Cause the only way you're allowed to address me is either by a cute nickname like 'Baby' or 'Honey', and plain Leo when you're in General mode. See? Easy."

"I'm not calling you any sweet names unless you tell me your full name!"

"I can live with that," he taunts her. "Can you live with the doubt?"

Ara groans. "C'mon! It can't be ugly."

"It's not that I hate it," Leo grins. "I just like to give out different names when people ask me, and if you go around shouting my name then the joke dies."

"I promise not to call you that in front of the others," Ara pouts. "Pleeeease?"

Leo frowns. "Hey! Not fair, don't look at me like that!"

Ara gives him the most pitiful look she can, placing her arms around his neck and leaning closer. "If you tell me your name," she continues quietly. "I promise to call you ridiculously long fake names in front of everyone else."

The boy sighs, shaking his head a little. "You know the way to my heart..."

"Being real for a moment," Ara says, smoothing out the front of his shirt. "Why can't I know?"

Leo's eyes brighten with amusement, he holds her face and kisses her briefly. "Well, I already dropped the L bomb and took you on a picnic date on the beach, I'm running out of options to keep you interested, and my name is the only thing I've got left!"

Ara laughs, pulling him closer. "You know... next month is Valentine's Day, we can convince Chiron to let you visit the city that weekend?"

Leo hums, half-listening. His brain gets all fuzzy when Ara stands this close to him. "Could be fun..."

"We can go to the movies and you can meet my parents!"

"Movies and parents," His eyes regain focus and they grow worried. "Parents?"

Ara kisses him again. "And if everything goes as planned, then maybe you won't need to keep me on my toes, and I'll know your full name."

"Are you sure you want me to meet your parents?" He asks anxiously.

She nods, eyes bright with affection. "You'll love them."

He makes a face. "That's not the part I'm worried about."

Next Chapter ->

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @ash-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles

[mangoshorthand]

Before A Fall [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch 8 (Hard Feelings Part 2)

SUMMARY: As your life begins to grow around Five's, his attitude becomes a little sinister. When does protection become suffocation and when does taking matters into your own hands become betrayal? (weekly updates) Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

A visit with Santi's terminally ill friend puts things into a little perspective for both of you.

Kids with cancer and smut below, (though not at the same time). Proceed at your own risk

Chapter 8: Alyssa

Still in his blue pajamas, Five silently makes coffee for you both and pours himself some cereal. When he sits across from you, placing the mug down in front of you, you give him a nod of thanks.

“I’ve been messaging Lila.”

“Oh?” you ask, stiffly.

“Yeah. She thinks Santi should go see Alyssa. She put me in touch with her mom, Laci."

You take a bite of toast and watch him expectantly. He can continue an uphill battle making conversation as far as you’re concerned. When you swallow, he looks like he expects you to respond, so you just take another bite. His mouth tightens a little, but he looks as if he’s trying to be patient.

“She said tomorrow at around 11am would be best. Will you...come with us? I know you have work. I wouldn't ask, only..."

He peters out, expression inscrutable. You feel tempted to capitulate immediately, to offer to take the morning off without a second thought.

You really do want to be there for Santi, but you don't want Five getting the idea you can just drop everything to be at his beck and call. You let his unfinished sentence hang in the air. When you don't immediately rush to his aid, he finishes:

"...we're both supposed to be watching Santi and I think it would be best for him."

His face from behind his coffee cup reminds you of his oil painting still hanging, all but forgotten in the house: assumed confidence hiding vulnerability. He sighs.

"...and because I need your help. I need to ask Laci about JUICED, only-"

You scoff, interrupting him.

"JUICED? Is this you trying to throw me a bone, Five? Make me feel included?"

He huffs. Head tossing a little.

"Forget it then." 

"Oh, believe me, I will."

You pick up the coffee in one hand and your toast in the other and make as if to leave the kitchen. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, he calls your name. You don't return to him but your halted footsteps assure him of your ear.

"If you want the truth: I need you there. Dying kids, grieving mothers...hell, I don't know what to say; how to be."

You turn to stand in the doorway. He's leaned back in his chair, looking at you with entreaty now. There's a beat as your eyes meet. They beg in the way his lips won’t. You maintain a little coolness as you reply:

"I'll have to move some meetings but I'll see what I can do."

It seemed Santi had still not really grasped the situation- he was just excited to have the morning off school to see the friend he was missing so much. He kicks the back of your seat periodically while drawing with colored pencils.

As he drives, Five sings along to Jerry Dyke on the car's tape deck. He starts off quietly at first, drumming one hand on the steering wheel, his elbow resting slightly out of the open window.

“Will the circle, be unbroken,

by and by lord, by and by...”

You watch him singing along with his eyes on the road, growing gradually louder as the minutes progress. As his head begins to jive along too, you can’t help but smile and suppress a laugh. He notices you looking and smiles back, half self-conscious, half suspicious.

 “What?”

“Nothing.” And then, continuing to stare with your little smile still in place, “You’re such a dork.”

You keep the ‘I love you’ back, but you do. For better or worse. Probably worse.

He transfers his window-side hand to the wheel and uses his other to give your knee a squeeze.

When you reach the children’s hospital and wend your way through hallways to the oncology ward, the reality of what you’re about to find inside seems to break on both of you. Taking one of Santi’s hands each, you enter through the double doors.

The gaily coloured walls are papered with children's drawings. You pass a toy-stuffed playroom with a bright red playhouse in the corner, at which Santi looks with interest. The jollity contrasts starkly with the evidence of medical equipment around you in a way that hurts your heart.

“Alyssa!”

Santi pulls you both into her room.

She doesn’t look good. Propped up on pillows, her head is wrapped in a scarf and her eyebrows look sparse already. Her face has the too-pinched look of the seriously ill and her collarbone is too prominent. Despite this, she smiles when she sees her friend.

“Hey Alyssa,” smiles Five, a little awkwardly. Turning from the child, he swings out his hand to shake with Alyssa’s Mom.

"Nice to meet you in person.” 

She’s a short, solidly built person. For you, seeing her is even harder than seeing Alyssa. This is a woman who’s clearly stayed strong for too long. Her skin seems dulled and her lips are chapped.

“Thank you for bringing him, Mr Hargreeves. She’s missed him so much.”

“Call me Five,” one corner of his mouth turns up in an uncomfortable smile. You step forward and introduce yourself.

"Laci, right?"

"That's me. Nice to meet you."

Santi chatters to Alyssa in the background.

"How are Lila and Diego? Enjoying England?" she asks, turning to Five with weary, forced brightness.

"I hear Diego's enjoying the pubs."

Laci smiles but it doesn't quite reach her tired eyes. All three of you watch the kids talk for a few moments. It’s clear that Santi’s becoming a little unsettled by the change in his friend.

You speak, voice lowered, "How is she?"

Five's grateful to you for breaking the silence. Such a simple question but voice cadenced perfectly: care and empathy expressed while maintaining a respectful distance. God, he's glad you agreed to come.

Laci lets out a breath, "As well as can be expected. She has a scan in a couple of days to see how the chemo's been working."

Five nods and then, as if it's risen to his mouth like vomit, he blurts:

"Do you guys drink JUICED?"

You stand on Five’s foot under your chair. Laci looks nonplussed: she shakes her head, apparently concluding that he's offering to get them a couple of cans.

"Alyssa got a little obsessed with it a couple of months ago so we try to stay away from it. Too much sugar."

"Sure. Sure." 

It's as he suspected. 

"And...the other kids? Are they here too?"

Another step on his toe. He needs to get it through his thick skull that he isn’t here to grill this poor woman.

"The little boys from her class? Yeah. They're all somewhere down this hall. I think they're trying to start treatment for them as soon as possible."

