#just stupid acid problems

[chronicallyonline-fandomwh0r3]

I measured with my heart into a crockpot and now I have Devine stew in front of me that is helping with my current issues of acid reflux.

(yes, my body has decided to try and destroy my life again and I had to go to the ER Wednesday for it. just have to wait and see if the acid in my stomach is going to be a permanent or temporary issue this time.)

@britcision @stealingyourbones

calling my fellow body broken buddies here to see this delicious food.

[lttleghost]

I've complained about this meme before but I feel like I can more precisely describe why it pisses me off now, cause like yeah yeah it's silly it doesn't matter all that much but like... the joke of it is basically just "haha Jesse stupid and messes stuff up Walt knows about" without actually... thinking about Walt or Jesse's characters and what they're actually knowledgeable about nor about the actual contexts of all trainwrecks that these two get into and how almost every single time it's WALT who had the more reasonable option to avoid it

like okay so we see Jesse play video games, we see even more game cases scattered around his house and apartment, my girl is a gamer, and there is no such evidence with Walt. if one of these characters knows a ton about minecraft and the other doesn't, the knowledgeable one is gonna be Jesse - but Walt hates not being in control, he likes to boss around others and he thinks he knows better than others, and especially thinks he knows better than Jesse, and Jesse has shit self esteem and is easily manipulated and caves to what Walt wants him to do most of the time after awhile. realistically this situation would go something along the lines of Jesse trying to tell Walt how to make a cobblestone generator, Walt saying that it makes no sense for some reason or another and telling Jesse to do it a different way, and then acting like it's Jesse's fault that it didn't work when Jesse goes and does it like Walt told him to, kinda like how Jesse tells Walt that doing certain things and getting involved with certain people as drug dealers isn't a good idea and Walt tells him to do something anyway and it goes badly for both of them

or even if we wanted to assume that Walt IS the one with the minecraft knowledge, any time past literally episode one Jesse tends to ask questions when he doesn't fully understand something, and Walt often just dismisses the question, Jesse still tries to do whatever he's supposed to with his limited knowledge but fails, in such examples as "why won't fluoric acid melt this flimsy plastic" so a different route for a more accurate meme is that Walt tells Jesse how to make the cobblestone generator, something about the process doesn't make sense to Jesse, he asks a clarifying question, Walt's answer is basically "fuck you", Jesse still tries his goddamn best even if he fails and Walt blames it on Jesse over considering the idea that refusing to answer Jesse's clarifying question was the actual problem

[cupidkenji]

thinking so hard rn about Butcher who won’t let you cum until you call him daddy LISTEN 👂

the name is a familiar one when it comes to him, no problems listening to it leave his mouth and stir a feeling in you that’s so infuriatingly his. You used to make fun of guys like that, tell your friends the thought of it made your skin crawl. But the casual dominance of the name, the way he owned it so effortlessly, it made you so fucking wet and he knew it.

“C’mon, love” you’re sure it had to have been an hour by now, his strokes had gotten slow, barely having to move before he felt you about to cum, halting at the tightening of you. “You know you want to”

“Butcher-” your words were breathy as he worked you up again and stopped, your own inhale cutting off anything you were gonna say. You felt stupid pleading with him, he’d never been a man keen to relenting “..please”

the faintest hint of that stupid fucking smirk had been permanently lodged on his lips since this whole ordeal had started. “Just need to ‘ear one word from that pretty mouth-” he sped his fingers up “and i’ll make you cum as many times as your heart desires”

swallowing your pride was proving to be a tremendous task, causing nothing but failed attempts to get stuck in your throat, forcing out little whimpers that did nothing but make him raise his eyebrows, rhetorically questioning whether he’d warn you down enough. “It’s a pretty fucking clear cut choice you got here” he spoke low, his voice slightly hoarse from how long he’d dragged this out. “You know full well I’ll leave you like this”

his eyes felt unbelievably heavy on you, only adding to the tension in your stomach. He smiled, small and diluted, just barely an upturn of his lips. “Just say it for me” he pouts lightly at you, mocking the expression on your own face as he looks at you. “Do as I say, yeah? Who knows what’s best for you?”

you arched your back as he sped up again, your lack of response prompting an unsatisfied Butcher to use another denied orgasm as retaliation. “Hm?”

the word felt like acid melting through your teeth, the response forcing it’s way out of your mouth to be only barely audible to your ears. A smug, gratified look found home on his face. “Well, ain’t that sweet” Of course he’d heard it, clear as day. “Wasn’t so hard then, was it?”

as he sped up again, this time dedicated to his pace, you just prayed he didn’t make this a habit

shoutout to all the daddy kink butcher fic writers out there yall have made me horrifically question everything i once thought i knew about myself

[ssinboo]

Say Yes to me

summary: You've been in love with Jeon Wonwoo since forever, and due to your family relations, you had hopes you'd marry him. Your only problem? he's getting engagement to someone else.

or

During his Engagement party, your childhood best friend and love of your life, Jeon Wonwoo, asks you to run away with him.

pairing: 1960s!AU - Childhood bestfriend! Wonwoo x F!Reader

word count: 10k (45~ minute read) – My longest ever!

warnings: unrequited crushes and overall foolishness, idiots in love, best friends to lovers to not lovers to lovers again, some angst?, Wonwoo is such a nerd, making out in dingy motels, unrealistic mileage for gasoline, seokmin being the sweetest

a/n: This will most certainly be my last fic of the year! So, Happy Holidays everyone! This year has been so troublesome, but I've grown so much and written a lot more, too! I'm so, so grateful for everyone I've met and everyone that's enjoyed my stuff! See you in 2024!

Had you been questioned, there would never be a concrete answer to the question of just how long you had been in love with Jeon Wonwoo. 

You’d know him forever, and maybe you loved him all along.

Your families were business partners turned friends. And there had always been talk of marriage between the children. Of course, for convenience. The Jeon’s produced top-class racing and sports cars, while your family were in the chemical business, specialising in industry paints and finishes, it was only natural to unite the two families and profit. 

Although your wealth was vast, it was nothing compared to the Jeon’s, despite always having the chance to frequent the same environments, you often found you were on different levels altogether. 

Jeon Wonwoo was the eldest son, and he carried himself as such — with all the poise and arrogance of the heir to a global conglomerate. He liked golfing and late night swims. Always took his coffee black with no sugar, and barely had anything for breakfast, preferring a hearty lunch instead. 

His younger brother, Lee Seokmin, was the result of an affair with a secretary, though that did not mean he was loved any less, no. Seokmin lacked a single mean bone in his body, he had a pure heart and a contagious laugh.  

They were by all means what people liked to call Irish Twins, born less than a year apart. And the nature of that fact only made their differences more apparent. Complete opposites they were, and that extended to how they treated you, too. 

Every summer growing up, your family would travel to the country house and you and your sister would spend the better part of the months at the club. Oh, how you loved the country club with the fun summer activities the clear chlorinated water, having a meal under the pool umbrellas and getting funny tan lines. 

But most of all, you enjoyed Jeon Wonwoo.

His family frequented the same club and every summer, you’d be practically glued to Wonwoo, even if he didn’t dare to pay you any attention.

You were only three years apart, yet he acted as if you were an immature brat. Seokmin had always been happy to play with you and your sister, though. 

More often than not, Wonwoo would lounge by the pool with a book, never daring to go in. And you would cross your arms over tile by the sides and try your damnedest to strike a conversation with him. He would ignore your every word, or worse, poke fun at your latest obsession. 

“Wonwoo, at what time where you born?” You ask, spitting out any chlorine filled water off your mouth. 

He arches an eyebrow, looking up from his book.

“What?”

“What time were you born?” You repeat, unbothered by his acidic tone.

“Why would I know that?”

“Can’t you ask your mum?” 

He rolls his eyes, “Why do you wanna know?”

“So I can see your birth chart,” You shrug, twirling a wet strand of hair around your finger. 

“The fuck is a birth chart?”

“It’s like… It’s a way to see your personality… And I can check to see if we’re compatible.”

“That’s stupid…” He rolls his eyes, again, “You’re stupid.” 

You scoff, “You won’t play along— You’re such a bore!” You yell out and dive back in the pool, leaving behind a cackling Wonwoo. 

Those hapless summer days were spent lazing by the pool with your sister and Seokmin — without a care in the world, laughing about nothing. With the isolated water-balloon fight every now and then. 

You’d grown up before you could realise it, never truly leaving behind your childish crush on Wonwoo. Even if by the age hierarchy, you had no chance of marrying him — Your sister were to marry Wonwoo and you possibly married Seokmin. 

Though you held hope, it crumbled away with every passing minute. 

But that year, your sister had the greatest early birthday present: She’d found the man she was to marry and best of all, your daddy could never say no to his girls. 

With your sister marrying the love of her life, it meant that you would marry Wonwoo, right? It was only a matter of time and you would be sworn to each other before God, your friends, and family. And your first love would blossom. 

On your 21st birthday, your father took you to work with him for the day, though you most lazed around and answered his calls. You only expected to have lunch for your birthday and a party on the weekend.

At noon, he drove to the Jeon’s factory to deliver the new paint samples. 

The workers, most of whom had watched you, your sister and the Jeon kids grow up, greet you excitedly and some even wish you happy birthday. Your father goes straight to the floor to speak to the manager.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Jeon himself shows up.

Mr. Jeon was a handsome old man a captivating smile, he was incredibly passionate about his work and adored mechanics, but he loved his sons above all — And he had great expectations for his boys. 

He greets you with a warm hug and wishes you a happy birthday before discussing business with your father. To which you busy yourself with staring at the pieces waiting for a coat of paint.

“Hey, baby, why don’t you come with us to the patio?” Your father calls and you oblige, skipping toward the two men.

The patio is where they stored their models waiting to be shipped out to agencies or sometimes, for the higher profile clients, directly to the customer. You look at the new line to be launched next winter: sleek and modern with leather seats and wooden accents on the interior. You could never criticise the Jeon’s for their taste, they knew their stuff. 

“Come here, baby,” Your father waves his hands, “What do you think of this car?” 

You study the convertible in a bright red with a cream leather interior; a classic. 

“It’s gorgeous, daddy, when are they launching it?”

“It should be out next year, but what do you think of the colour?”

“I like it,” You nod enthusiastically.

“That’s great baby, why don’t you read up on this model?” He hands you a tiny card, common in the factory, that has the model and batch number, as well as the signature from the supervisor. But just underneath the model, you see the colour name: your name.

As you look at your father, completely astonished, he just lets out a warm laugh and opens his arms for a hug.

“You named a shade after me?!” You glue yourself to him, still in shock. 

“Happy birthday, princess.” 

“Thank you, daddy, you’re the best!” 

“That’s your dad’s present, how about you open mine, now?” Mr. Jeon interjects, waving a tiny jewelry box in the air. 

You fix your hair and take it from his hand, expecting maybe a ring, or earrings. 

But you find brand new car keys.

Mouth agape, you look at him while your father can only laugh at your surprised expression.

“Why don’t you give it a spin?” Mr. Jeon encourages, rushing you toward the convertible. 

And though your father is beside himself with worry for you driving during rush hour, he settles for sitting in the passenger’s seat and doing some good old backseat driving, even though you barely make it past 30.

You drive around the block and return to the factory before your father has an anxiety attack over your driving. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Jeon! When did you even do this?! I had no idea!”

“Wonwoo oversaw the whole thing, he’s the one you should thank,” He laughs it off, but your heart can only skip a beat at the mention of your beloved’s name. Especially thinking he was the one to take care of such a great gift.

Wonwoo loved mechanics as much as his dad, sometimes even more. He even went to a good college for it, coming back even smarter than before — and much sassier, too. He never stopped doing manual work in the factory, guaranteeing every car made was up to the Jeon standard.

And you were very biased toward his mechanic abilities, especially when he would furrow his brow, glasses perched on the very tip of his nose; he would wipe off sweat off his forehead with his grease covered arm. 

You remember to this day the last time your father came to discuss swatches and you stopped by the shop. Watching Wonwoo work on an older model with a leaky oil tank. 

He did everything himself, changed the tank perched under the car, soldering a brand new one. He also did a once over on anything else that could become a problem in the future, any filters needing change, checking wires and gears, making sure the oil was fresh. The problem came with the lights. He had such a hard time wiggling his thick arms through the machinery to reach the right spot, and you watched very intently how his triceps flexed, deep green veins bulging under his skin.

Wonwoo had gotten so frustrated he’d shed off the top part of his coveralls, sporting a white undershirt so tight you could basically tell the shape of his sweat-clad torso. Oh, how you’d hoped he never got that bulb in place.

“Come’ere,” Wonwoo calls out without further ado. 

“Why?”

“Need your help,” He mumbles under a sigh.

You rise from the barrel you were sitting on and approach the open hood. “With what?”

“Getting this fuckin’ bulb in place,” He hands you the tiny light bulb.

“Where do I need to put it?”

“See— in between this part, need to shove you hand until you reach back here in the light, then you just screw it in.”

“What if I get stuck?” 

“You won’t, you’re so petite,” He smirks.

You scoff, “Shut up.”

Leaning over the hood, you place your left hand on the chassis to steady yourself and shove your right hand in between gears and machinery, trying to find the spot he mentioned.

“I can’t find it,” You complain.

“Keep trying.”

“I am!”

“Here, deeper—“ He reaches for you, one hand on your waist and another on your arm, forcing you toward the place.

You’re way too focused on finding the damn spot for the light, that you barely notice the proximity at all. 

“Can’t find it!”

“Right, right— My right.”

“It’s the same freakin’ right, you idiot,” You hiss.

He laughs, “Fine, our right,” you groan at his stupid joke, “It should be there, try to bring it closer to you.” 

“Found it!” You squeal with a smile, screwing the bulb in its place. 

“Atta girl,” Wonwoo smiles. 

“There!” With a relieved sigh, you finally free your grease-clad hand from the machinery, slightly cringing at the black covering your fingernails — It’d be such a bother to clean it up. 

When you finally lean back, you stumble onto Wonwoo’s firm chest. Lucky for you, he catches you, steady hold at your waist. You’re finally aware of his proximity, to which he only smiles. 

Looking down at where his warm, tauntingly large hands meet your waist, you’re suddenly filled with nothing but rage. ‘

“You got grease all over my dress!” You whine, looking at the perfectly stamped print of his hand over your brand new summer dress. 

He only laughs, “Looks better this way, trust me.”

“Ugh!” You groan, stomping toward the washing area where they kept clean rugs. 

He closes the hood with a loud thump that echoes through the shop and slides into the driver’s seat. The car comes alive with a loud hum and ta-da! The headlight works. 

You are a little proud of your work, yes. But it’s not like you’ll show it.

“Do you not anything clean in here?!” You complain, eyeing the pile of grease-covered rags thrown in a corner. That had to be a fire hazard.

“What?” Wonwoo shouts over the running engine.

You huff and stomp your way back to the car, throwing open the driver’s door. “I have a formal dinner to go to,” You state, leaning over the door.

“Okay, then go.” 

Rolling your eyes, you hold back any possible insults, “Like this?” You gesture toward your otherwise perfectly fine dress. 

He holds back a little mischievous smile, “I have some clean clothes in the office.”

Wide eyes, mouth hanging agape, you stare at him dumbfound, “I hope that’s a joke, Jeon Wonwoo.” 