"Jesus, I didn't know they were in the same class."

You're just about the break in and commandeer the conversation away from this when the attention of all three of you is directed towards the kids. Santi's standing, holding Alyssa's hand. 

“You wanna go play in the other room?”

“No- I’m too tired.” says Alyssa, resisting the slight pull of his hand.

“But there's a playhouse that has a upstairs, I think!”

"Santi..." you say, with a hint of reproach.

"There's a slide!"

Laci steps in, “I’m sorry, but Alyssa’s too sick today. Maybe next time you come?”

You look up at her, knowing that she doesn’t really think ‘next time’ will bring improvement.  

Santi looks stricken, turning back to Alyssa, “You feel too bad to go play?”

“Yeah, but not so bad. It was worse before. The doctors give me the medicine to make my head stop hurting.”

“Does it hurt bad?” his voice squeaks a little as he talks.

She rubs at sunken eyes.

“Yeah. It's the worst hurt I ever had.”

Santi gives a loud sniff and hugs her hard.

In his emotion, he forgets to be gentle. Five leans to try and loosen his grip, but can’t. He’s squeezing as if he’s trying to pop her damn head off. Alyssa takes a sudden, alarmingly sharp breath and you feel a surge of shock. Her tiny, fragile ribs have got to break with this. You and Laci stand up and move to the bed.

“I miss you SO much!” Santi cries.

“Santi, let go!” yells Five, succeeding in tugging him away with difficulty.

Laci places her body in between the two children, to block him from her. 

“Alyssa? Alyssa, sweetheart, are you ok?”

Alyssa sits there for a moment, as if punch-drunk, and then says: 

"Yeah Mommy, I’m fine.”

She sounds almost surprised to be asked and, considering the unwitting assault her body’s just been through, her voice sounds normal.

Five turns Santi to face him, shaking him a little, “You were too rough. I know you miss Alyssa but she needs you to be gentle!”

Santi's eyes fill with tears at the harshness he never usually gets from his uncle. Five tries to maintain the stern face but can't. Instead, he sighs, puts an arm around him and hugs him. 

You look at Laci.

“I’m sorry about this. I don’t think we prepared him properly. We’re sorry to have made this more stressful for you.”

Laci seems torn between grief and anger but stays calm: “I think this was a bad idea. They’re too little.”

“No!” Santi cries, “I’m sorry. I’ll be gentle.”

“Mommy don’t make him go, I’m fine.”

She sighs wearily, rubbing her eyes with one hand. 

“Ok you guys, but let’s watch some cartoons together.”

The incident seemed to quell Five's desire to investigate. Although he looked through all the open doors on the way back down the hall, he allowed you to pull him out of the ward without stopping in unannounced on the parents of the three sick boys.

Santi cried a little on the way home and fell asleep. Though it was only lunch time, this morning had exhausted him. 

No Jerry Dyke is played on the way home. You both sit in silence, lost in your own thoughts, but in companionship too. When you get nearer to the academy, you look back at Santi, his head lolling on the seat.

“I don’t think we should send him back to school today.”

“I agree. He can play upstairs while I talk with Luther, Sloane and Viktor.”

“Great.”

You think he senses the resentful inflection you kept out of your voice, but also your restraint. He places his hand on your knee again and gives you a conciliatory pat.

You’re sat at Five’s desk on your laptop, pretending to catch up with work but really finalizing your plans. Based on Harvey Klein's prolific social media presence, he seems to take his lunch break from his trendy start-up employer at the same time every day. The plan is to just lie in wait and 'happen' to meet him.

“I love this book.”

You turn around. Five sits on the reading-nook slipper chair, Persuasion in his hand.

“Yeah? I never read it.”

“It's Austen's best.” he says, flicking back a page and meeting your eye. “The heroine falls in love with a poor navy guy when she’s nineteen. Her family are assholes and persuade her not to marry him. Nine years later he comes back rich but he’s still angry, so he flirts with younger women. But then he-uh-comes to his senses and writes her a letter. It's...can I read you a bit?”

“Sure.”

He clears his throat, seemingly glad of the excuse to look down at the book and avert his eyes from yours:

“I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for-ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own…I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.’

“…I guess I just like that part”, he finishes, lamely.

You look up at him and catch his eye. He holds your gaze steadily now. Has he picked this part for a reason?

“One of Dolores’s recommendations?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, marking his page and putting the book back on the shelf beside him, “Come on, come and sit with me.”

Again, he sits on a comfortable chair and stretches his hand out to you in that come-hither way, his head on the opposite shoulder. During his work this afternoon, he loosened his tie, unbuttoned his waistcoat and first two shirt buttons. His hair is a little mussed from all the times he’s run his fingers through it.

You don’t refuse him this time. Closing your computer, you cross the room and perch on his knee. He immediately puts one arm around your waist, the other behind your knees and pulls you more firmly onto him, stretching his neck to kiss you. He forgot to shave today so sports a little five o’clock shadow. He looks pleasantly disheveled. 

God help you.

You reposition yourself with a knee either side of his legs and kiss his lips again. You keep it delicate, tender, focusing on the feel of his lips interlocking yours. When he tries to deepen the kiss, flicking his tongue questingly into your mouth, you pull back a little, keeping your lips light. As he leans forward again to try and up the intensity, you pull away, straightening your back.

“You get back here.”

“Nope.” 

“Tease,” he strokes your hips and buttocks, “a cute girl like you, sits on Daddy’s knee with this ass and then doesn’t let him have a piece?”

Damn. You feel slick already. There’s something about him calling himself Daddy that always makes this happen, no matter what’s going on between you. At this point it’s got to be a Pavlovian response. Perhaps it's time for you to take charge- you're already asserting yourself by going behind Five's back so maybe you can assert yourself here as well; have your cake and eat it too.

You climb off his knee. And there it is, as you knew it would be: the outline of his manhood harsh behind his suit-pants. You start to strip off, first exposing your top half and then your bottom.

“Mm,” he sounds appreciative. As he strips off his own clothes, he watches you with his head cocked, like a mildly interesting TV show.

When you’re both naked and ready, he spreads his legs to expose his full package; balls tight with arousal. These, he rubs a little experimentally whilst looking up at you.

“I'm gonna fuck you senseless but I want you to suck me first.”

It’s an instruction rather than a request. This is the dynamic to which you naturally fall. You decide to humor him for now. Getting on your knees, you give him a few lingering sucks and twitch-tongued licks, tasting drops of his precum. He lets out throaty ‘Mms’ of gratification, looking down at you; full lower lip pouting and eyebrows a little raised.

"Shiiit...you always look so good down there."

 You make eye contact and slowly slip your lips up and back over the head. In your mind, he's had enough of this.

“Did I say stop?”

You ignore him, stand and then sit astride him again. An eyebrow raises incredulously: What's all this?

He tut-tuts a little at your disobedience, stroking your ass. You give him a severe look right back, clearly in a deliberate challenge to his authority. In retribution, one of his hands, lightning fast, jerks up and twists one of your nipples between a thumb and forefinger. He catches you wrong, causing you to flinch and cry out.

“Ow! Red light!”

“Shit, sorry.”

The lust partially leaves his eyes to be replaced by concern. He puts his palm over your breast in an effort to soothe the nipple.

“I shouldn't have done that. You ok? What can I do?”

It was mainly the shock that caused your reaction; the pain is receding now. So why can't you turn this to your advantage?

“You can sit there like a good boy and get ridden hard.”

As soon as you say it, you realize the implications: ‘Good boy’ wasn’t the best idea for someone with unique hang-ups about his age. Except, given his recent behavior, you find you don't care. You're resentful enough to stand by what you said, never mind his precious feelings.

You look at him, ready for an angry response. Instead, he just sits slack-jawed for a moment. 

“Yes please,” he breathes.

You laugh and shift your hips until his sex meets yours. You lower yourself onto him, taking a few seconds to adjust to his full girth, stretching you all at once.

“Oh god, that’s so tight” he moans.

Your script-flipping confidence and the lines of your body are maddening; folds so shamelessly inviting to his dick. He's now so hard within you that it hurts him. His pleasure, like bolt after bolt from the blue, shoots down his erection- he’s sure his stones tighten even more. 

You begin to grind with his dick inside you, keeping it slow and controlled. You keep your eyes locked on his. You can tell he wants to close his eyes and throw his head back but your eyes tell him not to dare. You watch as his pupils dilate and his hair falls over one beautiful green eye.

"Fuck me harder." 

He's whining a little, thrusting his hips upward, looking for the friction you deliberately aren't yet giving him. At the shake of your head, he grabs your hips and tries to take control; to bounce you up and down onto him, but you pull his arms roughly away. 

"Say please, you little bitch."

He rolls his head back and groans. Being in charge is new for you and surprisingly satisfying- seeing him desperate beneath you is intriguing to say the least. You add in thrusts from your pelvis.

He doesn't want to give in... but his mind grows more numb as his arousal builds. Trying to regain control, he multiplies prime numbers counting up from 7393, but it's no help; he's becoming less aware of conscious thought and more of your velvet skin and what it's doing to him. He is for sure going to sit here like a good boy and be ridden. He wants to be ridden like a fucking bike. What else is a red-blooded man supposed to do? 

He abandons all pretense. 

"Please." he breathes.

He runs his hands around to your ass, stroking the cheeks and down the line between them. You shiver as his fingers brush your asshole. 

"Finger my asshole and I will."

Whimpering just the tiniest bit, (from arousal at this idea or the delay in release- he doesn't know), he spits generously on his fingers, finding that he’s already been salivating. With this, he lubricates your tight asshole, accommodating to his fingers from his regular explorations back here. After applying more saliva and listening to your jagged breathing as you ride him lazily, he slips one finger into you: stretching and pistoning until he can fit in a second. The squeezing sensation around his fingers is exquisite. The tingles through all the nerves in his dick intensify.

The second intrusion seems to really get your motor running, as it always does. You go faster now, riding his fingers too. And now he has the speed he needs.

“Oh fuck, thank you." he wheezes, watching your face tense as you fuck him. 

You go faster, gasping and cursing softly. He can tell you're close, but he's closer.

“I’m gonna come.”

“Not- yet you aren’t. I. am. Not. Done.”

You accentuate the four words with particularly violent hip-jerks. He screws up his face and tries to quell the explosion surely coming. He can feel his own dick in your cunt, via your asshole. This is too much to expect of him. He holds his breath, hoping to stop a little of the blood flow. His success is mixed, he holds on, but the tension makes his pleasure redouble when he has to breathe again. You start to moan, throwing your head back. He can't look at your bouncing breasts or he'll- 

“Please," his voice comes out high.

"No!" 

But then you come, throwing your head back and mouth wide. You ride your entire orgasm viciously. It’s too much. He has to, he has to...but he can't.

“Now you can come”

As if it was somebody else, he hears a strangled, almost sob-like cry issue from his own throat: loud, long and wavering as he boils over, blowing up inside you with a relief like weight being removed from his back. He sees stars.

Listening to Lionel Richie on his ancient Walkman, Luther jogs happily up the attic stairs. Outside Five’s door, he removes his headphones and raises his fist as if to knock, but it freezes as the sound of rhythmic movement and a particularly wanton moan reaches his ears.

His cheerful face quickly turns to a pained grimace. The fact that Five could make such a noise is challenging to many of Luther’s most deeply held ideas. Why does this keep happening to him? He is never coming up here again!

Headphones still playing All Night Long tinnily in his hand, he walks hastily back down the stairs with the attitude of someone who's just discovered a decomposing body.

 “Did they want pizza?” asks Sloane, looking up on his return.

“No.” Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves

Masterpost Alternatively, join me on AO3.  Here is a link to the whole series

[astrhae]

i know i'm asking for pain with this but:

wesper + a kiss on a scar? 🥰

double bluff | angst with a happy ending, canon-typical violence, 4k

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

“There you are,” Wylan sighed.

He’d been waiting for Jesper to come back with lunch for two hours. The Van Eck office by the Church of Barter was an imposing building that spiraled upward to rival the Geldrenner’s clocktower. They worked on the top floor there three days a week, taking meetings and trying to grapple with the business – even after two years, the empire he’d stolen back from his father still felt impossibly large.

It felt even more impossible when he was hungry.

Things weren’t a complete loss, though: Wylan had managed to sketch some new factory floorplans while Jesper had been out, and he moved those papers away onto one of the armchairs that littered the private office, wiping the charcoal off his fingers.

They were trying to change how things worked in Ketterdam, but it was far more than an uphill battle. Sometimes, that meant upsetting people: like Councilmen who didn't approve of Wylan's plans to open up new harbors.

Jesper held up a bag of uitsmijter. He swung the door closed behind him with his hip, his pistol clattering against the polished wood. The other matching pistol was on the armchair beside the papers: they were also still working on putting down their weapons, one at a time.

“Sorry,” Jesper dropped the bag over the empty spot on the table. His words curled with the Kaelish accent that rarely ever showed itself. “There was quite a line.”

“A line?” Wylan frowned.

It was past three bells in the afternoon, the sun from the office’s bay windows was already beginning to sink near the horizon in the early winter. No one should be lining up for uitsmijter, which was why Jesper had suggested it in the first place.

“Yes,” Jesper shrugged. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

“Well,” Wylan was about to shrug it off – to say they should eat first – but he caught the red stain on the pistol at Jesper’s hip, stark against its pearl handle, and, “were you in a gunfight?”

“No.”

The answer came far too quick, and far too short. Wylan walked around the table, heart hammering. Hadn’t they talked about this? The uitsmijter shop was nowhere near the Barrel – so either someone attacked Jesper, or Jesper had taken a detour. Or, more likely: both a fight and a detour. His vest was too crooked on his shoulder, jacket far more crumpled than it had been when he’d left the office two hours ago, and was that a shirt in a different color?

They could deal with everything else later. For now, one thing at a time, and the most important:

“Were you hurt?” Wylan strode closer, reaching out to take Jesper’s hand, but –

Jesper jerked away, taking a step back. “I’m fine,” he insisted, lips pressed into a thin line. “Let’s get out.”

“Out?”

This wasn’t like Jesper. Yes, Jesper could be impulsive and brusque and rough, and some days even Jesper couldn’t bear to be touched, the world too full and his heart too hollow to do anything except run. Still, this wasn’t like Jesper – one staccato beat off tempo, and Wylan was stumbling to catch up, to try and understand –

“Yes,” Jesper said again, nodding toward the door he’d just closed. The gaudy laurels painted on it was really something they needed to replace soon. “Out.”

Again, too short and too quick.

Wylan stared at him, grey eyes he didn’t think he knew right now. He’d seen enough people change, seen enough people be twisted out of shape: in front of him, because of him. Until there were no more silver linings to hold onto, only slivers of lies he tricked himself into calling hope.

This wasn’t like Jesper.

This wasn’t –

The door swung open and –

Instinct kicked in. He made a dash for the other pistol on the armchair –

“Don’t!” Jesper’s voice rang out.

And it was Jesper’s voice, because it was Jesper standing in the doorway, shirt sticking wet on his shoulders and jacket gone and a cut dripping from his temple. And it was Jesper, too, standing in the office with Wylan, jacket askew and blood on his pistol.