He laughs, genuinely. That sweet, deep, dorky laugh of his that reverberates through his chest and plunges straight into your heart. 

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

As much as he did tease you, Wonwoo never made short on his promises. 

“Is he around?” You ask Mr. Jeon, trying your best to suppress any expectations.

“Oh, he had some business… But he wished you a happy birthday.”

Your smile falters before your catch it, forcing the corners of your lips into a beautiful, rehearsed smile. “Let him know I’m grateful. For the wishes and for the amazing present.”

It would soon be Wonwoo’s birthday and you had been preparing for what felt like ages. You got him a really nice set of electric work tools since he complained often about how the shop’s tools were always malfunctioning. But you did feel somewhat bad about only getting him a gift relating to work on what should be a day about him. 

So you caved in and got him a gorgeous wrist watch with classy black leather straps; on the underside you had his name inscribed with a heart. — You actually hadn’t planned for the heart, but the jeweller got confused in between so many orders and it was too close to the date to have it re-done. You hoped you could play it off in a cool manner, maybe he would laugh at your story.

The party would be held the eve of his actual birthday, and you arrived at the venue with hours to spare. Your father and sister are by the entrance, speaking to Mr. Jeon, you greet them.

“Hi, Mr. Jeon! Where should I put the gifts?”

“Oh—“ Surprised, he looks at your father, “You’ve brought gifts—“ He seems… surprised? As if it were so weird to bring presents to a birthday party. “Uh— I’m not sure, let me check with my wife where you could place those.”

You father nervously sips on his champagne, avoiding your sister’s burning looks.

“You haven’t told her,” Your sister turns to your father, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“Tell me what?” You ask.

“Honey… This isn’t Wonwoo’s birthday party…” Your father speaks very slowly, gauging for your reaction at his every word.

Eyebrows raised, you question, “What do you mean?”

“It’s an engagement party, he’s getting engaged to Suzy,” Your sister rips the band-aid off.

And you feel the air being sucked out of your lungs at once, an agonising knot pulls at your throat and your nose stings with the threat of tears. The shopping bags fall from your hands and you fight off the urge to bawl your eyes out. 

Before you actually do cry your eyes out, you rush outside.

“Baby—“ Your father calls but you just storm off, not wanting to be near anyone. 

Engaged? Engaged!

Engaged…

Wonwoo was getting fucking engaged. 

With a bitch named Suzy who had the prettiest hair you’d ever seen and knew how to talk to investors and could speak a thousand languages. And worst of all, she was the kindest, sweetest girl ever. You couldn’t even hate her!

You weren’t even allowed that! As much as you weren’t allowed a simple heads up. How hard was it to tell you beforehand “Hey, the guy you’ve loved your entirely life is getting married to some girl and you just brought lemon pies to his engagement party, thought you’d want to know.”

Maybe you should’ve taken the pies with you, at least you’d have some comfort. 

You know what, what the fuck. Why didn’t Wonwoo tell you anything?! It had been barely a couple of days since you saw each other, why couldn’t he tell you? Were you not even worthy of that? 

Like having known each other your entire lives doesn’t make you worthy of such ”wonderful” news? How hard is it to tell someone in passing that you’re getting engaged! And now, you’re supposed to smile all night and pretend like your guts aren’t festering in rage and melancholy and your blood doesn’t run cold at the mere thought of Wonwoo walking down the aisle.

Giving it a second thought, maybe it wasn’t set in stone yet. 

It’s the modern times and even back in your parents’ days, engagements were broken off all the time! He might not marry Suzy. You might have a chance. 

Maybe you could ask— no, you could plead with your father to tell Mr. Jeon to think it all over. Wonwoo is still young, it’s not time to settle down just yet. He wanted to study abroad, he talked about the automobile industry in Europe with such amaze, and if that took a little longer, maybe Suzy would get tired of waiting?

Who were you fooling? You should’ve seen it coming.

Of course, he wouldn’t have married you, what were you thinking?!

He’s the Jeon’s precious firstborn and you’re… someone who can’t even tell apart the sizing in wrenches —  To top it all off, Suzy was notably great with mechanics. 

You really wish you had those pies with you, it would make your salty tears a little sweeter.

By the time you’re done sobbing in your car, you look a hot mess with runny make-up and swollen eyes. With a sigh, you pull out your purse and muster up any cosmetics that can save you for tonight. 

You could cry all you wanted at home, but right now, you needed to look pretty and have your pictures taken.

By the time you return, the party is to start and guests are gathering at the front, your sister immediately rushes to your side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, soft hands reaching for yours. 

Forcing out a smile, “Of course! Who do you think I am?”

By the look on her face, you know she doesn’t trust your words not one bit, but will not pry at your emotions any further. At least not for tonight, you’re sure tomorrow she will grill you about this. But for now, you put on a bright smile and greet all the guests.

From the Jeon’s, Seokmin is the third to arrive, missing only by the birthday boy himself. But he immediately greets his parents and comes to greet your family.

“Hey!” You smile, putting aside your glass of champagne so you can hug him properly.

“How you doin’?” He asks, gorgeous smile on display. 

“I’m— Well—“

“They’ve told you then—“ 

You press your lipstick coloured lips into a thin line, “Yeah,” You nod.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” You shrug, “I’m happy, Suzy is… a—“ Nice words. Nice words. “—wonderful girl.”

Seokmin offers you a sweet smile. “Let’s hope she can handle his tantrums,” he nudges at your arm.

“Oh, please!” You laugh.

Wonwoo was known for sometimes having a bit of a short temper, not often, by any means and maybe that’s what made them so memorable. Like the one time he couldn’t finish a puzzle during game night, so he gathered all the pieces and set the ablaze in the backyard.

“Or—“ A waiter passes by with a tray full of champagne and he so kindly grabs two glasses, offering you one. “Listen to this— He gets to the church, covered in grease from head to toe.” 

You laugh at the thought. Gods, how many times has Wonwoo decided to work on an engine while wearing his most expensive outfit? His mother nearly had a fit every time he would show up dishevelled and smelling like motor oil pretending like nothing’s wrong. 

“Please,” You sip at your drink, “I bet he’s gonna be all greased up tonight.”

Seokmin laughs wholeheartedly. He was the sort of guy to never hold back a fit of giggles no matter how inappropriate it may be, and it was certainly refreshing to know someone genuinely found your company enjoyable.

“For sure, I think her parents will freak out.” 

You nod. 

Tapping at your glass, you hesitate the following words, “Guess we’ll be the ones getting married for the family, then…”

You didn’t hate Seokmin, far from it. You loved him to bits— Not like Wonwoo, of course, you believed you would never love a man like you loved Wonwoo, ever again. 

He was funny, and such a gentleman. Not to mention, handsome, too. If you weren’t hopelessly in love with his brother, he would’ve been the perfect husband of your dreams. But he did deserve better than a wife who could never give him what he deserves. 

“Sorry about that,” Seokmin comforts you and that only makes your nose sting with the threat of more tears.

“Stooop!” You whine in a shaky voice and he’s overcome with worry.

“Hey— What’s wrong—?”

“Don’t be so sweet— I’m emotional tonight—“ You laugh at your emotional state, despite the teary-eyes.

“Are you a crybaby tonight?”

You nod, fanning your eyes in the hope of drying your tears before they can wash away your makeup.

Seokmin smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and you lean against his chest, fighting the urge to cry.

It’s only when you’re certain you won’t bawl your eyes out, that you respond. “It’s not that I hate you, you know I love you, but… You deserve someone that will love you like a husband.” 

He nods, “I know— But it might not be so bad, we’re friends! We’ll have sleepovers every day, and we’ll have Italian every night, we’ll watch those silly movies you like…” Seokmin lists off all the things you would do in your very platonic marriage and it doesn’t sound so bad. 

He knew exactly how you felt, he loved you, of course he did, you were so precious in his eyes, but not like a lover. 

You pull your face away from his chest to look up at him, “Are you gonna let me choose your clothes?” 

Seokmin sighs. You hated his questionable fashion since forever and in only very rare occasions did he accept your input, any other time and he assaulted your spirit with clashing patterns and silly shoes.

“Fine—!” 

You smile brightly, properly comforted. 

Before you can tease him any further, you spot Wonwoo entering the venue. Although he is immediately swarmed with congratulatory words, his shy nature makes it so his only response is always an awkward smile. 

He immediately spots you among the crowd.

You breathe in. In that moment, despite knowing he was sworn to another, that did not stop your heart from fluttering at the sight of him, his broad shoulders and the crooked tie he clearly put on a rush.

“Congrats, bro!” Seokmin is the first one to greet him, not letting go of your shoulder but instead pulling Wonwoo into a semi-hug. 

“Seokmin…” Wonwoo eyes his brother and then you, and then his brother again.

“Congrats, Nonu,” You smile, letting go of Seokmin’s comfort to reach for a hug. 

Wonwoo smiles, letting you cling onto his neck, your citric perfume seeping into his clothes and body. 

Oh, how his warmth could never compare to another. How you craved his affection like no other. 

“Thanks— Uh, did you bring me anything?” He asks in a teasing tone.

“Ey— Nonu!” Seokmin scolds his brother. 

“How did you know I brought you something?” You giggle, pulling away from the hug. 

Wonwoo shrugs. 

You reach for his crooked tie, straightening it to the best of your abilities. “I brought it earlier, but I think your mum took it to the back room,” You explain, focused on the tie.

He, however is focused on your concentrated face, parted red lips and furrowed brows. The proximity that lets him almost feel your chest pressed against his, as if extending the hug. 

“However, you, mister, have to greet your guests!” You scold, setting his tie in place.

Seokmin joins in, once again throwing his arm around your shoulder. “That’s right, mum already gave me an earful about how late you were— And I got here on time!” 

“Yeah— Yeah— You’re right,” Wonwoo nods.

“Liquid courage?” You offer your half-drunk glass of champagne and he downs it in one go.

You and Seokmin goof around a little more and gossip about certain guests behind their backs. Dinner is served and you all sit down to eat, Seokmin insists you sit beside him, which just so happens to also be next to Wonwoo. And you thank him for indulging you one last time.

Wonwoo is mostly quiet, but you were used to him not being rather fond of public parties, especially when all of the attention is on him. On his other side, sits Suzy, the blushing bride-to-be. She tries to make conversation with Wonwoo, though most of it falls flat, he only ever gives her monosyllabic answers and rarely contributes to discussions. 

That is until Mr. and Mrs. Jeon stand up, tapping forks to their glasses to call for everyone’s attention. The room quiets down instantly. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending our little gathering tonight,” Mr Jeon greets the guests. “We have some wonderful news we would like to share with you all.” 

“My beautiful son, how proud I am of you,” He adds, “Every day I am  amazed at your intellect. Often, I question just where did you get those smarts!”

Everyone laughs.

“You have grown into a fine man, and I can’t take credit for any of it. You are the most mature, talented, and intelligent boy and you did it all by yourself— ”

You can watch how Wonwoo’s eyes gloss over with tears. 

“I’m growing old, you know. And every father wants the guarantee that his children will be taken care of… That’s why I’m so relieved and happy to announce that my worries will soon be gone—“ He laughs but his son’s smile falters, “I’d like to announce the engagement of my son, Wonwoo, to this beautiful young lady named Suzanne. Welcome to the family, Suzy.” 

He raises his glass and soon, the room fills with uproar. Everyone claps and you join in, smiling toward Mr. Jeon and Suzy. She stands up, thanking everyone and raising her own glass.

But Wonwoo doesn’t move. 

“Nonu?” You whisper. 

In his ears all that can be heard is muffled screams of joy and the incessant acute ringing. He closes his fists so tight that his blunt nails almost break through skin, he doesn’t look at you, but it’s so clear something is wrong.

You and Seokmin exchange glances. 

Before you can call for him again, he stands up at once, the chair falling behind him with a loud bang that silences the room in an instant. In large and rushed strides, Wonwoo leaves for the patio. 

You stand up and follow him. 

“Wonwoo!” You call out, almost tripping over your party heels. 

He stands in the yard, hand gripping at his gelled hair while the other fights with his tie, pulling at the suffocating fabric until it slides down.

The yard is decorated with a gorgeous fountain, sound of running water somewhat soothing in this moment.

“Nonu, what’s wrong?” You whisper, a hand reaching for his heaving shoulder.

“What wrong?!” He yells back, shoving your hand away, “Did you not fuckin’ hear ‘em?!” 

You step back and his gaze somewhat softens, realising he just pushed you.

“You didn’t know…” You whisper to yourself, epiphany hitting you like a punch to the gut. How could Mr. Jeon do this?! Throw this on him without any previous warning?!

“You— You knew?” His voice is shaky, laced with the sharp sting of betrayal.

“I found it out myself tonight when I got here— I— I thought you knew! I thought you agreed to it!” You argue. 

“How— How can you think I would agree to marry someone—“ His words trail off in the night breeze, never to be finished. 

“Then— What will you do?”

“I don’t know!” 

You bite at your nails, finding a concrete surface to sit on and ponder. 

“I must leave—“ He speaks out, “Run away with me—“

“What?!” you stand up.

“Let’s leave, drive somewhere— Wherever! I can’t stay a moment longer in this place.” 

Oh, what a dilemma it was.

Abandon an engagement party with the groom-to-be, leaving behind furious parents and confused guests. And part of you knew that, despite your family’s closeness and no matter how much your father claimed you were all very close like family, driving off in the middle of the night with a committed man was a blow to any respectable, single, young ladies.

What a dilemma it could’ve been if you weren’t so enamoured with this man you would beck at any given call of his.

“I’ll get my bag and tell your parents you want to stay out here for a couple of minutes,” You announce and he nods.

As you walk back into the venue, all eyes are on you.

“He’s got the wedding jitters, everyone, not to worry. Wonwoo will return after he’s had a bit of fresh air,” You announce with a smile and all guests return to their previous activities.

But Mr. Jeon immediately corners you.

“What is he thinking?!” He half-yells, half-whispers.

“He’s just nervous, it’s a big bit of news…” You lie through your teeth, “I think a little heads up would’ve helped, you know he doesn’t do well with surprises.”

The man sighs, “He wouldn’t ever agree to it. I’ve offered him countless girls to marry and he never accepts any of them.“ Mr. Jeon looks at you and then sighs. “Do me a favour, convince him to come back, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” You nod and head off into the back rooms.

Unbeknown to you, Seokmin is on your trail and he waits until you are in the back lounge, gathering your bags and jacket to close the door and corner you.

“What the hell happened?”

You jump at the sudden intrusion, “You scared me!” You whisper.

“Sorry,” He whispers back.

“He didn’t know!”

“What?!” He says in a normal tone, soon realising just how loud that was. 

“What I said, I think your dad set up a trap… He knows Wonwoo won’t go against his word.”

“Shit. What are we gonna do?”

“He wants to run away,” You announce.

Seokmin looks at you, and then at the purse hanging from your should and the jacket in your hands. 

“And you’re coming with him?”

“I can’t leave him alone, not tonight.”

“And where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” 

“And when are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are coming back, right?”

“I have no idea, Seokmin,” You realise, but the prospect doesn’t scare you as badly.

He scratches at his head. “Leave through the kitchen, I’ll hold off my dad. Make sure to give me a call once you guys are… I don’t know— Just give a call, will you?” 

You nod, pulling him into a hug.

Doing as he instructed, you pass through the kitchen staff and rush through the backdoor, unseen by the guests. Wonwoo is sitting on a concrete bench, his head between his hands.