(read on ao3)

[ssa-sapphic]

Pairing: Emily Prentiss × (POC)fem!oc

Summary: Andrea is a surgical intern and single mother, struggling to learn how to trust again after a disastrous past relationship left her heart in shards of doubt and fear. Emily is the FBI agent across the hall who wants more than anything to help pick up the pieces and protect what's become so important to her, while also trying to manage her own battle scars. Will they be able to heal from their shared traumas and learn to let each other in? Or will the demons of their past come to haunt them once again, and threaten the lives they've made for themselves?

Warnings: Mentions of violence and graphic descriptions normally found in grey's anatomy/criminal minds. Some nsfw content and domestic abuse-related details (chapters will be labeled accordingly

Word Count: 3.8k

Moving to Virginia, of all places, was never a part of Andrea’s plans. And yet, she had currently found herself hauling boxes into a fancy apartment just outside of Quantico that she hadn’t even paid for. She knew that anyone could take a single glance at her and instantly assume that she couldn’t afford such a place, and they’d all be right. Truthfully, Andrea would have happily settled for something smaller and cheaper, but her parents were wealthy and only wanted her to have what they deemed “the best.” It was like that all the time when she was a kid, going from boarding schools to prestigious colleges, and it only grew worse when she became an adult. They’re always so adamant about paying her way through life, but she doesn’t want their money. She never did.

Instead of having things handed to her on a silver platter, Andrea wanted to work hard and earn them herself like everyone else in the world had to. It was an uphill battle trying to convince them to let her find her way to make ends meet, but finally, they settled on a compromise: because her parents insisted, they would find her a nice place to live near the hospital–where she recently accepted a job at– and pay the downpayment and ongoing rent, while she worried about all other payments, including student loans and personal medical bills. At first, the idea of allowing them to pay for her apartment was unsettling, but hey, there’s no denying she was broke and on her own.

Well, aside from her cute little sidekick of a daughter, Sofia.

Andrea realized pretty quickly after having her three years ago that kids sure are expensive. So, she decided she wasn’t going to complain about being able to raise her in a free apartment after all. Besides, her parents live in the area because they thought it would be best to have a place closer to them so that they can help look after her while she gets adjusted to the bizarre hours that a surgical intern works. All she wanted to do was provide for her daughter and give her the life she deserved without relying on her parent’s money. It sounded rather enticing whenever she thought about it before, but now that it was happening? Let’s just say she didn’t know if she was off to a good start.

It was nearing midnight when she finally reached the front door to her new apartment, where the fancy wallpaper in the hallways already made her feel out of place as she struggled to find her keys. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get to them, given the large box in her right arm and a sleeping Sofia in her left. So, she was in a bit of a predicament. She didn’t want to make any noise, not only because she didn’t want to wake her up but also because she wanted to avoid leaving a bad impression on the neighbors.

Both ends of the scale were bad, a possible toddler tantrum or all of the most fragile items that she didn’t trust the movers with crashing to the floor. At this point, she wasn’t sure what to do. The hallways were empty, so she couldn’t ask for help, and she wasn’t in the best position to squat and set the box on the ground. Feeling helpless and without any other possible solutions, she started to turn around and head back down to her car to leave the box there for the night. However, just as soon as she turned around, her foot got caught on the rug, and she tripped forward, leaving the box to begin slipping out of her grasp as she instinctively felt around for something to hold onto.

“Hey, hold on, let me grab that for you,” A woman’s voice called out from ahead of her, and quickly she felt the weight of the box be relieved from her arms. “Moving in?” The stranger asked, her small smile masking the tired look in her eyes.

Her straight, raven-like hair was to her shoulders and parted down the middle in a way that framed her face well. It matched the color of her eyes and ultimately contrasted with the light tone of her skin. She was certainly attractive, to say the slightest, but what mainly caught Andrea’s eye was the gun holstered at her hip. She was never fond of them, so she could feel her grip on Sofia tighten, even if there was a badge accompanying it.

“Oh, thank you so much!” She spoke with a sighed relief, allowing her to take the box and follow her back to her apartment door. “You’re a lifesaver,” She added, her voice above a whisper to not wake up Sofia.

She fumbled for the silver key in her pocket before slipping it into the lock and twisting it until hearing the subtle click of the gears. “And yes, I just moved in. Well, I should say I’m still moving in. As you can see from the empty apartment.” She chuckled awkwardly, gesturing into the now-opened doorway.

There were only a few pieces of furniture sitting around the place from where the movers left them, plus a small air mattress, a dining table with a few chairs, and one gray sofa. Quickly, she headed over to the small bed to gently lay her daughter down, tucking her in and kissing her forehead before she made her way back over to the stranger waiting patiently at her door.

“I get it,” The woman nodded in understanding as she watched the mother accept the box back from her and quickly walk back to set it on the dining table. “I just moved in a couple of weeks ago, and I still have boxes stored away in my closet.”

“Procrastinating, huh?” Andrea wondered, pulling her thick curls up into a messy bun as she returned to the door.

“Force of habit, actually,” The brunette’s smile widened just the slightest bit. It was infectious, adorned with dimples and pearly white teeth. “I moved around a lot growing up, so I never stayed in one place for too long. I guess somewhere down the line, I had gotten used to never being able to plant roots in the places I’ve stayed at.”

“That makes sense,” She subconsciously crossed her arms, something that didn’t go unnoticed by the stranger at her door. “Hopefully, you stick around this time. It’d be nice to see a friendly face around here. I’m Andrea, by the way.” She finally introduced herself, holding out a hand.

“Emily,” She grasped her hand, her palm warm and slightly callused. “And yeah, I’m hoping I’ll be here for a while.”

As they conversed, Andrea couldn’t help but take notice of the way her tired eyes shined back at her. She could tell from her slight slouch in posture alone that she’d had a stressful day herself. Before she even thought twice about the matter, the words were already flying from her mouth.

“Um, would you like to come in for a drink?”

Never in her life would she have been so trusting of a stranger, but there was something about Emily’s presence that she enjoyed. Plus, it was nice having a conversation with someone her age rather than a 3-year-old, and she wanted to talk more.

“I know it’s late,” She continued, her body unintentionally growing smaller under the weight of her gaze. “But I figured I should thank you somehow for helping me out in the hall. Besides, no offense, but it looks like you could use one.”

“I could say the same about you.” Emily teased, causing her to suddenly feel self-conscious and glance down at the baggy clothes she had on from a long day of traveling and hard labor.

Andrea smiled at her disheveled appearance, biting her lip in embarrassment.

“Touché. So, what do you say?” She asked, already knowing the answer as soon as a small grimace made its way onto Emily’s face.

“I’d love to, but I really should get home and try to sleep a little before going back to work in the morning.”

“Oh, right, of course!” She chuckled awkwardly, having forgotten about the time. “I’m sorry, that was probably weird of me to ask in the first place. Thank you again for the help, Emily. It means a lot.”

“There’s really no need to thank me. I’m not home much, but if you ever need anything while I’m around, I’d be more than happy to help. It was nice meeting you, Andrea.” She spoke sweetly before her gaze fixated on something behind the woman in front of her. “I think you may have someone who needs your attention now.”

Quickly, Andrea turned around to see her daughter standing sleepily behind her, rubbing at her tired eyes and clutching her pink blankie.

“Mommy, where’s Teddy?” Her voice trembled as she mispronounced nearly every word. “I can’t sleep without him.”

She looked back to wish Emily goodnight, knowing a tantrum was about to occur, but when she did so, Emily was nowhere to be seen, and the door across the hall was being clicked shut. With a sigh, she closed the door and locked it behind her before walking over to her awaiting toddler.

“Oh, honey. I think he’s still in one of the boxes in the car.” She cringed, mentally cursing herself for not remembering to keep Sofia’s stuffed bear at arm’s reach. “He’ll be safe there tonight, and we can get him first thing in the morning. Think you can manage without him just for tonight?”

Her head slowly shook as tears welled up in her eyes, and Andrea knew what was coming. Soon enough, small cries left Sofi’s lips before the sobs followed shortly afterward. It was like witnessing the oncoming of a big storm. It began with the small droplets falling from the sky, a sign to take cover before the major downpour hit. Unfortunately, the storm rolled in fast, and like thunder, her daughter’s screams echoed through the walls, and no doubt rattled the box of fragile items on the dining table.

“C’mere.” She cooed, scooping her up in her arms and gently rubbing her back while she cried in the crook of her neck.

It was going to be a long night.

When the morning sun finally decided to peek its way through the curtains, Andrea woke up from probably only 5 hours of rest. There wasn’t any point trying to get back to sleep. She knew that she had a lot planned for the day, what with setting up her apartment and moving in the rest of the boxes from her car, including Teddy. He was a top priority after last night’s incidents. Fortunately, she was meeting up with her parents this morning, and they wanted to take Sofi for a few hours. So, hopefully, she could get her actual bed delivered today and get a nice nap in before they dropped her off later in the evening.

In the meantime, however, she figured she’d get a jump start on the day’s activities. With caution, she sat up from the sofa, making sure not to wake the little sleeping beauty lying on her chest. It was an uphill battle trying to get her back to sleep last night, but within time Andrea assumed that the exhaustion from the long trip caught up with her because she eventually cried herself to sleep.

She felt so helpless not being able to comfort her in the way she needed, and it broke her heart to see her daughter in such a drastic state. She’d only ever cried that much for two reasons, and that was if she had a bad dream or if Teddy wasn't there to “protect” her. It only reminded her that she was still so new to parenthood. I mean, she’s been in her life for three years now, but she wasn’t a pro at this. It was times like this when she wished she could just have someone in her corner to help out. She could feel her insecurities about being an unfit mother start to overwhelm her, but she knew she couldn’t go down that road again.

She shook her head to rid her mind of those plaguing doubts, knowing that she’d only been doing the best that she could as a single mother. By the time she finished with her morning routine and began making breakfast, it was around 6:30 when she felt a warm embrace around her left ankle. Looking down, she was met with the adorable sight of her daughter’s big bright hazel eyes staring back at her and her wild mess of a bedhead. That was gonna be a pain to detangle. Still, it was just what she needed for her mood to shift completely, much like it always had been when she was around.

By the time they made it out of the front door, it was somewhere around 7:15. Andrea held Sofi on her right hip while she locked the door to her apartment.

“Are you excited to see Nonna today?” She asked, knowing she favored her more than her grandpa. After receiving an enthusiastic nod in return, she chuckled. “Me too! But first, we gotta zip up this coat, Missy. It’s supposed to be a bit chilly outside today, and we don’t want you catching a cold.”

Lowering her to the ground, she bent down to her height and set her purse on the floor beside her. Sofia’s bright bubblegum pink jacket was halfway hanging over her shoulders, and it took her a little while to get it situated so that she could zip it up. Her daughter, of course, didn’t make it easy. Opting to stomp and dance in place like children often did because standing in place for too long was just too agonizing. But once she did manage to zip it up, she gave her nose a little *boop* because she was so darn cute, and it never failed to make her giggle.

Suddenly, the door behind her burst open and closed shut with such a ruckus that Sofia and her mom both flinched, having been used to the lonely hallway.

She hadn’t had much time to act before she felt someone trip over her purse. Their body tumbled to the ground directly in front of them with a loud *thud*. Quickly looking up in worry, Andrea saw the same brunette from last night lying before her, grunting in pain.

“Oh, my god!” She gasped, eyes widened with concern as she quickly approached her. “Emily, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

By the looks of it, she could tell she was in a hurry to be somewhere, and she assumed it was work-related, given she was dressed professionally in a nice sweater and slacks. The same gun was holstered to her hip, as well as the badge hooked onto her side belt. Her hair was a bit out of place from the fall, yet Andrea still managed to catch sight of a small smile gracing her face while she licked her bottom lip in embarrassment.

God, why was she such a sucker for dimples? She fell for her daughter’s every time she used them to her advantage, and she could already feel the effect Emily’s started to have on her, though she hardly knew her.

“I’m fine,” Emily assured them, making a point to speak directly to Sofia, who was cowering behind her mom’s legs with her thumb in her mouth. Something she only did when she was anxious or scared. The sudden noise and commotion must’ve scared her, so after Andrea helped Emily from the ground, she guided Sofia in front of her so she could see there wasn’t any threat or need to worry.

“Just a little clumsy, that’s all, see!” Emily continued, making a show of twisting her arms around to show Sofi everything was okay. She then turned her attention over to Andrea with the same gentle smile as if she didn’t just see her wincing slightly during her display. “Are you and your daughter okay? I didn’t get either of you on the way down, did I?”

“No, we’re completely fine. Don’t worry.” She answered truthfully, glancing at her daughter just to double-check before looking at her once again. “Are you sure you’re alright, though?”

Concern was evident on Andrea’s face as she focused on the way Emily was subtly holding onto her wrist. She didn’t even think twice before she stepped forward and gently took it into her hands, allowing her fingers to graze softly along the smooth skin. While putting slight pressure here and there to check for bruising or swelling, her mind wasn’t even focused on how close they were. She was too distracted by her doctor mode showing itself, cataloging every freckle on her skin, every twist of a ligament, every outline of bone.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” Emily stammered slightly, clearing her throat afterward, which made Andrea smirk to herself.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you sprained it, so that’s good.” She gave her a reassuring smile, still holding onto her hand. “But you should probably ice it for a few minutes if you can, just to take the redness down.”

“Thank you for taking a look. I’m sure it will be fine,” Emily replied, pulling her hand back and cradling it near her chest. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a doctor.”

“You’d be correct.” She laughed sheepishly.

It was then that Sofia reached up for her mom, who didn't hesitate to pick her up and set her on her right hip while she wrapped her purse around the other.

“By the way,” She changed the subject. “I don’t think you were properly introduced last night, but this is my daughter, Sofia. Can you say hi, Sof?” She looked at her, but the little girl only gave Emily a small wave before hiding her face in the crook of her mom’s neck. “Sorry, she can be a little shy sometimes.”

Emily smiled brightly. “That’s alright. Hi Sofia, my name is Emily.” She spoke gently, stepping only a little closer before pointing to the sleeves of Sofi’s pink coat. “Is this your favorite color?”

Sofia nodded a little, pulling her head out of Andrea’s neck in curiosity.

“Do you want to know what my favorite color is?” Emily continued, waiting for her to nod once more before reaching into her bag and pulling out a red lollipop. Something that instantly made Sofia’s eyes go wide. “My favorite color is red, just like this! Do you like lollipops?”

She let out a soft ‘mhm’ in response, the fresh curls of her ponytail bouncing along as she nodded. To which Emily chuckled.

“Can you ask your mommy if you can have this lollipop? I think it was made just for you!”

Sofia’s next words to her mom were almost incoherent due to her excitement, but she managed to hear her use her manners, and that was all she needed.

“I don’t see why not.” Andrea agreed, immediately receiving a cheer in response from her daughter. She had already begun leaning out of her embrace to accept the lollipop before showing her true strength by ripping it open. But her mom quickly stopped her with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, wait a minute! Honey, what do you say to Emily for giving you a treat?”