“Ready?” You call out.

Wonwoo looks up, nodding before he rises to his height. You offer him a comforting smile and reach for his hand. 

Once you get hold of his hand, you bolt across the yard toward the parking lot. He almost stumbles over his lanky legs, but catches up rather fast. You throw your stuff on the backseat and enter your car, Wonwoo decides to jump over the door. 

You laugh at his antics with a shake of your head. 

Once your heels are discarded, you start the engine and drive off, leaving behind that dreaded engagement party. Wonwoo busies himself with shedding his formal wear, throwing his tie on the floor and removing his blazer. 

In any other occasion, this could’ve been such a lovely late-night drive, just the two of you in your beloved car, night breeze caressing your faces with her ice-cold kisses, cruising through deserted roads, barely a soul in sight except for the night owls.

And you might allow yourself to enjoy this moment.

The silence isn’t a bother, no, Wonwoo was always a man of comfortable silences to you, but this once, you’re worried about goes on in that busy mind of his.

“You alright?” You ask, looking away from the road to steal a glance or two at him.

“Yeah,” He replies.

“Truly?”

“No,” He scoffs at his own lie. “But I’ll be.”

You nod. 

You drive out of town and on the interstate roads for ages until Wonwoo finally speaks up. You’re completely engulfed in darkness except for your headlights.

“We should stop soon and have a rest.”

“Okay,” You nod, “Any preferences?”

“Anywhere.” 

And so you tell him to keep his eyes peeled open when a sign on the road says there should be a motel in the next couple KM. It doesn’t take too long before you’re pulling into the parking lot of a roadside motel, much of a far-cry from your expensive hotels and luxury living. 

You check in at the front desk with an old man who seems very unhappy with his life, he short of throws the keys your way. 

The room is… surprisingly nice, given the circumstances of the ambience. Only problem is the, although quite large, singular bed. You exchange glances.

“Shit,” Wonwoo curses, “I’m gonna 

“You wanna get hit?” You joke, “He’s minutes away from killing us over this room. We can just share the bed.”

He looks at you with wide eyes. “I’ll sleep in the tub.”

Oh, he certainly seems to hate the idea of sharing a bed with you, huh.

“Nonu, please, it’s late and we’re both tired. It will be just like when we were kids,” You explain, setting aside your stuff.

Wonwoo nods, sitting on the strangely comfortable bed.

“You think they have robes?” You ask, looking around.

“Wouldn’t bet on it.” 

“Oh, I’d kill to get out of this dress,” You whine, running to the bathroom to check for anything you could wear instead of your dress. 

He just bites at his lips, watching you pace from side to side in that tiny bedroom. 

That’s when you remember your forgotten shopping bags sitting in the trunk! Your compulsive shopping habits just saved you from a very uncomfortable night’s sleep, how convenient!

“I think I have some clothes in my car,” You announce, grabbing the keys and heading toward the door.

“Wait, you’re going by yourself? let me go with you.”

“I don’t wanna lock the door, though,” You whine.

He sighs, “Stay here, I’ll go.” 

You jump, “Thank you, Nonu!”

While Wonwoo rummages through your trunk and pulls out the surprising large amount of shopping bags, you shed off your clothes and head toward the bathroom, dying to get some hot water on your body, put on your new PJs and doze off. 

When he returns however, he is greeted by a sight any other man would die to see. You’ve left a trail of clothes from the bed toward the bathroom door. Starting on your pretty dress, splayed out over tiled-floor, and then your tights and then your underwear, matching, too— 

He clears his throat. “I’m back!” 

But you probably don’t hear him through the running shower, so he just sets down the bags and avoid the sight of your clothes. He decides to turn on the tiny TV and browse through any late night re-runs. You take only a couple of minutes in your shower.

“Nonu?” You ask from the bathroom.

“Yeah?” He turns down the TV.

“Did you find the clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you bring me something to wear?” Wonwoo gulps. 

“Uh— Which one?”

“There should be a light blue bag and a pink one.” 

“Okay—“ He stands up and searches for the aforementioned colours. 

Wonwoo heads to the bathroom door and leans against the wall, facing away from the door. He knocks once. You open the door and shove your arm through, reaching for the bags.

“Thank youu!” 

He returns to the boring TV. Though all he could think about was the sight of your wet supple skin, knowing you were bare with only a thin sheet of plywood separating you. 

You leave the bathroom smelling of cheap soap and fresh into your brand new nightgown. It is tentatively short with an almost see-through round of lace over the hems. In your defence, you weren’t planning on showing this nightgown to anyone anytime soon. 

Sitting on the bed, you look around the room, not noticing how Wonwoo’s eyes don’t really meet yours or how red his ears seem to burn.

“Aren’t you gonna shower?” You ask.

“Feels a bit redundant to shower and get back into my dirty clothes.” 

“I think I might have something for you, if you don’t want to sleep in a suit,” You pry.

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, “I’m listening.”

“But you can’t judge! I bought this for my dad because you know he deals very poorly with the heat— And he never buys himself anything!” You’re explaining yourself in advance because you remember very well what you bought.

Silky boxer shorts and a tank top, which your father loved to sleep in on stuffy summer nights but you doubted would be Wonwoo’s first choice of wear, ever.

He haggles with his own mind; give into the silky boxer shorts or sleep in the most uncomfortable outfit ever. With a tired sigh, Wonwoo accepts his fate and grabs the bag. 

You smile as he stomps toward the bathroom with a defeated frown.

By the time he returns, you’ve cleaned up your trail of clothes and made yourself very comfortable in the bed. You turn your head to face him.

God, he could make a potato sack look good. 

“How’s the fit?” You pull your eyes away before you look for too long. 

Wonwoo shrugs, “I’ve had worse.”

You laugh.

He coyly joins you in bed, keeping a large gap between your bodies, settling on top of the covers while you’re under their warmth. 

“Ain’t you cold?” You ask, fidgeting with the TV remote. 

Wonwoo shakes his head, leaning back into the headboard. With a pout, you cross the figurative bridge between the two of you and reach for him. He doesn’t shy away from your touch but it visibly confused.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hands hovering in the air, far away from your exposed back.

“I’m sorry your birthday party sucked,” You murmur against his chest, Wonwoo smiles softly, letting his hands rest on you.

“It didn’t suck in its entirety,” he says, palms slightly tapping at your back, “it was fun running away with you.”

You giggle at his comment, heart fluttering at its meaning, “What are we going to do? About the engagement, I mean…”

“We?” He raises an eyebrow.

You pull away from him.

“Well— You dragged me into this!” You slap at his chest and he lets out a boisterous laugh that almost manages to pull the corners of your from into a smile.

“I know, I’m taking the piss out of you,” He extends his arms, pulling you back to your previous position, resuming the soft caresses he leaves on your arms. “I don’t know— This is the first time I’ve ever gone against my father.”

You sigh. “Don’t you wanna marry Suzy?”

There’s a pause and oh, you’re begging, wishing to hear the words you want most.

“Fuck no!” Wonwoo exclaims and you fail to hide your excitement.

“She is pretty,” You throw the bait, to pry at his true feelings.

“So is your sister, should I just marry any pretty girl?”

You raise from your position, eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown. Wonwoo looks at you, completely clueless to his words and its consequences.

“What the hell?!” 

“What?” 

Kicking off the covers in a flurry, you kneel on the bed, staring at him dead in the eyes.  “You have the hots for my sister!”

It’s Wonwoo’s turn to get angry, “What?! No— You’re twisting my words—“

“I’m twisting your words?! You just said you think my sister is pretty!” 

“Because she is!”

You jaw drops, you can’t believe he is doubling down. “Wow,” you shake your head. 

“What’s wrong with saying that?”

You shrug, turning away from him and crossing your arms. “I don’t know, why don’t you just go an marry my sister, then.”

Only then, does this thick-headed man you love so much realise he has been complimenting other girls without so much as telling you a single nice word — the bare minimum. He sighs and offers you a soft smile, shifting in the bed until he is near you again.

“I don’t want to marry your sister. I think she is pretty, but she’s not the prettiest sister, you are.” He waits for your reaction.

Hook, line and sinker. 

You turn around immediately, a hint of smile playing in your pretty lips. 

That’s enough for him to break into a wide smile, opening his arms to welcome you back into his warmth. You crash into his chest, wrapping yourself around his torso. 

He groans, falling back into the mattress but not letting go of you.

Minutes pass before you speak again. “It’s past midnight…” You whisper.

“It’s well past midnight… Why?”

You shift upwards until your faces are only inches apart, breath tickling his lips, your beautiful eyes gleaming under dim motel lighting. “Happy birthday,” You whisper between smiles, “Make a wish.” 

Wonwoo breathes in, eyes scanning your face, “There’s one thing I want…” 

“What is it?” 

If he said it out loud, he might’ve lost all courage to do so. 

So he just does it, Wonwoo leans forward until his lips meet yours in a chaste kiss. 

It probably lasted a couple of seconds, but those seconds felt like a lifetime when you were finally kissing the man you’ve loved for god knows how long. There’s a spark of electricity that burns bright from the moment your lips touch and travels through your body, blood boiling in excitement, shyness, and pure love. 

When the kiss ends, Wonwoo studies your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. Which is even more worrying when you’re standing there, froze solid with an empty stare.

But thankfully, before he can say anything, you throw caution into the wind. 

You pull him into a kiss. Throwing every sense of morale and shame you had out the damn window. He was a man sworn to another, for Pete's sake! But here you here, crashing your lips into his perfect, soft ones. 

Wonwoo lets out a quiet groan, almost inaudible, but you hear it, oh yes, you do. And it runs straight through your chest and down to your core. 

Although the sensible, rational part of your brain tells you to quit kissing him at once and just apologise, the other 99% of your brain, who’s been in love with him since forever, wants nothing of the sort. And you might have listened to the not-so-rational part of you, because you just deepened the kiss, shifting your weight until you’re partially on top of him.

Your lips move against him, shyly exploring this kiss, engraving every moment into your memory. 

Yet he reciprocates. His warm hands finds your waist, holding you flush against his torso, heartbeats thumping completely in-sync. You wrap your arms around his neck and he takes the chance to pull you deeper into those dangerous lips of his. His tongue finds its way into your mouth, licking and twirling against yours, hot and eager. 

He dips his head, one hand reaches to tangle into your hair and manoeuvre you around, allowing himself complete freedom to explore every bit of your mouth. 

Wonwoo kisses like no other. Not that you had too much of a repertoire to compare him to. 

But he consumes your lips with an unbound hunger, nothing similar to the calm and collected Wonwoo you knew, no. He’s hungry, messy, and very clumsy, clashing teeth one too many times, letting saliva drip down your chins and struggling to move with you on top of him.

When you part the kiss, you lay there breathless, gazing into his ridiculously beautiful beady eyes and long eyelashes, his handsome sharp nose and the most kissable lips you’ll ever see.

 It was breathtaking, mind-blowing and nothing like you’ve ever felt before. Your heart beats so fast you feel as if you might pass out at any moment but you’d die before you give up experiencing that again.

“What was that?” He whispers and his breath tickle your kiss-swollen lips. 

“Your birthday gift,” You bite at your lower lip. “Did you like it?”

Wonwoo smiles, breathless and half-lidded and your heart damn near bursts. “I did. Did you?”

You nod.

He nods. “Wanna do it again?”

You nod and he gives you that stupidly handsome smile of his.

And once again, you’re attached at the lips. This once, nothing like before, which you though impossible. It’s so much more desperate and it burns, it boils your blood in absolute desire. It leaves you light-headed, it wipes away your cognitive thoughts and leaves behind a foggy cloud of barely strung-together words that only translate into wanting more. More of him. 

You sigh into the kiss and he drinks it all up, he consumes everything you give him with erratic hands and eager tongue. 

Wonwoo leaves your lips and you whine with a breathless sigh of his name, almost chipping at any resolve he had left. But he nips at your neck nonetheless, warm, wet tongue trailing along your skin, making you twitch in his arms with the most delectable little ‘yips’ of surprise. 

He bites, feral and determined; determined to make his claim, to leave behind his mark on your body, to indulge in carnal pleasure without a prospect of tomorrow, letting everything else be a construct beyond these motel walls, away from where you laid. Away from this reality where he had you in his hands and you moaned his name with a soft smile.

Practically tearing your nightgown, he pulls the silky fabric just enough until your tits spill out of its confine. Wonwoo sighs at the sight, fingers trailing the contour of your boobs, raising goosebumps along sensitive skin. His eyes are burning in adoration, the most depraved glaze of hunger hidden behind sheer excitement. 

He dives in, hands kneading at the flesh, squishing soft skin. 

Slender fingers caress your aereolas, running fingernails along your nipples in curiosity, watching you squirm and bite at your lips as your nipples begin to perk up. 

And when you thought he was done, Wonwoo attaches his mouth to your nipple, sloppily running his tongue around it before he sucks. He makes sure to let his teeth graze, just to watch you jump.

All while his other hand makes work of your unattended boob, your attention is so thinly divided between his teasing fingers and his hot tongue and the sweetest, most satisfied groans that erupt from his throat. 

Your face burns and you bite at the back of your hand, shoving down every stubborn moan that tries to make it past; but he won’t have that, no. Wonwoo reaches for your arms, pinning them above your head without so much as pulling away from your tits. 

Mindlessly, you’ve been rocking back and forth against him, chasing a gut feeling you’re unsure of but desire more than anything ever. And without realising, you’ve been teasing him just as much as he has you, which is clear by the volume contained by his shorts. 

He wishes he could ravish your breasts all night, but any more of your squirming and he will come undone without so much as a touch from you. 

Wonwoo pulls away, hands once against finding your waist as he pulls you back to his chest.

“You know what comes next, don’t you?” He whispers against your lips, half-lidded, lust-filled eyes gazing so deep into your own. 

“I— I’ve never done it before,” You confess.

And something stirs within him, to know he is your first, the first and only man to every touch you this way, to trace his lips over your gorgeous body, to settle inside of you. 

Wonwoo smiles and kisses your nose, “I don’t care… But only if you don’t care that I haven’t either.”

You’re surprised, to say the least. 

Kissing in between smiles, you raise to your knees, letting him tug at the hem of shorts just enough to free his cock. 

It’s nothing like you’ve seen before and unlike the illustrations you remember from school. It’s red and veiny and it glistens with pre-cum under the dim lighting.

But it’s a part of him and you can’t help that your belly stirs at the sight of him stroking himself. 

When you reach for the hem of your nightgown, his hands stop you.

“Keep it on—“ He whispers.

“Why?”

“We’ve got all night to take it off,” He runs his tongue through his top teeth with a side smirk and you almost smack him up the head for being such a little shit.

As he asked so kindly, you bunch up your nightgown around your waist, hips circling around his warmth, meanwhile he’s playing with the flesh of your love handles, kneading and running his fingers over your skin. 

“Ready?”

You nod. He raises your hips and lets you control the pace, you feed in his cock, centimetre by centimetre, feeling it’s girth tear at your walls with an unimaginable sting, it burns hot and heavy in your hands.  

Crashing onto his chest, you cry out a pained yelp.

Wonwoo run his fingers over your back, kissing the top of your head, his eyebrows are bunched up, face painted with worry.  “We can stop— Let’s stop—“

“No!” you raise your head and he can see the tiny droplets bundling around your eyelashes, “Just gimme a minute!”

So you sit there, his cock half-in, pulsing angry red and throbbing under the  tease of warmth and tightness. Especially when you look so breathtakingly gorgeous, he gulps, leaning back against the headboard, urging his mind to be strong. 

It takes you minutes to get used to it, to slowly let the size settle until your muscles are well and accustomed to it and then you start it all over again, feeding the remaining inches until he’s bottomed out. 

And oh heavens, how utterly full and hot you felt. Despite the stinging pain, part of you wants to chase the pleasure, clenching in sheer hunger. 

Wonwoo stares up at you, looking for any signs of discomfort but he is met with the most enticing, beautiful, and tempting creature he’s ever laid his eyes upon. Your eyes are glassy with tears, but you’ve got a determined look on your face with a hint of a smirk that sends shivers down his spine and up his cock. 

“Shit,” He curses out with a smile, leaning back and rutting into your hips only to watch your eyebrows furrow and your mouth gape, a moan threatening to escape. “Ready to move, pretty girl?”

You breathe out, “Yeah.”

Steadying yourself against his chest, you raise your hips, feeling his absence leave you upsettingly empty until you let your body crash back down, his cock impaling you with its warmth once again. You rock against him, shallowly, though the motion is unbearably teasing, even for you. 

Wonwoo lets out an obscene, strained moan, fingernails digging into your waist, but you’re too focused on rocking your hips to notice. How he wants nothing but to piston his hips into your pussy like there is no tomorrow, he relishes in the feeling of your warmth, tight and gummy around his throbbing member. 

And he finds you might be just as insatiable as he is, especially when you’ve found yourself a steady pace, bouncing up and down, and his name pours out of your lips in such a beautiful manner. Though he can’t just let you have all the control, can he?

“Oh—“ You yip, “Feels so— Good—“ Still unsure of your thought, you explore the feeling, rolling your hips, feeling him stretch your wider, fill your insides and leave you full like you’ve never felt before. 

His hips meet yours half way, chasing your cunt every time you leave and pounding into you when you come back down, filling the room with guttural groans and the lewd sound of skin against skin. 

You run your fingers under his shirt, feeling bare, warm skin, the softness of his flesh against your hands, the definition of his pecs and the way his nipples peek through the fabric. Wonwoo groans at the way your manicured nails scratch at his chest, gathering momentum as you bounce yourself on top of him. 

He notices you’ve started moving faster, practically fucking yourself stupid on his cock and he would tease you halfway through tomorrow if he didn’t find himself in such a similar predicament. His pupils are blown wide, eyebrows furrowed across his brow, pretty lips hanging agape. You’re so utterly perfect and you were all his. 

“Tell me how you feel, baby,” He whispers, slowing down for a second. 

You sigh, nuzzling against his neck, “So good— I can’t even describe it—“ Your words are so airy and mindless, you’ve been consumed by the pleasure he gives you.

He catches the sight of the white rim that pools around his member, a mix of your juices, but it’s gone, sheathed inside you before he can admire it. There’s a poisoning thought that flashes in his mind, a fleeting, tempting picture. Of planting his seed in your womb, watching your grow full with child, his child. How absolutely breathtaking you would look, round cheeks and gorgeous smile, pretty fingers caressing your bump. And he would taint your taut stomach with his cum, watching it drip over your skin.

Wonwoo bites his lips so hard it breaks skin, throwing his head back, willing his mind somewhere else, anything else lest he come undone right then and there. 

Stomach tingling with indescribable pleasure, you lean forward, moaning incessantly, unable to contain your ecstasy. He supports your body, wrapping strong arms around your torso, firm hands planted on your hips, taking over the moving so you can lay still and let the buzz consume your body with its electric touch.

It’s a feeling you’ve never felt before, and it crashes over your body in a colossal wave, building up from the pit of your stomach; sending tingles rushing through your boiling blood. 

You raise your head, eyes meeting his and it seems he is familiar with this pleasure. His left hand meets your face, caressing your cheek, yet holding you still so he can gaze, he can watch you come undone around him. 

Wonwoo watches, unblinking, how your eyebrows furry, your eyes are glossy with tears that cling to your pretty lashes, your lips sit in an enticing pout. Yet you part them, letting out increasingly louder cries of his name. 

And you clench around him like there is no tomorrow, egging him on. He thrusts up into you, riding out your orgasm and chasing his over the edge. 

He crashes his lips into yours, savouring your hazy kiss, your tired sighs and it doesn’t take long before he’s spurting hot white strings into you, it trickles down him and stains the silk fabric of his boxers. 

Soon, he stills all movement except for heavy breathing and the soothing circles he runs over your exposed back. 

He kisses your hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” You breathe out, “Tired. But good.” 

His chest shakes with a soft chuckle, he runs slender fingers along your hairline, fixing any hairs that cling to sweaty skin. “Me too.” 

“It felt amazing,” You smile, raising your head to face him. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Wonwoo hums. 

“I’m glad it was you, Nonu,” You hid your face against his neck in embarrassment at your own mushy words, but Wonwoo feels their extent, hiding the blush of his cheeks. 

It doesn’t take long before the post-orgasm haze lulls you into sleep. 

And you slept like never before. 

The following morning, Wonwoo wakes up to an empty bed. He panics for a second or two, scrambling to look for your belongings, only to find everything is still there.

Calm, he washes himself up and gets dressed to leave. Finally having a moment to digest the previous night’s events. 

He had made up his mind, he would confront his father. His future was his to decide on. 

Looking for you, Wonwoo reaches the foyer, only to see you leaning against the wall, attached to the payphone. When your eyes meet his, you immediately say your goodbyes, ending the call.

“Who did you call?” Wonwoo crosses his strong arms against his chest and you try to ignore the sight of his muscly forearms peeking from the folded sleeves.

You don’t like his tone. “Seokmin.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why did you call him?”

“I promised I would,” You shrug. 

Wonwoo can’t believe you would call Seokmin out of everyone, especially after you were glued to him last night at the party. “Why him?”

“He’s worried about you, you stupid— Stupid—“ You choke out on any mean names, simply stomping away from him. 

Why was Wonwoo being so mean so early in the morning? You thought after the amazing night you spent together things would change between you.   Stomping your way back to your room, you grumble under your breath.

While you’re folding your clothes, Wonwoo comes back. 

“I’ll talk to my father,” He announces. 

Before you can say anything about that, he continues. “We’ll get married— You and I, I mean— ” He clears his throat, “Will you marry me?”

Like a deer in headlights, you’re frozen, staring at him big-eyed with a dopey smile on your lips. 

“You’ll marry me?” You question, just in case you’ve tricked yourself into hearing the words you’ve wanted most. 

“Yes. And I— I’ll take full responsibility—“

You smile crashes into the ground. “You want to marry me out of… Responsibility?!” The words choke you on their way out. 

Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows, not understanding why you would be upset. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I don’t want to fucking marry you!” Not like that.

His face falls and he assumes a much scarier look on his face. “What would you rather marry Seokmin, then?”

And in your fury, you blurt out “Yes! Yes, I would rather marry him!”

You realise your rejection hurt him, you do. But you’re so blindsided by your anger you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he sees you as a responsibility. 

Wonwoo is suddenly not so angry, but indifferent. You watch his expression go away, replaced by one much scarier, in your opinion; nothing. A plain poker face. 

“Gather your things and go to the car.”

It’s all he says before he leaves the room. 

The ride back is the most nerve-racking hours you’ve ever experienced. Wonwoo is silent, even you huff and puff under your breath, angrily chewing on your breakfast of vending machine snacks. 

Though he says one phrase as you reach the city. “Leave me here.” 

And that’s the last you saw of him for over a month. 

Your previous anger dries up, turning into sadness. Then you’re furious. And heartbroken until you’ve accepted your reality. You’ve ruined your friendship and lost the love of your life.

It takes your sister plucking you out of bed for you to finally leave your bedroom in weeks. 

She was the first and only person you’ve told about the night spent with Wonwoo. Your parents were absolutely furious that you’d do something so dangerous, though relieved at your safety, they weren’t easy on their words. 

“He’s not doing well, you know,” You sister says. 

You humph. 

“I’m serious. Daddy said he’s clumsy, keeps messing up his work. I think you should go and see him.”

Closing your eyes, you let out a worrisome sigh. You still cared way too much to hear those news and not do something about it. 

So you dress up in whatever you can find and drive to his shop, building up a speech on your way there and practising every scenario. You just hoped everything could go back to the way it was. 

He’s working on an old model, hunched over the hood in his light blue coveralls, stains of grease from head to toe. 

“Knock knock,” You announced your presence, fidgeting with the hem of your dress, looking forward to meeting his eyes as much as you dread to. 

Wonwoo immediately recognises your voice, turning around to meet your eyes. 

And he looks just as wrecked as you felt. Deep-set eye bags and a tired gaze. Yet he still smiles just as handsomely. 

“Hey,” He greets. 

“Busy?”

“No! No,” Wonwoo scrambles, placing the wrench down removing his gloves. 

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah, I actually— I wanted to talk to you, too.”

It’s somewhat relieving as well at it’s worrying to hear him say that, it could be an apology as well as an insult or something of the sort. 

“We should— We should go to my office, someone might come in—“

“Yeah— We should.” You nod.

You walk into his office, one you’ve visited and killed time in quite often. But coming here after everything feels so crushing, all this distance between you. 

“Go ahead—“

“You first—“

You both say at the same time and that seems to ease the stubborn awkwardness pooling in the air. You laugh. 

“How about we say it together?” 

“On 3?”

“1”

“2”

“3”

Breathing in, you say the words that come to your mind from the bottom of your heart. 

“I want to marry you.”

“I love you.”

“What?!” 

“What?!” Once again, you both say it at the same time.

“You want to marry me?” He breaks into a wide smile.

“And you love me?” The words feel so alien to you, you can barely believe your ears, you feel the tips of your fingers shake in excitement, your heart pounds so strongly against your rib cage you can almost hear the thumping.

Jeon Wonwoo just said he loves you.

“I— Are you sure you want to marry me? You said you didn’t want to!”

“Yes. Well— I’ve loved you since forever! So when you said you wanted to marry me just out of responsibility— I was heartbroken! It’s like you were forced into doing it!”

“I didn’t want to marry you out of responsibility! I’ve been planning to marry you since the beginning—“

You choke, “You what?!”

Wonwoo sighs, “I never wanted to marry your sister and she was well aware of that… We were blessed that she found her husband and when everything went well, I thought— I hoped that it’d mean we’d be the ones to be wed.”

Processing every word, you almost feel dizzy. “But you said you’d take responsibility!” 

“For roping you into running away from my party.” 

“Oh.” You’re beyond embarrassed for assuming and above all, for getting so angry you didn’t even let him explain himself. 

“I should’ve been clearer,” He admits.

“No— I should’ve talked to you.”

Wonwoo smiles. “Thank you.”

With tiny tears threatening to fall, you can only confirm what you want to know the most. 

“You love me?”

“Always,” He smiles.

Wonwoo seems to remember something, he raises his finger in a “wait” motion and leans over his desk, reaching for the top drawer. It’s only when you catch a peek of the velvet box that you almost keel over.

Gulping, he gathers his courage.

In his grease-stained coveralls that smells of expensive cologne and lavender cleaning supplies, Jeon Wonwoo gets down on one knee, nervously looking up at your with his stupidly gorgeous beady eyes and an expectant smile.

“Will you marry me?”

And in your least presentable dress, the one he’d ruined with grease stains and an unruly hairdo, you respond with the biggest smile:

“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Had you been questioned, there would be an answer to just how long you will love Jeon Wonwoo.

You’ll love him forever. 

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 1.5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: There is a little, annoying human trapped in this bay with him. And he's going to eat them. (Vil's POV)

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

There was a little, raggedy human staring up at him from the sand, and Vil had never felt so miserably persecuted in all his years.

The thing had been bound to him in a mess of ropes and frantic, bipedal flailing, and he’d honestly thought that it had drowned. Hoped that it had drowned. But no, apparently he couldn’t be quite so lucky. None of his pod’s raids had ever gone so terribly, and normally he was better able to keep his head about him. But it had been Epel’s first attempt at sneaking on board one of the grand, creaking, human vessels, and maybe he’d been a touch concerned about it. Like a fretting parent sending their guppy off to the deep for their first solo-swim. And perhaps he’d struck a bit too quick and sharp when he saw things headed South. Not taking the normal care he would to assess for traps, or weapons, or stupid humans and their equally stupid, fraying ropes.  

But none of that mattered. It was hardly a crime to want to protect your family. It had happened, that was the end of it. There was no changing things. And now he was here. In this cove. With that thing.

You pedaled backward in the sand like those two legs of yours hardly worked at all, and even though it looked like you were retreating (rightfully so, at least you were smart enough to realize this was a lost battle), Vil still bared his teeth in a challenge. Because he was angry, and sore, and at the moment you were the cause of every, single one of his problems in the world. He tossed his tail in the surf, splattering stinging bits of ice water into your face.

“Stop! Stop!” you squawked, wheeling away like he was dousing you in acid rain rather than a bit of pissy water warfare. “I get it! I won’t come near you, jeesh! I wasn’t planning on it to begin with!”

“Of course you weren’t,” he spat. “From the looks of you, you don’t plan much of anything at all.”

You didn’t respond to his scathing insult, only kept scooting yourself back against the sand on legs that still apparently refused to work. Or maybe you’d simply forgotten about them. You seemed like you could be the type.

He ground his talons into the damp sand at his hips and felt the ridges of the fins along his spine prickling tight and painful, trying to puff out in a predatory display that they simply couldn’t because he was still bound in the godforsaken rope.

“I don’t know what your little plan was,” he hissed, “but you’ve done both of us a disservice. And while I’m sure you’re used to disappointment, I am not going to tolerate this.”

More silence. You looked—not confused, per se. But definitely not particularly keen on following his very justified rant against your person. Your gaze kept darting from his vicious glare, to his claws digging up the shoreline, and then to his lips. He could see your own mouth moving a bit alongside his, like you were trying to echo the shape of the insults flying off his tongue.

“Listen here, you fleshy rat,” he snapped, jabbing a black talon in your direction. “You’re going to tell me the course that your ridiculous ship had set so that I can return to my pod at once. Do you understand? And if you’re lucky, I won’t crawl my way up there to bite off your fingers one by one. How’s that sound?”

You blinked back at him with no comprehension, like his marvelous depiction of having your bones gnawed on for snacks just wasn’t a vivid enough picture.

The rage in his chest bubbled bright and hot, and the age-old magics in his veins zipped through his blood like a stroke of lightening.

Insolent brat.

Fine. He’d make you listen then.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you said, and oh, you were a nuisance. He was going to rip your nerves out from the depths of your useless, human limbs. Feast on your bones until the marrow had been picked clean and leave the scraps for the gulls—

He parted his lips and sang loud and sharp—letting that familiar lull roll off his tongue like the sweetest poison. His Call had always been the strongest in his pod, after all. That’s why it was his job to keep them safe, to ensure that no one was lost in a hunt that was meant to be so simple just because they couldn’t keep their purple-headed curiosity under wraps long enough to not to be caught—

Vil turned his sneer back your way, fully prepared to see you kowtowed before him with your nose buried in the sand. And—

You were just sitting there. Butt in the muck and just as wide-eyed and brainless as before. Staring back at him with a startled sort of expression on your face and nothing else. Normally there was a sort of tether between him and his victims. A call, an answer. Simple principles. And while he could never see the tangible net of his influence tightening around their brains, he could always sense it. Or at least something like it. But this time, there was just… nothing.