“Oh,” Her head perked up in thought before she smiled shyly and rested her head on her shoulder. “Thank you, Emmy!”

“That’s my girl.” She kissed her head before looking up at Emily with a knowing smirk. “Be prepared. She’s gonna expect you to always have candy on you every time she sees you.”

“Well, luckily, I usually always have something.” She replied, zipping her bag closed. “Part of what I do involves having a specialization in children. So I always keep a couple of treats just in case.”

Intrigued, Andrea was about to ask what her profession was. However, she noticed the way she began fidgeting with her hands, and it was then that she remembered she was originally in a hurry to leave.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. But, um, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee with me sometime? My treat?” She asked, albeit a bit nervously. “I know you told me you’re a busy woman, and honestly, I don’t know what my schedule will look like once my internship starts,” She began rambling. “I just feel like I really owe you one, Emily. I mean, you helped me out last night, and I ended up making you fall this morning and probably be late to work. So, please let me do something nice for you.”

The words flew from her mouth before she could catch them, and the next thing she knew, she was diving into the fact that she was new in town and need of friends. It wasn’t until she saw the amused look on Emily’s face that she paused mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, I’m ranting, aren’t I?”

Emily laughed a little, “It’s okay. You’re cute when you ramble. And actually, I do a fair bit of traveling for my job, so I don’t know when I will be completely free again. Our jet has been grounded for a mandatory safety inspection for the next two days, so maybe we can make something work then?”

She reached back into her bag while Andrea stood a blushing mess, unable to form an actual response after hearing Emily call her cute. “Here, take this,” She handed her a card with her contact information on it. “And if you ever hear me at my apartment, feel free to knock. I don’t have many friends here either and would love some company.” She winked before speaking to Sofia in hushed tones. “Don’t tell your mommy, but I have a new kitty who is little like you.” She reached over and tickled her belly to get a bit of a laugh, which she succeeded in. “And he would love to have some new friends to play with.”

With that, she checked her backward watch and quickly started to sprint down the stairs, calling up a final goodbye on her way out. Andrea watched as she left, only hoping that she hadn’t noticed her reddened cheeks.

Honestly, she never used to be such a nervous and self-aware person. She was always a social butterfly to her peers and practically radiated confidence in the way she presented herself. However, everything changed after her last relationship with Sofia’s father. She was left broken with the type of baggage that was filled to the brim with nothing but coping mechanisms and insecurities.

Nowadays, she was always worried about saying the wrong thing, but so far, Emily’s kindness was like a lighthouse in the distance, as cheesy as that sounded. She saw the light within her, and it gave her an ounce of hope that maybe she could escape the darkness still lingering around her.

Only time would tell.

a/n: hope you liked the first chapter! let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this fic <3

taglist: @sweetmidnights @leftoverenvy @ssajemilyprentiss @heidss

[dani-sdiary]

Vagina Insecurities!

This, like any story worth telling, is all about a an adult woman with the sex drive of a 13-year-old boy (Did you catch the Spiderman reference?). It is also one that no one asked for. This is an extreme overshare about my self-esteem, body, and sex life (sex death?), and why I'm still a virgin despite being hornier than a teenage methhead rabbit. Yeah, I want to have sex. Fucking sue me. I want to date, I want to fall in love, and I want to be railed. There it is. Let's talk about it!

I don't hear songs with lyrics like "pussy so good, I say my own name during sex" or "kitty on fleek" and think "yeah, me too. I totally get where you're coming from. This song really resonates with me because my kitty is, in fact, also on fleek."

I hate every part of my body, but especially those parts. My pussy is all lopsided. (There's a sentence that's never been typed before). My right labia minora (my right, not someone who was facing me) is more than twice as long as my left. It's too dark and while I'm all for bell bottoms and Fleetwood Mac, I could do without my thick, PCOS pubic hair (that extends to my stomach and thighs) being '70's style. I'm perfectly healthy and luckily I've never had any kind of infection, but my natural smell is just awful, and whole-body deodorant only seems to irritate my skin and make it worse. I follow all the rules religiously: just soap and warm water, "breathable" cotton underwear, yogurt and cranberry juice, but that's just the way I am. I smell terrible. Not unhealthy, just bad. Absolutely unbearable.

I hate my breasts because they're too small and look like they've already withstood 90 years of gravity instead of just 18. I'm a 34B, which is fairly average and would make sense if I were thinner, but is really unproportional at my weight. I feel like, being my size, I should be a C at least, but I carry all my weight in my stomach and not in my curves. My areolas are too dark, too big, and have these weird bumps on them, almost like acne. My entire chest is covered in dark hair, not just a few pluckable strays around my nipples, but my whole breasts and my sternum, along with every other square inch of my body.

My breasts act like cranky old neighbors in a vicious feud that started as mild annoyance over Left's dachshund always getting into Right's backyard, but escalated into flat-out suburban warfare, complete with brutal rhododendron sabotage. I'm the granddaughter trying to coax them into talking out their differences, but I just can't convince them no matter what I do. They stick out (barely) the wrong way- away from each other and down rather than up and straight ahead like they're supposed to. They're called headlights for a reason, but with these, I'd crash right into the car in front of me and end up totaling both of us.

I'd overshare on the internet about my 2-dimensional ass, too, except there's nothing to say. If you only saw me from the back, you would think I had gone through a car compacter. I am the "before" picture in the commercial for BBLs. I don't have a feminine shape. There is zero difference between my waist and hips.

I would feel so ridiculous in lingerie, like I was an actor in a silly skit. I bought some nice underwear just for me, hoping it would make me feel a little more confident even if no one else was going to see it, but it's just putting lipstick on a pig. Even wearing a nice dress feels so strange and pointless to me, because nothing I do could ever make me look on the outside like the woman I feel like on the inside. I feel like I don't deserve nice clothes and that I can't justify spending time or money on my appearance. I'm trying to move away from that, but it's an uphill battle when everything I've ever heard about bodies that look like mine are that they should be hidden, that they're something to be ashamed of, and that they're completely undesirable. I would like to think of myself as beautiful, and maybe I'll get there someday, but thinking of myself as sexy just feels impossible. I wish my body were my own. I wish my opinion about my body was mine. I wish that I belonged to myself. If you can relate to any part of this in any way, I'm so, so sorry.

I'm a total pussy when it comes to sex (ha. ha. ha.). The thing that's holding me back is fear. I am so, so scared. I'm scared I would get hurt. I'm scared adding physical intimacy into the mix would make a bad breakup a thousand times worse. I'm scared he would tell horror stories about the ugliest girl and the worst lay of his life to his friends, his future girlfriends, for their entertainment and sympathy. I'm scared he would compare me to his past girlfriends and regret breaking up with them. Most of all, I'm scared he would laugh. I'm scared he would see my body and be disgusted but amused. I'm scared he would think of me as a car crash: so horrible you can't look away. I'm scared he would find me morbidly fascinating.

I don't have sagely advice on this one. I'm insecure, and I know I shouldn't be, and I don't want to be, but I am. And it's holding me back from doing something I really (really) want to do. I guess I just wanted to be honest. I may be a crock pot, but if you're patient, I can burn just as hot as a microwave.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #35

Lately, I've been doing my best to try to establish a balance between "not being ideologically inflexible" and "not falling to pieces doubting myself whenever I come across hostility in my general direction." You can skip the next bit of this paragraph if abuse is a trigger for you, but, in my experience, being beaten viciously for something, only to have the adult who did it to you tell you that you imagined the whole thing, even as your body is wracked with pain and the bruises are blossoming under your skin, while being in a position where your only choice is to believe them or get hit some more… it DOES things to a person. And one of those things is "relatively permanent damage to one's ability to trust in one's own perceptions and experiences."