Vil snarled, swallowing around the spiky pinch of something in his gut that he refused to call panic, and canted his head back to sing louder.

The shallow dregs of the cove rippled at his hips with the force of it, and he could feel the swell of his influence curling out further and further. Digging its claws into anything and everything it could reach. He could feel one tether spooling out and grabbing after the other, feel the familiar pull of subservience from the very sea itself. And—

“I can’t hear you!”

Oh, you mocking piece of—

He widened his mouth until his jaw was creaking and his tongue was going numb from the sharp bursts of arcana snapping from throat.

“It’s not a challenge!” you wailed, hands cupped over your mouth to try and shout over his howling song. “My ears literally, actually, do not work, you fucking overgrown anchovy!”

His mouth fell closed all at once, the Call cutting off so abruptly that the returning wave of snapping magics almost made his head spin. The power of it hung along his nerves like the zipping prickle of electric eels, and the water at his hips churned and bubbled.

“There,” you huffed, like someone who’d just been horribly inconvenienced by a gust of wind ruining their hair, rather than a human bearing the full weight of a siren’s fury. Brushing off some of the most powerful magics in the ocean like it was nothing worse than a bit of sand in your trousers. It was… unnerving. And it had something uneasy curdling in Vil’s stomach.

He dug his claws into the sand, fins flaring along his sides in a defensive display before he could help himself. Your eyes tracked the way the muck gave way beneath his talons and he watched your throat bob. Good. You should be afraid of him. Because he refused to be afraid of a human like you. No matter how the hair at his nape prickled or the fins at his ears pinned against the sides of his head.

“Well…” you said after a long moment, awkward and stiff. “I should get going, I suppose.”

And then you were stumbling your way to your feet to venture deeper into the crags of the small island. Vil smacked his tail against the surf, loud and sharp. A plaintive ‘good, begone,’ if ever there was one. But you didn’t even flinch, let alone turn around to witness his grand ‘fuck you.’ He wasn’t sure why he was expecting you to.

He watched you crawl your way up a mess of boulders and old shells, eyes narrowed and that same, unpleasant prickle running through his nerves. Once you were well and truly out of sight, he returned to his fins and started doing all he could to assess the damage. The sooner he could deal with this setback and set out into the depths of the ocean, the sooner he could return to his pod. And the sooner he’d be away from you, and all your strange, human ways.

.

.

You returned maybe an hour later, only a few minutes after he’d given up on trying to pick the horrid mess of twine from the wounds along his tail. His claws weren’t made for such delicate work, and the poisoned tips of them weren’t doing his shredded fins any favors.

He turned on you with a snarl that would have sent any other sentient creature scurrying for cover, fins pinned and canines on full display. But apparently you had less self-preservation than even the brainless, teeny, rock crabs burrowing hurriedly into the sand.    

“Hello,” you said. Like that was any way appropriate.

“Get lost,” he snarled.

You nodded back, simple and sage, and then pointed to the mess of your ropes twined along his fins.

“I can get that off if you promise not to eat me.”

Vil sneered and surged forward to scrape his claws through the muck again, hoping his demonstration of what he would do to your face if you stepped near him was clear enough to get through your head.

“Touch me and you’ll be lucky if all I do is eat you.”

You blinked back, and he watched the way your eyes jumped across his expression. Trailed to his mouth, his brow, his teeth. Reading whatever you could see there. And then you shrugged again, unbothered by his spitting threats as before.

“Alright. Your loss, I suppose.”

There was a keenness to your gaze though, a sharp, pointed consideration that had his hackles rising all over again.

“If you think that you can be rid of me that easily, you’re solely mistaken,” he spat, smacking his fins into the shallows until the water was churning wild and angry. “This is all your fault, and whatever ridiculous plot you’re considering, I’ll gladly return it tenfold.”

Your face pinched like you had any right to be annoyed by this at all, and then promptly turned away from him like you’d lost all interest in his theatrics. You meandered around the shore, scooping up the battered remains of some of the fish that had stranded themselves during his failed Call. Then you sat yourself well away from the water’s edge and pulled a knife from your boot, running it along the fish’s scales and clearing out the muck.

“Thanks for the food!” you chirped petulantly, making long, pointed, eye contact as you did so. Like that little blade of yours was supposed to be any sort of a threat. Perhaps he could use it to pick the leftover bits of you out of his teeth.

Vil turned up his nose and returned to carefully grooming the shredded ends of his fins.

“You’re an obnoxious brat,” he growled, wincing as his claws caught over a frayed patch of scales and began to bleed all over again. “And I’m going to drown you.”

Naturally, you did not respond.

.

.

The rope burned, and he knew he wasn’t helping himself. The twine of it was frayed, poor quality. And combined with the tacky, salt-sticky damp of the waves, it made the worst sort of web. Vil threw himself around in the shallows like a pup stuck in their first net. And he knew—knew—this wasn’t going to make things better. But the more he worked to free himself and the less progress he made, the angrier he got (Not afraid, angry. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t).

A tight bit of fibers snagged along the delicate mesh of the fins at his hips and gave a shrieking riiip that had him collapsing into the sand bed with a bitten off noise that he refused to call a gasp. But Sevens, it did hurt. He pressed his face into the shallow pool of warm water beneath his chin and forced his breath to calm, to dig his claws into the grit beneath him rather than his own scales. Because this wasn’t working. And he—he needed to fix it. On his own. Because he was on his own. And he was going to manage, just like he always had.

There was a noise off on the shore—the tumbling of pebbles against stone as you shifted around in your little, makeshift hideaway. And he refused to look up to meet your gaze. Because surely you were staring. Humans were always so happy to watch his kind suffer, flailing about in their traps and bound in nets like a garish display. And he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of knowing he’d been seen like… like this.

So he forced himself to go still and silent, ignoring the pain biting into his sides like the teeth of a shark and the panicked, clawing thing in his gut that kept screaming that he was going to die here.

.

.

The next morning, you were wandering the shoreline, scrounging after the remains of various crabs from the day prior. Vil refused to look at you, and spent the time pointedly running his claws through the tangles in his hair and primping himself like he didn’t have a care in the world. Because if a stupid, lowly human fit for nothing but an after-dinner-snack could thrive in these circumstances, than surely he could do even better.

There was the soft, wet sounds of your footsteps behind him, and Vil turned on you with a roaring snarl—fins pinned and spines perked, defensive.

“What?” he snapped, beating his tail.

You awkwardly held up one your pickings—a round, red crab with fat claws.

“I don’t know if you all eat fish or whatever, but…”

Vil fought the urge to gawk. Were you offering him one of—but why would you—

He bit through his surprise with another sneer. “Firstly, crabs are crustaceans, not fish. You’d think any self-respecting creature that spent their days on the ocean would know something as obvious as that. Secondly, why would you even think that I would share a meal with you? Even I didn’t think humans could be that stupid, but you’re certainly setting a new bar.”

Your mouth twitched at his very sharply enunciated ‘stupid’ and he fought a smirk.

“Oh. Know that one, do you?” he cooed, all mocking.

“Look, do you want it or not?” you snapped, irritated, and his fins flared up again—wide and defensive.

Vil crossed his arms on an exaggerated, pointed huff and turned in the other direction. A clear dismissal. “I’d rather starve.”

“Whatever,” you griped, voice canted sharp with your foul temper, and then there was a crack and a yelp.

Vil turned back to see you reeling away, hand over your mouth to catch a mix of blubbering, wincing curses and a shattered crab shell clenched between your fingers in the most obvious show of stupidity he’d perhaps ever seen. He burst out into laughter before he could help himself, and you stormed away with warm cheeks and pieces of jagged, red shell still clinging to the corners of your lips.

.

.

That night he fought the ropes even harder, ignoring the way they pulled, and tore, and dug into places that he knew they should not. And maybe it was self-destructive, stupid, but if he didn’t get himself free of this horrible mess his fins would never heal. He’d never be able to swim properly again. And he’d never be able to leave this cove, never return to his pod, his family. Never—

A shell walloped him in the back of the head and Vil turned with a shriek so vicious it nearly startled even him. Because there you were—the bane of his existence. Standing at the edge of the water with that ridiculous, deadpan look on your ridiculous face and already scrounging about in the sands like you were looking for something else to throw at him. He didn’t even know what he was screaming at that point, absolutely brought over the edge in rage, and pain, and fear, and it was all. your. faul—

Then something in your expression snapped and you were storming forward towards the surf—absolutely incensed.

“Look, fish face! You were the one who attacked me! You!” you shrieked, stomping in the sand and nearly pinning the longer, trailing ends of his fins beneath your heels. “So stop acting like I’m some scheming shithead who was planning to trap you like this from the start!”

“You trapped me!” he howled, outraged. “You were going to kill a member of my pod! Who’s barely out of his pup days! And he was my responsibility, and you were going to attack him!”

Magic zipped along his tongue, demanding that you kneel. Show your throat and be done with it. But when you just kept glaring back—absolutely stone-faced and seething with indignation—Vil forced himself to take a breath, and then another.

“Epel,” he spat, low and exaggerated. He saw your eyes flicker to his lips, trace the outline of the word. “Epel,” he said again, sharp and angry. And when your own mouth began to subconsciously follow the shape of it, he was off and running again. “He’s my responsibility. Epel. He—” Vil pointed at the pale, lavender creases at the base of his fins. “His hair is like this. You saw him. You spoke to him. And you were going to tie him up just like you did to me.”

Your eyes narrowed, sharp.

“That kid,” you said after a moment, lips twisting in a frown. “You attacked me because of Purple Head?!”

“Epel,” Vil spat again, smacking his fins into the surf to douse you in a mess of seawater. “Not some kid. A pup. Barely of age. And you were going to—”

“You—” you hissed, scrubbing the salt from your eyes with the back of your hand. “He was still attacking us first! He was going after my friend!” you snapped, kicking your own wave back. It splattered along Vil’s hips, barely a sprinkling in comparison to his own tidal waves. “You don’t get to act all noble and protective, and like any of that makes any difference when you all were going to eat us!”

Vil snarled, and the twist of it left a bitter, rotten taste on his tongue. It wasn’t the same. It didn’t matter what you wanted, because you were just some human. Humans were vile, and cruel, and good for nothing but filling their bellies. And this was his family. So what if you claimed you were just standing up for your own brood? It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t.

So he turned back to dive into the shallows with as much force as his aching, crippled fins could manage. Sinking to the bottom of the cove in a huff of bubbles and clawing his way through the muck until he was well and truly hidden in the murky, sandy depths. He smacked his tail against the mess of pebbles and rocks until every creature beneath was scurrying for safety—fleeing outwith the flailing, destructive force of a Siren’s tantrum.

Was that why he was here, then? Bound and gagged on some hellhole of an island because of his own mistakes? Because you’d just been aligning yourself with the moral high ground he’d been riding this whole time? Saving your kin at the cost of your own, fragile skin. Dragged overboard to fight the monsters trying to devour your family whole. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to let himself feel bad for the slighted prey in a hunt gone wrong. Sharks certainly didn’t regret the fish they chased, nor did the great black-and-white whales that pursued those sharks in turn. This was just the way of things, the circle of life. And he wasn’t going to feel guilty about the tight, protectivelook on your face as you shouted him down about defending your own pod at all.

.

.

You were curled up by the same rock the next morning, sleeping soundly against the rough hewn edge. It looked hideously uncomfortable, with your chin tucked up against your chest and your head pressed against half-a-dozen layered, jagged ridges. Vil had always heard that humans were used to luxury—soft, plush blankets made of foreign fabrics and great, stuffed squares of bedding that could put even the finest woven siren nests to shame. And there you were. Scrunched up with a shell clearly embedded in your cheek.

He frowned, fins rippling awkwardly at his sides where the majority were still knotted up in twine.

He needed to leave this cove. As soon as possible. And get away from… all of this.

It generally wasn’t considered the best of ideas to Call openly across the sea. Lone sirens were prime targets for all sorts of nasty scavengers. Human hunters, rival pods, even other rogues looking for a fight. It was dangerous to mark one’s position so openly, let alone in a manner that made it obvious of the less than stellar situation they had no doubt found themselves in. It was also a nasty toll to try and Call so far for so long, on himself and the environment around him. A screeching, horrible thing that he’d only heard a few times in all his years. It was a terrible idea for everyone involved, himself and his fellow castaway most of all. But, well, desperate times, and all that.

Besides, it wasn’t like you’d be able to hear it anyways.

So began his endless song.

He’d sing, and sing, and sing—feeling the ripples of it carrying across the surface of the water and shivering through the air. And then, after he’d worn his throat ragged, he’d pause. Just long enough to swallow around the sting and tilt his head to listen. His fins would flare out against the side of his head, and he’d wait. And then, when there was no answer to his Calling, he’d circle back and do it again. A part of him hoped there would be none. He’d taught his pod better than to do something so foolish—to put themselves at the mercy of all the monsters of the sea. And… if they didn’t answer, perhaps that just meant they were searching for him. Using his own, ridiculous harping to trace him down. And if not that, then at least that they were off somewhere safe. Somewhere far, and hidden.

He swam and sang until he was too exhausted for either. Bound fins a heavy, leaden weight at his hips and head barely cresting above the water.

When the sun set over the horizon, Vil let himself roll in alongside the surf to rest in the sand, boneless and sore. His eyes slipped shut with the encroaching darkness, too heavy to hold open at all. He hadn’t seen much of you today. Occasionally you’d wander down to the shoreline, head popping up over a cluster of rocks to shoot him a look that he couldn’t quite decipher, but for the most part you’d stayed hidden away. Out of his hair, at least. Perhaps you’d finally learned what was good for you, and that keeping as far away from the beast lurking in the shallows was the only way you’d be getting out of this alive.

And then his eyes were snapping open to a field of stars overhead and the moon hanging fat and low in the sky like a fruit ripe for the plucking.

And there you were, hovering over him with that laughably small knife of yours.

Carefully and gently working the rope away from his tattered fins.

Your fingers were delicate, precise. Every time those woven fibers tugged in a way that could even begin to hurt, you were softening your touch and muttering reassurances under your breath. He wondered if you realized you were doing that at all—chattering quiet, rambling nonsense like a nervous tick. ‘Ack, don’t twitch so much, it’s just going to cut deeper,’ and ‘sorry! Sorry! I didn’t think that would move like that! Just—just stay still and it will all be done way faster and then you can swim off, and—’ You were exceptionally careful over the areas of rough, beaten scales along the dip of his tail, wincing in sympathy at the raw, raw skin there. The blade never strayed anywhere it wasn’t needed, and you never touched any part of him that wasn’t in an effort to work another tangle of knots free.

Vil kept himself perfectly still and his breaths even and deep. He watched you through the low, golden dip of his lashes, eyes tracking your fluttering hands and quiet mumblings.

The last of the rope fell away with a wet, heavy plap in the sand and when you sighed there was a smile in your voice.

“There,” you muttered, soft. “Now he can swim home again.”

He froze, startled, and something dropped low and tight in his gut.  

Because humans were cruel. Humans were food. Humans were nothing more than vermin crawling over the surface of his ocean in their hunkering, wooden vessels and finless feet. They didn’t deserve sympathy, or anything of that ilk. And—

Your gaze met his and the spark of horrified realization didn’t even manage to settle properly in your wide, wide eyes before he had you pinned in the sand.

It was easy—far too easy. Compared to him you were so small, so fragile. No heavy, bulk of muscle and scales to help keep you alive and fighting. Just fragile limbs and lungs that were good for nothing. He dug his claws into your shoulders and felt the warm prick of blood curl up beneath his talons—could see you wince with the first pinch of acrid poison sharpening the wound. He was going to rip you apart, just like he’d said he would. Even if you hadn’t been able to hear him, he’d show you. Because humans were vile, and no matter what you’d claimed, you didn’t deserve anything better than an end beneath the points of his fangs. Fuel for the journey back to his pod and nothing more.

‘There. Now he can swim home again.’

He reeled back, nose scrunching and teeth grinding in his jaw.

You were still beneath him, blinking up in shock but not fighting. Like being flipped onto your back had been startling out of principle, but not unexpected. Like the idea of dying at his claws was just something you’d been expecting from the get-go.

And yet—

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ you’d been rattling. ‘Ah, if you squirm it’s just going to hurt, you stupid, overgrown fish—'

Vil reared back with a snarl that had goosebumps racing all along your arms, and then he was diving back into the shallows—swiping the tip of his fins against your nose as he went in a sharp crack that he hoped would have you yelping and stumbling away from the ocean’s edge.

He paced along the edges of the bay, newly freed fins slowly uncurling in the lull of the tide. And he felt free. Sore, certainly, and aching in ways he never had before, but free.

When he popped his head back out of the water, you were sprawled out in the sand like a dying starfish, absolutely out of your mind and babbling nonsense about ‘captains’ and ‘collars’ under your breath.

‘Good,’ he harumphed, diving back into the shallows to twirl along his unbound tail. ‘Maybe that would teach you to stay out of the water.’

.

.

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[slu7formen]

But imagine homewrecker!Luke x fem Aphrodite!reader, where reader’s already in a relationship but Luke just wants her sooo bad, so he flirts with her when no ones looking, teases her, and absolute shits on the man shes’s with in every opportunity he gets (there’s a scene from Avatar legend of Korra where she says to Mako “yeah, but when you’re with her you’re thinking about me, aren’t you?” And I can see him saying the same thing to her while giving her the most devius smirk EVER) she’s only “human” so she gives in eventually and it could be smut in the end (could you pretty please write something like this <33)

MDNI. luke castellan x fem!reader

idk who you are but you’re a genius, I fucking love you for this

warnings: luke’s a home wrecker but that OKAY because it’s him, also he’s so mean, kinda possessive, mention of masturbation, lil smut towards the end (oral, f receiving)

₊˚⊹♡

Another night. Sleep, the supposed thing he´s been wanting all day, remained out of reach. It had been like this for weeks, a relentless torment that gnawed at his insides with the intensity of a starving Furie. And who´s fault was it? You.

He groaned against his pillow, the sheet sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty torso. Night after night, it was the same, but he couldn´t help himself, how could he keep himself from thinking about you? Being an Aphrodite´s daughter, you simply stood out from the rest, but there was something more.

The way you carried yourself; applying the smallest amount of makeup that managed to accentuate your features, making your eyes sparkle and your lips look impossibly kissable. Your voice, seductive even when you didn´t mean for it to be. Even the hideous orange camp shirt, a piece of clothing that seemed designed to make someone look dowdy, couldn't diminish your aura. He could practically smell the faint scent of your perfume, a mix of coconut and something inexplicably you, that lingered in the air even after you’d left.

It was an obsession, a problem. He wasn´t naive though, he knew he wasn't the only one who felt this way about you. How boys tripped on their own feet and walk straight into trees because of you, but that was then. Because there was a tiny, slight problem now.

You were taken.

The feeling was hot and acid. You weren't his to have. You belonged to someone else, a possession proudly displayed by your ever-present boyfriend, a hulking son of Ares who never seemed to leave your side. And Luke shouldn’t feel this way, he knows it. He shouldn't feel the hot wave of need to break the guy´s jaw every time he saw you with him.

You were happy, he was sure of it, you showed it. Your mother was the goddess of love, so you surely enjoyed it when you had it wrapped around your hands. But with him, you could be even happier. You deserved more. You deserved him. Luke let out a low growl, no-, he deserved you.

Luke could take everything you had for him and more, things that he was sure, your boyfriend couldn´t, and never will be able to.

He should feel scared about some Hypnos kid sweeping into his dreams accidentally and taking a glimpse of his dreams. How he wanted to begin to play, to have his own fun. He was determined to play for keeps.

And you, his prize, would be his reward.

Luke wasn't stupid. He wouldn't blatantly flaunt his desires in front of your man. No, his approach was far more subtle, a slow burn.

It started with those little greetings. A passing "Hey there, pretty" as he walked by you on his way to archery practice, his armor straps purposefully being adjusted in a way that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders. You'd respond with a simple "Hi" a smile playing on your glossy lips as you continued your conversation with your sister, both of you blissfully unaware of the first move in his carefully calculated game.

He began weaving himself into your periphery, appearing near you at mealtimes, offering unsolicited help with chores, lingering just a tad too long during conversations.

It couldn't be denied, Luke was undeniably handsome. You always knew he was attractive, a dark-haired rebel with an edge that appealed to a certain kind of girl. He had a way of carrying himself, a cocky self-assurance that some could find arrogant, but others, like you, couldn't help but find strangely magnetic. Being a daughter of Aphrodite, you were keenly aware of the power of charm, and Luke possessed it in spades.

You found yourself strangely drawn to it.

But he had to act faster than that.

He'd find you reading under a tree, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves and casting an ethereal glow around you. He'd saunter over, a slow, predatory grace in his movements.

"Mind if I join you, beautiful?"

You looked up, rolling your eyes playfully. "My boyfriend's gonna kill you if he hears you calling me that" you chuckled, flipping a page of your book.

Luke, for a split second, allowed a flicker of irritation to cross his features, quickly masked by a sardonic smile. "Blame it on your mother, then. I can't help but speak the truth."

You couldn't help but bite your lip, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as he settled next to you comfortably, arm bumping your own.

"What are you reading?" he asked, his voice dropping a fraction lower as he leaned closer, the scent of leather filling your senses.

You mumbled the title, the close proximity of his body making you uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from him. It took him a hot minute to open his mouth again, a almost mockery sigh escaping his lips as he leaned back on his elbows.

"You know," he began, his voice dropping even lower, "Your boyfriend doesn't seem to be around much lately."

You bit your lip, a mixture of annoyance and something else entirely bubbling within you. "He has his own training schedule, Luke" you pointed out, your voice taking on a slight comprehensive edge.

He nodded slowly, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Of course" he drawled, stretching the word out like a piece of taffy. "But it´s been quite some time, right? Does he always leave you alone like this?"

You shrugged your shoulders. “He doesn´t” you stammered. “He´s just-, busy”

Busy. In summer. Gods, you were so…

Fucking cute.

He couldn't help but find it incredibly mesmerizing and astonishing, the way you were so transparently in love with your boyfriend, a love that Luke was determined to break, piece by piece. It only fueled his perverse desire to rip that very love away, to replace your blind devotion with a burning desire for him. He didn't want to break your heart — not exactly. He just wanted to re-route it, to steer its affection towards him.

The once-casual hangouts became more frequent. Tonight, you found yourself huddled next to him at the flickering bonfire. You chat casually, occasionally finding yourself hypnotized by the way his adam´s apple bobbed up and down every time he spoke.

“New skirt?” he then asked. He knew he shouldn't be looking, shouldn't have allowed his gaze to drop to the way the fabric clung to your thighs, drawing his attention to the delicious way they were pressed together ever since the moment you sat down. Yet, he couldn't help himself. The image seared itself into his memory, a forbidden fruit he desperately wanted to taste.

"Yeah" you chirped, a playful lilt in your voice. "You noticed?" There was a glint in your eyes, a spark of something that made his pulse quicken. Had he ever noticed your clothes before? Gods, yes, he knew every article in your meager wardrobe — the worn out oxford jeans, the simple white t-shirts that hugged your curves just perfectly, the tight cargo shorts, and now, this new skirt that showcased your legs in a way that made his blood run hot.

But he wouldn´t tell you that.

"Of course I noticed" he replied, forcing a casualness he didn't feel.

"Really?" you pressed, looking down at your clothes.

"You're impossible to miss” he pointed out. “It´s pretty” one of his fingers playfully tugged at the edge of your skirt, stealing a short giggle from you.

Your smile faltered for a moment though, a flicker of something crossing your face that Luke couldn't quite decipher. “He didn´t notice, you know?” you say.

A smug satisfaction bloomed in Luke's chest. Now, what could be better fuel for his twisted plan than a little unspoken resentment towards your oblivious boyfriend?

"Didn't notice?" he feigned obliviousness, milking the moment for all its worth.

"The skirt" you explain, kicking your feet playfully in the dirt. "Don´t really know why I care, though. He doesn't pay much attention to these things”

There it was, the confirmation he craved. Your fucking dumb boyfriend was failing you in all the ways that truly mattered. And Luke, oh, Luke was more than happy to fill that void.

In the mean way.

"Well, he's an idiot then" Luke stated firmly, his voice low and intense.

“Luke” you whined.

“What?” he cut you off with a humorless laugh, the sound tinged with a bitterness that made you uneasy. "Is it because of his busy schedule?" he mocked, his eyes narrowing. “Can’t say nice things to his girlfriend?”

You stared at him for a moment, your gaze unwavering. Your brows furrowed in a frown, and you tilted your head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made Luke suddenly feel analyzed. You leaned in, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. The movement brought you closer. His breath hitched a second as your eyes met his, framed by those long, mesmerizing lashes. It was as if you were looking not just at him, but right through him, searching for something.

"Why do you hate him so much?" you blurted out, the question tumbling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

Luke scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. "I don't hate him" he stated, but his voice lacked conviction. You raised your eyebrows, hiding a smile forming on your lips. “Hey, I mean it” he insisted, playfully pushing at your shoulder. "Just… feels like you're with someone who doesn't pay attention to you" he continued, his voice low and intense.

The casual tone he used, disarming and friendly, made you physically jolt a little. Luke managed to bite his tongue, swallow the jealousy and anger like a thick pill. He was a master manipulator. He wouldn't play his hand this early.

Unease settled in your stomach. "It's not always like that" you mumbled defensively.

"No?" he countered, his gaze unwavering. The firelight danced in his eyes, you couldn't help but look away, his intensity a little too much to handle.

"No" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper. "It's not his fault he's not interested in the things I like."

"Yeah, but you’re interested in everything about him, right?" Luke pressed, his voice soft but laced with something like a challenge, making you think twice before you answer.

His words hit a nerve, and you found yourself looking down at your lap, picking at a loose thread on your skirt. He was right, of course.

The silence stretched. A slow, teasing smile played on Luke's lips. He saw the doubt creeping into your eyes, the seed of discontent he'd been carefully planting beginning to sprout.

"You should find someone else, sweetheart" he said finally, his voice a husky murmur. He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair that had escaped your braid and gotten caught in your earring.

You met his gaze, your eyes wide and searching. The playful banter had completely vanished, replaced by a tension so thick you could almost cut it with a knife.

"There are a couple of guys out there," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "who would kill for you to even look at them." He punctuated his sentence with a quick wink.

You breath out a nervous laugh, heat flooding to your cheeks. "You're such a drama queen, Luke" you finally managed, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"’M not sure about that" he conceded, leaning back slightly, but never taking his eyes off you. "But sometimes that´s what you need. A little drama, excitement. Could make you see things a little clearer”

Days went by, and the conversation with Luke replayed on loop in your head.

´Drama. Excitement´

On the surface, everything seemed fine. Your boyfriend was kind, reliable, everything you thought you wanted. It felt comfortable and safe, yet… predictable. That sparkle that Luke talked about, that was absent.

You´d try to shake off your thoughts. One moment you'd convince yourself it was all a silly game you were willing to play. The next, you'd find yourself lost in a daydream, picturing Luke's dark eyes burning into yours, his voice, his touch. You tried to maintain a facade of normalcy, telling yourself he was just a friend, a confidante.

But the traitorous part of you craved more.

Luke, meanwhile, felt like a predator closing in on his prey. Your growing confusion fueled his ambition, every stolen glance, every conversation, a victory in his twisted and sick game. He watched your boyfriend with growing contempt, the sight of his hand roaming in the curves of your body making him clench his fists in rage. It should be him, Luke, pulling you close at night in his bed, whispering in your ear. He yearned to see you smile for him. He yearned to claim you, to make you his own for once and for all.

So his façade started to fall off. His possessiveness became more blatant, his touches lingering a fraction of a second too long. His calculating approach was slowly giving way to a burning need, a possessive hunger he couldn't suppress much longer.

One night at the bonfire, while everyone enjoyed a good time and shared laughter and music, Luke didn´t see you there. He shifted his gaze to his surroundings, his attention snagged on the figure of you nestled deeper into the shadows.

As usual, you were captivating, your animated expression and rapid-fire gestures suggesting a heated conversation with someone unseen. The distance made it impossible to discern the words, but the set of your jaw and the slight flush creeping up your neck told a clear story – you were arguing.

Then he noticed. It was your boyfriend.

And as soon as he saw you storm off in anger, alone, into the woods. He followed.

He kept a safe distance, ensuring you wouldn't notice his presence. The woods, shrouded in darkness except for the occasional sliver of moonlight filtering through the leaves, were easy to navigate for him. Finally, he spotted you. You were huddled on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest, a muffled groan escaping your lips.

“Hey” he called out softly.

You spun around. Luke´s figure stood behind you, hands in his cargo pockets, the shadows painting his face. “Hi” you reply, getting on your feet again, turning to him.

He knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say for you to dip into his arms. But he was good at playing dumb too, so he waited a little more.

"Um… is everything alright?" he asked, feigning concern.

You crossed your arms over your chest, a shadow of your earlier anger flickering in your eyes. "Yeah, just…" you trailed off, searching for the right words. "Feeling the need to punch something that's not my boyfriend's face."

A sardonic chuckle escaped Luke's lips. "Now that's a feeling I can relate to," he said, taking a tentative step closer. You shot him a glare. “That´s a joke, sweetheart” he added. He didn´t manage to make you laugh, but you rolled your eyes and your lips curved into a small smile.

You leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Luke's voice asked, gently. He was standing a few feet away from you.

"It's been like this for days" you finally began, your voice thick with frustration. "And it's my fault. He says I'm acting weird, different, like something's in my head” You sigh “And maybe he's right."

Luke followed your gaze as it drifted to a patch of wildflowers growing at your feet. "So he just can't stand you having second thoughts about your relationship?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

You bristled at his words. "I never said I'm having second thoughts," you defended, a spark of defiance igniting in your eyes.

"But you are" he countered, his voice low and steady.

You shook your head, the movement sharp and jerky. "No" you insisted, a tremor in your voice betraying a touch of uncertainty. "I don't want to leave him, but…" Your voice trailed off, and you shifted your gaze, avoiding his eyes. "That conversation we had," you continued softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "what you said. It got me thinking."

A surge of satisfaction coursed through Luke. Bingo. He'd managed to plant the seeds of doubt, to make you question a relationship that once seemed solid.