But I'm working on it, nonetheless. The cards are stacked against me, for sure, but I'm still working on it. I still tend to hold a bit too much space for others' misguided perceptions of me and the things that I speak and write, and I tend to hold the thoughts and opinions of others in higher regard than I do for my own. Still, I like to think that I get better and better at avoiding doing these things, the more I practice trusting myself and trusting in the integrity of my senses and ability to reason. It's an uphill battle, for sure. But it is one worth fighting, even though I have fears of becoming rigid and unyielding when it comes to how I perceive things (like some of my adult overlords in the past), and fears of people getting hurt as a result of me being wrong (I have both done this and have been on the receiving end of it; -54/10 stars, would not recommend).

I received more hostility regarding my letters today that seemed to come out of nowhere:

I can't condemn this person for their words. I won't; you are a fictional character, and they are obviously going through some kind of difficulty that I don't know anything about. And I won't accept it if others condemn or humiliate them, either. I will not tolerate cruelty or ableism. If I see it, I will block whoever does it. I won't even hesitate on that front - mark my words. Do not disparage this person. This has been a warning.

What I'm focused on is the part that goes, "Stop wimping with your pathetic letters." I focus on the part that seems to imply that I am not doing a valid form of battle, because instead of using you as a religious icon, I instead write to you (despite the fact that I am very much aware that you are a fictional character) with kindness, compassion, and grace about a version of normal that canon seems to indicate that you wish you knew. I focus on the part that implies that I am somehow "going against" you by modeling wholesome things and constructive ways of dealing with one's emotions. I focus on the disparaging of my speaking on such delightful things as food and tea.

And… like the other person who tried to make me feel small (this one also failed; don't worry), this one also seemed to entirely miss the point of what it is that I am trying to do. The fact of the matter is that you are an art form in my world. And there is no right or wrong way to perceive or enjoy an art form. Some people really struggle with that particular bit though, and lash out at others because they hinge their entire sense of identity and their sense of self-worth on whether or not others perceive art forms in the same exact way as they do. The mechanics behind this are usually trauma-driven; I will not condemn these folks, either.

The fact of the matter is that some people are going to look at you and see a monster, and that's valid. I'm never, ever going to tell them that they're wrong; they have different life experiences than I do, and therefore they are going to see you differently than I do, and I am not going to sit here and try to change their mind. I don't know everything.

Still others are going to look at you and see a helpless baby and victim who was totally justified in all his choices, and that's also valid. I'm never, ever going to tell them that they're wrong; again, they have different life experiences than I do, and therefore they are going to see you differently than I do, and I am not going to sit here and try to change their mind. I don't know everything.

As for me, I like to think that I am under no illusion regarding who you are or the things you've done. You were a victim of terrible abuse, yes. And I personally understand how living in an environment where you're not loved can twist you into someone you're not. But all the same, we are still responsible for all the things we do even when we are not acting in accordance with our innermost nature. We are still responsible for the terrible things we do, even when we don't feel like we have other options. We are still responsible for the things we do when we don't know better. We are still responsible for moving ourselves to places where we can learn better, so that we can do better.

Using myself as a concrete example: it doesn't matter if I lash out at my husband because I am in the middle of a flashback, thinking like I'm about to get hit (he would never, don't worry). I am still 100% responsible for everything I do while I am in an adrenaline-driven state. It is still my responsibility to find better ways of managing and preventing my own triggers. It is my responsibility to learn better ways of communicating and coping with stress and uncertainty. It is NOT my husband's responsibility to avoid my triggers, it IS my responsibility to make myself into a person who my husband need not walk on eggshells around. It is my responsibility to make sure that I am well-fed, well-hydrated, and well-rested such that it is less likely for me to fall into an adrenaline-driven state in the first place. It is MY responsibility, and MY responsibility alone, to shape myself into someone who does not lash out. Period.

All that being said, it is still the case that nothing can ever take back the cruel words, the condescending stares, and the frightening body language that I have given in the past to people who ASBOLUTELY DID NOT DESERVE IT. No one ever deserves nonsense like that, so I do the work to grow into a person who refuses to do such things, because in my mind, anything less is unacceptable. I carry the weight of my past mistakes on my shoulders all the time; it is something that I will never set down, because it is the thing that drives me to continually improve; the knowledge that someone else might get hurt if I am not constantly mindful and vigilant - if I am negligent for even a moment - is pure fucking torture. Make absolutely no goddamn mistake about that. Even if I spend the rest of my life improving myself and trying to help others to heal, it will still not be enough to make up for the feelings I've hurt.

I will not call you a monster - there's no such thing. But the fact of the matter is (assuming that Nibelheim was not firebombed like Banora), you have done terrible, inexcusable, and unjustifiable things. You will never, EVER be able to erase the blood, pain, and tears caused by the lives you stole. The best you can hope for when it comes to trying to make amends for the damage you caused is to spend the rest of your life learning better ways to take care of yourself so that you can better learn to manage your anger, rebuilding the structures you broke, helping others who have been victimized in ways similar to you to heal and make better choices, and using your amazing power to try to restore genuine peace to your world. And the reality of it is, even if you spent eternity doing this, it will still not be enough to make up for the lives you misguidedly erased during the throes of your suffering.

But at the same time, death is too easy for the kinds of mistakes you made. It is better to go through the absolute agony that is healing so that by the end of it, you can properly carry the weight of what you've done on your shoulders for as long as you draw breath. Even with the weight of your childhood conditioning and the knowledge of everything you did, and all of the ways you have failed yourself and the people around you, you still have to carry on as though your life has meaning and value, because it does. Every life does. And my view on this sort of thing does not stop at you.

I choose mercy and compassion, and that has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the kind of person I want to be. And people can call me "wimping" and "pathetic" if they want to; that is their right. But I will propose that such people who feel comfortable using words like these to describe other living, breathing human beings know nothing about true strength:

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The little video above focuses on The Lich from a series called Adventure Time. A past version of me had views much like his. I was very much of the mind that all I would find in this world is darkness and pain. I know the kinds of things I used to wish I had the power to do - things that are, without question or hesitation, abhorrent to me now.

The love I carry for others is a choice. One that I have to keep consciously making over and over and over. I did not have the privilege of growing up in it. By choice, I exist as a bright spot of light, hope, joy, and love, in stark defiance of the darkness, fear, cruelty, and hate that surrounds me on a day-to-day basis. And my ability to make these choices was built by my own two broken and bloodied hands, piece by sharp, searing, white-hot, agonizing piece, through suffering, terror, and despair.

Here is the additional context behind the smaller video from before. Behold these:

This next one continues it; it's only a few seconds, but it's still important:

And if you understand that the resulting "Sweet P" can wield dark and light concurrently… you understand why Sweet P is a FAR more terrifying force than The Lich could ever be:

Like with Sweet P, the "Lich" in me is not dead. Just… put to better use. A use in which I am the one in control:

I am anything but "wimpy" and "pathetic". And the fact that these letters to you even exist at all, in the format in which they do, should be proof enough. I don't need to prove myself to anyone.

And so I will keep going on in the way that I do. I will spend the bulk of my time kneeling in awe of or in service to other human beings, knowing full well that being in such a position leaves me far more open to being hurt, and knowing full well that making this choice while understanding what the consequences are, is what true strength looks like.

It is why, if the naysayers want me to be silent, they're going to have to kill me. And it is why, if any such attempt is made, it will be welcomed with the very same tea and snacks that they would likely disparage.

And no matter how the result pans out, I will still come out on top. Either they will turn, or they will free me from my meat-suit, and I will simply return later in some other form to continue doing the very same work I speak on - perhaps even in a body that actually fucking works properly. Wouldn't that be nice.

Please stay safe out there. You still have work to do. And even more importantly: you are loved and cared about and your life is still worthwhile, no matter the mistakes you've made before. You can make this transformation; I refuse to believe that I am a stronger person than you are.

I will continue to write to you, regardless of any opposition I face.

Your friend, Lumine

[sydnswag]

Not Harsh At All

relationship: Steve Rogers/James “Bucky” Barnes

summary: Bucky has been living with Steve for a few months now and in the last couple of weeks Steve has been attempting to make Bucky feel better about himself. One day Steve walks in on Bucky looking at himself in the mirror crying, another flashback making him hurt. Steve will go to the end of the world for Bucky to feel better.

warnings: negative self talk,

a/n: hiii this is my first Stucky fanfic I have ever written. I’ve written a couple of books on Wattpad and I’ve done really well there so I wanted to try posting some Stucky stuff on Tumblr. I hope you all enjoy!

• • • •

“Bucky! Babe, I’m home!” Steve calls from the front door of his—their apartment. It has been a few months since Bucky showed up at Steves door, drenched and soaked from rain and his own blood. He was so lost, the memory of Steve coming and going ever since he had pulled the blond from the water. The only thing that Bucky remembered about Steve at the time was that he had once made the brunet feel safe. The Winter Soldier, slowly forming back into Bucky Barnes held on to that feeling like a woman clutching her purse in the subway. Bucky needed to keep remembering so he went back to where he recalled Steve lived.

Since then it has been an uphill battle for both Bucky and Steve to go back to how they once were. Slowly but surely they both realized that they may never be able to be who they once were. So accepting that was just another challenge. But Steve is getting better at it. He is relearning his Bucky. He subtly watches his boyfriend and takes note of his little quirks, his triggers, what makes him happy. Everyday their relationship grows stronger and Bucky starts learning how to depend a little more on Steve.

So, when Bucky doesn’t immediately emerge from some room in their apartment, Steve frowns. Normally after a long day of work Steve comes home and Bucky practically jumps him, he’s just so thankful that Steve came back home to him. Today, there is no sign Bucky is even home. But Steve doesn’t worry too much because Bucky refuses to leave the house in fear of whatever is out there in the big world.

The soft muffled cries coming from the closed door of their bedroom is the only sound Steve hears in their seemingly quiet home.

Steve slowly approaches his and the brunets room, he’s always careful around Bucky when he’s upset. Not because he’s scared of his boyfriend, it is actually the complete opposite. He doesn’t want to scare Bucky. So, Steve knocks on the door, wanting Bucky to know that he is coming in.

When he steps into the room Steve freezes at the sight of Bucky and the area around him. The sheets on the bed are thrown in all directions across the room, the lamp is knocked over, the bulb is shattered. Clothes are thrown everywhere, all photo frames of them are face down, and there Bucky sits, in front of the cracked floor to ceiling mirror. It is painfully obvious that Bucky punched the glass, and based on the lack of blood, Steve assumes Bucky used his metal hand.

Bucky sits in front of the mirror his knees drawn into his chest, only in his boxers. His head is down but Steve can see his tears dripping onto their carpet. Quietly, Steve sits next to Bucky, gently placing his hand on his right shoulder blade. When Bucky doesn’t flinch he takes that as a sign to start rubbing his back, moving his hand in slow, hopefully comforting circles.

“Babe, what happened?” Steve asks Bucky trying to peer at his blocked face.

“I-I’m sorry Stevie.” He cries refusing to look up at the blond.

“Can I give you a hug?” A silent nod is all Steve needs before he wraps his arms around his lover, pulling him on his lap. Steve kisses the top of Bucky’s head and rests his cheek there for a little while. They both sit in the silence, it’s only broken every few minutes by a loud sniffle coming from the former assassin. After Bucky seems to have calmed down a bit, Steve tries again. “What happened here Buck?”

Bucky stays silent for a few seconds, Steve waits patiently, he understands how hard everything is for Bucky. “I was taking off my pyjamas and then I saw myself in the mirror,” his lip trembles but he continues. “My body looks so sharp and harsh. The fucking arm is bad enough but all of my scars and burns, they are just so, so ugly.”

Steves holds Bucky closer as his cries pick up again. “You’re not ugly Bucky. You are so beautiful you have no idea.”

“I just want to feel soft, not harsh.” He cries some more into Steves shoulder. For the rest of the night Steve holds Bucky tight. They rock back and forth until Bucky falls asleep, all the while Steves mind races, coming up with ideas and ways to make Bucky feel better. And he has just the idea.

…

The next morning Steve woke up to run a little earlier, so he can go shopping before Bucky wakes up. He cancels his run with Sam and runs long enough for the stores to be opened by the time he’s done. After last night Steve wanted so bad to take away his boyfriends negative thoughts on his body, burn them and throw them away so Bucky would never have to think like that ever again. Of course Steve couldn’t do that so he thought of something else.

When he got home from his errands, Steve saw Bucky still peacefully asleep under their thin summer blanket.

He decided that he needed to spoil his boyfriend today, he wanted him to know how beautiful he is, how wanted he is, and he was going to do that. So when Steve heard Bucky groan from the kitchen Steve scooped up their bags and the tea he made for Bucky every morning after his run. When Steve stepped into the room his eyes landed on Bucky and his heart swelled with love and adoration for the long haired brunet laying shirtless and glowing in their bed.

“G’morning Stevie,” Bucky smiles at his boyfriend.

“Good morning Buck,” Steve chuckles leaning down to kiss the love of his life on the lips. Bucky pulls away muttering something along the lines of ‘gross’ and ‘morning breath’.

“Babe I got to thinking after last night, and I bought you a few things.” Bucky’s face immediately morphs from calm to guilty. He begins to open his mouth in protest but Steve is quick to cut him off. “You deserve them, plus I love spoiling you, my sweet sweet Bucky.” This time Steve gets away with kissing Bucky.

“You didn’t have to get me anything. I am sorry about yesterday.”

“Hush babe,” Steve ignores his apology, he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. “Just open my gifts.”

Reluctantly Bucky takes the gifts from Steves outstretched hands. Slowly he opens the wrapping.

In the first wrapping there is a massive Sherpa hoodie blanket. In the second wrapping there is a soft grey sweater and matching sweatpants. In the third wrapping there is at least a hundred scrunchies with differing colours and textures, all for his long hair. In the final wrapping is a mug, but not just any mug, its a mug that looks like a little cute bear. Inside there is a a pair of thick reading socks and next to the mug is a book that Bucky has been eyeing every time they go to the bookstore (which is like every week).

Bucky’s eyes tear up with all the gifts on his lap. “You got me,” he pauses to sniffle. “You got me soft things.”

Steve takes Bucky’s face in his hands. “You are not harsh baby, you are soft and cuddly. You like drinking tea and reading books on rainy days, you like cozying up in a heap of blankets when we watch Disney movies. You pull your hair into messy buns in your sweats and sing and hum around the house. Nothing about you is harsh or cold. You are soft and warm my Bucky Bear. Your body is no longer meant for fighting, you can be soft now. And I love you so much.” They both cry as they stare at each other.

“I love you Stevie, thank you for everything,” Bucky muffles after burying his face into the crook in the blonds neck. They spend the rest of the day together, first in bed, then in the shower, then on the couch. After years of torture, abuse, being frozen, and treated as a war machine, for the first time in a very long time, Bucky truly felt soft, for the first time in a really long time, Bucky felt a glimmer of his old self.

All of that thanks to the love of his life.