"Yeah?" he pressed, his voice barely a murmur, encouraging you to elaborate.

You paused, your brow furrowed in concentration. It was strange, you were confiding in him, this boy who was practically your opposite. Yet, his words had resonated with you, stirred something you hadn't quite acknowledged before.

"Or maybe you're just trying to get to my head 'cause you never liked him" you suddenly accused, a hint of suspicion coloring your voice.

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe" he admitted shamelessly.

Doubt flickered in your eyes, chasing away the spark of defiance just as quickly as it appeared. "What are you trying to do, Luke?" you asked, your voice dropping to a soft whisper. "It feels like you're always trying to say something else to me," you continued, your voice barely above a breath, "but you never do."

The way you spoke, the vulnerability in your tone, it wrapped around Luke's brain and squeezed. His ears popped, a strange sensation accompanying the warmth that spread through his chest. You noticed. You saw the shift within him, the way his carefully constructed facade began to crack.

"Do you want me to be honest?" he finally asked, his voice husky and laced with a dangerous honesty.

You nodded, mesmerized by the raw intensity radiating from him. Gods, you were so naive, so blissfully unaware of the storm brewing within him. Luke wouldn't, couldn't, reveal the full extent of his obsession. He wouldn't confess to the months he'd spent dreaming about you, the way he'd snuck into your cabin late at night to steal something from your dresser, just to have a piece of you close. He wouldn´t confess how he let his mind race to the most sinful places, digging into thoughts about you that would eventually leave to him jerking one off in the bathroom.

He wasn't going to scare you away. No, his plan was far more subtle, a slow seduction that would eventually have you falling helplessly into his arms. He was going to peel back his facade just enough, letting you see a glimpse of the man beneath the rebellious exterior, a man who craved you and would treat you the way you deserved.

So he took another step closer.

"I can't stop thinking about you, yn" he confessed, his voice a husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine. The words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and raw. A scoff escaped your lips, a nervous reaction to the sudden shift in the dynamic. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

“Gods, Luke, you´re-,” you cut yourself off when his fingers brushed against your chin, gently tilting your face back towards his.

"It's true" he continued, his voice laced with a desperate honesty. "And I can't handle the fact that you're with someone who doesn't deserve you."

“Don´t be ridiculous, Luke” you say.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze roaming over your face. "You're perfect, yn" he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "So beautiful, so smart. And you know it. Yet you settle for someone who takes you for granted. That's a little dumb of you, isn't it?"

The last sentence, delivered with a playful smirk, should have stung. It should have made you angry. But instead, a strange warmth bloomed in your chest. Perhaps it was the forbidden nature of the conversation, the way he was making you feel like a coveted prize.

And a terrible truth dawned on you - you weren't entirely innocent in this either. You had been feeling the same pull towards him, a flicker of something that went beyond friendship. You had enjoyed his attention, his way of seeing you, of truly seeing you.

But the reality of the situation slammed into you. "I have a boyfriend" you finally managed to say, your voice laced with a desperate attempt at determination.

He let out a chuckle, easily stepping on the thought of your boyfriend like some slug. "That´s a reminder to nobody but you, sweetheart"

Another tense silence. Luke raised his hand, placing it on the rough bark of the tree behind you, effectively trapping you.

"I know you've been thinking about what I said" he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His eyes scanned your face, searching for any sign of doubt, any flicker of vulnerability. And he found it.

Doubt, like a poisonous vine, slowly crept through your mind. His words, his raw honesty, had shaken the foundation of your relationship.

"But you think too much of it, angel" he continued, his voice a seductive coo. He used the nickname with such ease, as if it had always been his right.

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking to a hair's breadth. His hand reached out, a single finger tracing the delicate outline of your jawline.

"There's nothing wrong with having a little fun sometimes" he whispered. "It's what you want, after all, right?” he tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. "Nobody's going to judge you" he continued, his voice a seductive promise. "It's just you and me. A little secret between us."

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was wrong, a betrayal of everything you held dear. Yet, a part of you, a selfish, yearning part, craved the thrill he offered.

"Don't get me wrong, Luke" you began, your voice trembling slightly. "I… I want this" you confessed, the words catching in your throat. "But I can't. I'm taken and you know it." The words tasted bitter on your tongue, a lie even to your own ears.

A slow, evil smirk spread across his face. It wasn't the dangerous kind of thrill you craved, but a chilling realization of the game he was playing.

"Oh, I get you, sweetheart" he said, his voice dripping with a mockery that made you flinch. "But when you're with him, you think about me, don't you?" Gods, he'd caught you. You couldn't deny it. Even with the guilt gnawing at you, the truth was undeniable.

Luke leaned closer, the space between you shrinking with each passing breath. He tilted his head, his curls tickling your cheek. He wanted to kiss you. You knew it, felt it in the way his lips hovered a breath away from yours.

And he stayed there, asking, as your breaths tangled together in shared exhales.

"But this is wrong, Luke" you whispered, your last attempt to hold onto the remnants of your sanity.

“No, it´s not” he breathed out, and in a swift motion, he grabbed you by the back of your neck and smashed his lips against yours. The other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him.

It already surprassed your expectations the moment you felt his lips against yours. His desire was palpable, but it didn´t manifest as an animalistic manner. He was tender, passionate, and incredibly intoxicating.

His lips moved against yours in a way that left you breathless, his tongue pressing against yours and making it´s way inside your mouth with the fiflthiest wet sounds.

It was so delicious. You couldn´t imagine you´d find actual taste in someone´s lips, but whatever it was that Luke had on his, you wanted it all the time. He was hungry for you, pressing your back against the tree more and his hands travelled down to your hips, pulling you into his own.

But then you remembered; your boyfriend could be looking for you. "Luke?" you said. As you tried to speak, to convey some restraint, Luke´s kisses grew more insistent, refusing to let you utter a word. You attempted to push him away, but you only managed to rest your hands on his chest, pulling him closer instead by gripping fists on his shirt.

"Luke" you managed to call again. "We shouldn´t" you managed to murmur in between kisses, your words a weak attempt to resist the pull of his desire. But Luke only smirked into your lips, then started to softly, slowly, trail kisses down your neck.

"Just a little more, angel" he whispered against your skin a low and deep voice.

The sensation sent a shockwave through your body, each one drawing a sigh of pleassure from your lips as you instinctivily threw your head back, offering him more. The sensation was electric, leaving you squirming with anticipation under Luke´s skillful touch.

And then, he dropped to his knees.

His lips started to trail kisses on your knees and thighs, gripping on the soft flesh with his eyes up, looking at you, devouring you.

"Luke, no. Not here" you whispered, placing both hands on his shoulders in an attempt to resist the overwhelming power of his kisses. But he simply sushed you, drawing soft circles on your knees with his thumbs.

"Shhh" he cooed softly. "It´s okay, sweetheart. I´ll make you feel good, I promise" he reassured you, resuming his kisses up your legs.

You moaned when his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive part of your inner thigh. His hands found their way underneath your skirt, his touch already making you grow in excitement. He pulled your panties to the side with a confident ease.

Your clit was almost throbbing. Swollen and desperate for attention; he felt it the moment he dipped the tip of his finger on your entrace to coat over your sensitve bud with your own arousal.

"I´ll make you see what´s worth it, baby. Who is" he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with desire as he leaned in, dangerously.

"I´ll make you feel what the little bitch of your boyfriend can´t"

Your heart raced against your ribs at a scary pace. Partly because your boyfriend, or anyone, could walk into the scene, and partly because Luke´s head was burried in between your thighs, and he showed no signals of stopping anytime soon.

He was enthusiastic about it; gripping onto your legs and squeezing at the soft flesh as his tongue circled and licked in between your folds. You knew there was more to that, more that he wasn´t gonna show you yet, he was only getting started.

You moaned out loud and tugged at his curls when he pulled your lips apart with his thumbs and pressed a wet kiss straight to your clit, pulsing and desperate for attention, just like you were.

"Such a pretty girl" he planted a quick kiss on your inner thigh. "He doesn´t make you feel this good, does he?"

[dreamwatch]

Kick 'em When They're Up

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest June warm-up round.

Prompt: Band on the run | Word Count: 997 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Established Relationship, the press being scumbags, angst, Eddie Munson needs a hug, and Steve is going to give it to him, they're in love your honour | AO3

*title from Dirty Laundry by Don Henley

****

It’s taken eight years for it to come out; one world tour, three albums. One video that blew up on MTV. And that was the problem.

Because being a metal band, while they were famous, in metal magazines, in the scene, they weren’t famous. They weren’t Metallica. But it was cool. They were successful enough, they had everything they ever wanted.

But see, you have a successful single, and people who don’t know you, well, now they know you. And they want to know more about you, so they buy magazines. And some magazines, some shitty, low rent, nasty fucking rags, they really dig.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen his photograph alongside Chrissy Cunningham's.

They’d barely got off the stage in Quebec before Phil, their manager, was getting them into cars and back to the hotel. No one telling them a goddamn thing, just “We have a situation, we have to go.” They all piled into Phil’s hotel room, still sweaty, towels around their necks, before the bomb got dropped.

“Bullshit,” Eddie says, even though he can see it in Phil’s face. He scrambles to turn the television on. And it’s there, on the news, not just MTV either, it made CNN. 

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.

He has no idea how long he’s been sitting on the bathroom floor. People have been knocking but he ignores them. They probably need a piss. They’ll have to go to someone else’s room.

There’s another knock and he just wants to tell them to fuck off but they speak before he gets a chance.

“Eddie?” Jeff, talking to him so softly, which makes him feel worse. Because this isn’t just about Eddie, it affects them too. If this blows up— fuck, he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Dude? Steve’s on the phone. I think you should come out and talk to him.”

And that’s the trigger, that’s the thing that gets him off the floor and unlocking the door. What he walks into isn’t a hotel room anymore, it’s a fucking war room. Phil is on another phone, the cable leading from the corridor outside the room. Their tour manager and publicist have their heads together at the desk. There are members of the road crew coming in and out of the room, dropping off food and drinks. When the door opens he can see security posted on the door.

Holy fuck. All because of him.

He takes the phone and turns to face the wall. “Steve?” His voice is rough from the adrenaline and stomach acid. He needs a drink.

“Hey,” says Steve in that oh-so-gentle voice, and God how he fucking needs him right now. “How are you holding up?”

“Been better,” he manages to force out. 

“Shit, sorry, stupid question.”

And Steve knows what he needs to hear before he can even form the words; Wayne is fine, Steve is fine, yes there are photographers and press outside his house, no there is no one outside of Wayne’s. 

“You’re all on flights out of Quebec this afternoon, okay?”

“To where?” They were supposed to be back in LA at the end of the week. But now… he has a hot stone in the pit of his stomach just thinking about it.

“Dublin via Toronto. You liked Ireland, right? And it’s quiet, it’ll be easy to hide there for a bit. Dustin has a friend-of-a-friend thing going on, but basically he’s got us a house in the middle of nowhere. We’ll be fine.”

“We?”

“I’m at LAX now. You’ll probably beat me there, you can hide out in the lounge and drink all their booze.” Eddie can hear the smile in his voice. He never stops marvelling at the way Steve just knows him, knows what he needs morning, noon and night. 

He clutches the phone, knuckles turning white. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You can. You won’t be alone, Phil is going to fly in with you, he’ll take care of everything. Just, tie your hair up and keep it under a cap. And take your rings off, okay? Keep your arms covered if you can.”

“Try not to look like Eddie Munson?”

There’s a pause at the end of the line before Steve lets out a soft sigh. “Yeah. Just for now though, right?”

“Right.” 

“I gotta go, my flight is boarding. I love you, okay?”

Eddie feels broken, the thought of hanging up like cutting his lifeline and he almost can’t bear to do it. “Okay. I love you too.”

“Always and forever?”

Eddie can hear the light teasing in Steve’s voice, and he smiles for the first time since Phil told him his life had been turned upside down again. Because that is what Steve does to him; blows away the tears and the clouds and the rain. Takes the open wounds of him and pulls them taught, stitching them together and making him whole again. 

“Always and forever,” he whispers back. 

He still feels sick, still has that putrid, adrenaline-filled rock in his gut just sitting there, but Steve’s voice reminds him of what they can’t take from him. They can take his band, his career, everything he worked for. But Steve will always be there for him. So many times in his life he’s questioned whether he is loved, like, truly loved. Even Wayne, who gave up so much for him, Eddie always worried that it came from a sense of obligation, even though deep down he knew better. But now, trapped in the middle of this maelstrom, the target of another witch hunt, he’s never been more sure of this: Steve Harrington loves him. And he loves him back in a way that should be scary but feels like oxygen, feels like life. And that’s what it comes down to, ultimately;  Steve is his life. 

And no shitty third rate magazine is ever taking that away from him.

****

Thanks to the wonderful @devondespresso for beta-ing!

[jolapeno]

viii. leave me on red

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eight of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - phone/text/video sex. angst. dont hate the jo.

word count: 3.6k

an: the hugest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for not getting mad at me for doing this to them.

You decided it in the minutes after he left, you were going to tell him.

Back pressed to the door, head resting, eyes closed. Tears stinging in the edges, burning. Your breath all strained and difficult—that is, until it decided what it wished to be, anyway.

Then, it shifted, transformed. It morphing into a sob that rumbles and cracks, shaking its way through you until your knees plead to crumble to the floor.

Because you had wanted to chase after him. Even ring him. Beg him to come back.

It wasn’t until you climbed back into bed, letting the scent of him wash over you, did you commit to the idea.

That’s when you begin rehearsing it, letting it move from rolling around your skull to dripping from your tongue. You did so as you made food, as you did chores. Perfecting it, choosing words so cautiously and carefully, swapping them out, practising it until it becomes a thing typed into a piece of your soul.

I’m in love with you Frankie. I have been for a while.

You don’t expect it to rival the greatest poets, and won’t find a place amongst the greatest scripts to ever be. It won’t be a speech that’ll be copied and used in film. But it’ll matter.

It will be meaningful.

It’ll have weight and carry truth—and you suppose, when all is said and done—that’s what will matter. It’ll be out there, free, existing—swirling between the two of you instead of caged inside of your chest.

Once you’ve spoken it, it should calm the storm inside of you; should quiet the choppy waves that collide within you, each one attempting to do more than knock you off your feet, but grasp you by the ankles and drag you under.

Confessing it, should do a lot of things. But that doesn’t bring you any comfort right now. If anything, it makes you feel sick, feeling only thorny anguish which keeps you up at night.

Never before had you been thankful for booking vacation time.

A chance to be, to sit around your home and pretend you don’t want to find a way to get to him, tell him it all now, let it unspool, even with no hope of it being the same as it ever was.

Because you could lose him. Ruin it all. Taint the one thing you cherish above all else.

It’s why you turn it over. Letting it worm its way from a box of doubts to a fully-fledged car crash you replay over and over as you lay in bed, fingers twitching, chest tightening, jaw clenching.

It’s only on the third day since you had made the decision, that you decide to share your plan with another soul.

Doing so over the phone—only one name came to mind. As soon as she answered and you spilt, you were greeted with only a joyous tone, it all full of pride. Your friend who is all knowledgable and wise, being nothing short of a cheerleader. Saw it coming, she tells you, been waiting for you to wake up and smell the coffee. You bite your inner cheek, doing so until copper swirls around spit, because you’ve known too (something you want to tell her). You’d been carrying it around for longer than realisation had been bestowed on her.

It’s easier not to say it. Swallowing it, letting it die in a pit of stomach acid, where other things you never say go to erode.

“Any advice?” you’d asked.

“Just be honest.”

On day four, you had gnawed the skin from your lip. It's sore, practically pulsing. It has its own heartbeat from how raw it feels.

Your nerves beginning to get the better of you, swarming and piercing, pecking away at your earlier confidence—stinging it with doubts, ones which spread, all poisonous, swelling out until it’s all you can feel.

His texts help.

One day I’ll get you back up in a heli. Only if I can sit between your legs like last time. Can sit anywhere you want, baby.

You’re not sure how it’s possible that miles away he can make your day better and your pussy clench around nothing all at once. Your body missing him—just as much as your head, heart and soul. Thighs pressing together, all your earlier thoughts popping like bubbles as you read his words over, and over, and over. A whimper grows in the back of your throat, hammering on the back of your teeth to be released.

Flicking your eyes up, you catch your appearance in the mirror.

The way your skin is just lightly sheened with the droplets from your shower—having been in a rush to reply than dry yourself. So much so, the air tinged with the scent of your shampoo and body wash. It’s thick, and heavy, your skin warming under the effect of his words making it more prominent, evident.

Smirking, you slide your hand until it undoes the robe of your dressing gown—letting it gape, the cool air brushing over once warm skin, until it pebbles, the peaks of your nipples hardening as you take a breath, and snap. There, immortalised, you stand—positioning your phone, ensuring the camera cuts off your eyes, beginning at the base of your nose, capturing the white of your teeth against your bottom lip, the white robe hanging, parted, framing the bare skin under it.

And you don’t think, you just send.

No caption, no message.

Just the sound of the whoosh as your heart hammers, beats, and thumps in the milliseconds it takes before you see the speech bubble of his reply.

Fuck, baby. Wish you were here.

Bending down to kneeling, you shimmy the fabric from your shoulders—pooling it in the creases of your elbows. Positioning yourself so your hand can be seen perfectly between your thighs, keeping yourself hidden, just a fraction. You ensure your breasts are on show, arm shifting to push them closer together, before you smirk—no, you think. Shifting your expression to a smile, a little one, which grows bigger and larger just as you click the shoot button.

It begins, a slow-motion capture of your disrobe, of you seating yourself down on the floor in front of your mirror, taking instruction through his texts—positioning yourself like a doll. The last being on your rear, soles flat to your carpet, thighs spread, head back as your neck elongates.

You’ve never felt more beautiful, even exposed. Eyes don’t linger on the things you usually pick apart first thing in the morning, before you dress for another day, and they don’t linger on the parts you catch in the corner of your eyes before you shower. You just see radiance, shadow-kissed skin that is being bowed to through a screen.

Fuck you’re gorgeous. Can see how wet you are. You need me, baby? Always, Frankie.

Your finger sliding along your inner thigh, tips brushing over before parting your folds. It won’t be enough, he’s ruined you—made it impossible not to wish for him, crave those thick, long fingers that both keep things hovering in the air and you hovering over space, time and existence.

“Frankie,” you moan, to no one but you.

Curling, sinking deeper until—

Can I call you?

You don’t reply, you just call. The distinct sound of a request to video echoes around the room as you slow your ministrations, a low whimper escaping as he connects, as his face fills the screen that's cast to the side, his own view of your ceiling.

He says your name, quiet, more questioning. Your trembling hand moves, picking it up as the other remains buried deep inside you, lifting your phone, giving him a view, a taste, a sight.

“Tell me what to do,” you whine.

Watching him as he drinks as much of you in as he can, commits you to memory, skates his eyes over every pixel, not wanting to miss a single one, before he clears his throat, before he carries you in his phone to his bed.

Licking your lips, you release a breathy sigh—one that begins in the depths of your stomach, rising up and fluttering out. Almost carrying a moan as you find that spot inside of you, the one which makes you boneless, thighs threatening to tremble.

“You want me to keep my fingers—“

“Faster,” Frankie stammers, “Want you to move those perfect fingers a little faster for me. Think you can do that?”

Nodding, you roll your lips, heat washing out over you, gripping the phone tightly.

“Fuck, baby. Y’know how good you look right now?”

You heave out his name. It building, fanning out over nerves that tingle at the edges of you—making your fingers curl, heel of your palm catching the swollen bundle of nerves that makes the sound of what you’re doing that much louder, filthier, more obscene.

And you fucking love it.

Love all of this.

Love him—

“Wish I could bury my face between your legs—“

“—oh, shit—“

“—y’like the sound of that, querida?”

Your eyes flick to the screen, staring at him—a pang in your chest flooding outwards, it mixing with how much you wish he was here, desperate for it, half-wanting to beg him to get his ass over here and make a mess of you in front of your mirror.

“Touch yourself,” you say instead.

Swallowing back the rest, letting your head fall back, obscuring him from view as you slow your movements, teasing, edging yourself as your core twists, and electricity thunders in your veins.

“Want—fuck—wanna come with you.”

“Alright baby,” he says—as if it’s the most normal thing, as though anything the two of you are doing is normal. “Let’s do this together.”

You hope it’s not the only time he’ll say that to you.

Days drag when you clock watch. Hours take even longer.

It’s a thing you know, but you can’t help but do so all the same. Each time you check, you hope it’s closer to the time. The one marked in your calendar, the one which has been making you both nervous and elated all week.

It had only been when you stopped tidying, stopped moving things from one counter to the other, did you spot it—eyes land on it and never leave.

You're not even sure when he left it behind, but your eyes linger on the corduroy jacket near your door. It’s moss-green, hanging, growing in the corner of your eye and borrowing more of your attention than it should. You’re sure it grows vines, ones which tap on your shoulder when you’re able to forget it’s there, only to make you look over, and spot it all over again.

The worst thing about it, it looks like it's supposed to be there. As though the hook you had expertly hung, (correction: hammered a nail in and hoped for the best) was always meant to hang his things, be dedicated to it.

In truth, he acts like he’s supposed to be here.

Fitting, even if you’d never made a place for him outside of being his friend. Now, you see the outline of him, perfect cut out, a drawer which could host the bolts and bits from his pockets, the shelf which he could place his eccentric collection of DVDs from the sleepless nights during storms.

You suppose it’s why it continues to catch your eyes, your gaze lingering on it—knowing, without brushing your fingers against it or burying your nose into it, that it smells like it. That, in its own way, is spreading out that calming effect he has.

One you need now more than ever.

Hand wrapping around the handle of the knife, chopping, preparing. Eyes studying the recipe that is ingrained in you, one you could do with a timer and your eyes closed, but you need to stare at it, to read the handwritten notes and pretend for a second it’s not something you used to make for him all the time.

Before the rule, the one he made you agree to because you’d asked something from him.

Now, you just snort. Adding the ingredients to the pot, turning the heat down, as a soft simmer begins before you wipe your hands down on your towel. Because in time, you’d broken all of them, both for one another and for yourselves.

And that had to mean something. Had to be more than a coincidence or something that just was. It had to be underpinned by unsaid words and swirling emotions neither of you feel equipped to handle, yet feel more prominently than you know what to do with.

You make more of an effort in your clothes. Not for him, for you. A thrill sparks through you when you catch sight of yourself when you pass a mirror, catch yourself in the reflection of a window, your television. Because you look like someone who could confess your feelings, let your adoration be known. You feel like someone who will do it, can do it—a confidence which has been coming and going since you’d decided.

It’s only when you lay it all out (the glasses, the plates and the cutlery), does a stitch begin to appear in your carefully thought-out plan. One that digs, the needle-sharp, pointed, aiming to prick and make you bleed, smear across perfection and make it ruin. A thing you put off, able to argue with it, point out its stupidity.

Tonight could be the last time you see him.

Maybe, this thing the two of you had was all he had wanted—all he’d needed. Not an overbearing amount of emotions he can’t handle or begin to understand.

A thought you try to squash, shove down deep inside.

That is, until the bigger hand pushes the smaller one on, and it begins to create a hole inside your chest. It forming based on that earlier thought. That dread, that worry and concern which has been thickening in the back of your head for weeks now. Now, it's grown out of the walls you kept it behind. It widens with each passing minute until it’s close to an hour and it’s practically a sinkhole. It taking everything it can with it—happiness, courage, laughs and the smiles. Vanishing them, wiping them clean like they never existed, as every bit of wanted you had felt, was painfully plucked from you, tweezed until you were back to that horrid place you were before all of this began.

Except now, you felt too much. Unsure if you’re able to put a cork in it, trap it under just want him to be happy and content at being friends.

A sob escapes, just a little one.

But, it’s enough to widen the door. Allowing more of them to bubble up and appear, climbing forcibly up your chest as though they’ve been building a ladder and plotting their escape for the last few minutes.

Each rolling out, freeing, bursting into the air. Your body racked with them, trembling, shaking.

Your hand finds refuge on the counter, stabilising you, keeping you from falling into the hole of your own making. And your thumb brushes porcelain, the neatly displayed food you’d spent hours on, a declaration all on its own.

A—see, I broke the rules too, Morales—except, he hasn’t come. Hasn’t arrived.

Maybe he’d known. Maybe he’d decided that it was all too much, standing you up easier—you supposed it was much harder to face the person you’d been best friends with and break her heart to her face.

But, your Frankie would never do that. Except he isn’t yours, not really.

Even less so as time ticks far past running late into the zone of stood up.

And you feel dumb, stupid. A gnawing sensation growing in the place your love had once been, it twisting, tainting, painting everything it can in ruin and staining it in the disappointment you never thought he’d make you feel.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hand clasping your face.

Fresh tears, acidic and thick, hammer down onto your cheeks like a downpour. Layering on top of one another, blurring your vision, making your chest feel both heavier and lighter all at once.

Grabbing your phone, you don’t even think—unlocking it, finding the contact and clicking Message.

Are you free for a drink?

You should consider it, go to bed, wake up tomorrow and bury your feelings in something healthier like yoga or a walk—but you send it. Discarding your phone across the counter, it clattering, catching on the plate as you bury your face in your hands.

Tears, hot and thick—running down your wrists—not doing enough to numb you as you let them fall. Disbelief doubles as hope is swallowed whole, your throat filling with sobs you feel forced to let spill—etching their way into the silence, fracturing it, cracking what should be laughter, but is instead loneliness.

It’s why you’re thankful they reply with a yes, giving it no more thought as you blow out the candle in the centre of the table, ending the night before it even began.

Frankie wakes to darkness.

It’s a comfort, the way it blankets him, allows the little shadows to rest easy against the ceiling from his open curtains—it is all soothing, relaxing. It even almost allowed him to curl back into the comfort of his sofa. His blanket—the one you bought him—cast over the lower part of his legs.

Then he remembers.

Eyes widening, blinking furiously as he throws his legs from the sofa, hand grabbing—making all sorts of noise on his coffee table—until his phone screen illuminates and he sees the time.

Late it spells.

It all a blaze, just in the form of numbers.

Fucking late it bellows.

Disorientation wraps around him as he shoves himself up to stand, fingers tugging at his curls until he imagines they’re more frizz than defined. Not even thinking—just grabbing. Phone, keys. Shoes barely on his feet as he yanks open his own door.

Calling you.

It rings. And it rings. Each unanswered drone of it doing something to the fragility of his heart. Making it quake, crackle at the edges.

All week, he’d done nothing but think of you. Think of holding you, burying himself close against you, not even asking you to shed layers, but rather just lying with him. Take in the weight of you that he finds all but a comfort.

I love you, he had planned to whisper. Mark it against your neck, just under your ear. Write it against your lips if you let him. Burn it anywhere else until you’re nothing but tattooed in praise and adoration.

“Pick up, baby,” he mumbles.

Ringing you again in the car.

The drive over tense, silent—the occasional dial tone echoing around the bed of his truck. His knuckles whiten at each red light, shoulders practically under his ears when he pulls onto your street. Something knotting, all horrible, riddled with vines and sharpness that cut into him with each breath he takes.

He’s not sure if he should be worried or thankful your car is in the drive—because the house is plunged into darkness. His boots clatter against your wooden steps, hammering on the short porch as he cracks his knuckles against the door.

Its echo, comes back to him—able to travel around in the silence and come back with an answer.

You’re not here.

But he knocks again, and again. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, something clenched around his stomach, tightening and tightening as your name falls, all pleading, an edge to it that he hadn’t known was possible. But then, he hadn’t known he could begin splitting down the middle, the seams coming undone, his own might and willing not able to keep him together as the realisation he’d fucked up the one good thing he had.

The one good thing he didn’t even really have, too cowardly to tell you—too fearful that you’d stare at him blankly and tell him you don’t feel the same.

Because he’s been drowning in it, in this, in you, for so long, he knows how to just about keep his head from going under. He had been sure he could do it for longer, could stem his feelings, push them down. Until, you slept against him, fitting perfectly.

Until he woke with his arm draped over your waist, your leg tangled in his, staring at him with wonder and awe as you traced your name on his back.

He should have told you then it was the best thing he’s ever woken up to. A sight he had only dreamt of, but never imagined could even be true.

Pushing your key into the door, he’s greeted by darkness. It hovering its hand to him, welcoming him, even if the cold chill of the place was more than unsettling. He wanders, feet almost dragging, half hoping to find you sat in the dark, because at least then he could begin to make it up to you.

You’re not.

Moving through to your kitchen, all set to pass through to your bedroom, when something makes his eyes pull to your table, and he sees it.

Eyes landing on the set-up, from the plates to the glasses, to the orange dish in the centre—and his heart drops to his feet. It landed with a squelch, a thud which vibrates through him to the tips of him.

You made him food.

You broke a rule. You broke the rule.

His eyes beginning to well up, stinging, until one falls.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Letting his hand run down his face, staring at his favourite meal—unable to unsee how congealed it was, how long it’s been sat there, existing, waiting.

“Fuck.”

an: forgive me 😘

CHAPTER NINE ->

[hellfirecvnt]

The Foundation of Learning

Lee Russell x Fem!Reader pt. 2

Summary: This school is unlike anywhere you've ever worked. Who's lying and who's just an idiot? You know how dreaming about a person can make you feel some type of way? That.

Read part one here. // Part three here. // Part four here. // Part five here.

Your first day was last Friday, meaning after that accidental acid trip, you had a whole weekend to decide if this is the type of environment you want to work in. Sure it's exciting, but you weren't even a whole day in before you were taking hallucinogens against your will. That's a bit more than the drama you're used to in a school.

Sunday night, you can't help but wonder about the two men you'd only just met. More so, you wonder about Lee Russell. A loud man who dresses even louder. His hair is stupid and you can't help but laugh every time his plans fumble, but you can't help but catch yourself developing a bit of a crush on this peculiar man.

You fall asleep peacefully only to find yourself in a dream about that same strange guy. Lee. He touches your cheek so softly, you're so sure you can feel it. The rest of the dream becomes a hazy fog of a childish feeling of infatuation. It lingers in your mind well after you wake up.

Monday morning, you're quick to rise, almost excited for whatever nonsense will be thrown your way this week. Last night's dream is still heavy on your mind as you enter through the front doors of North Jackson High.

"Ms. Y/L/N," Lee greets you with a bright, wide smile. You feel the heat rise in your face. You rely on your makeup to conceal that.

"Good morning, Mr. Russell," you beam, waving as you approach.

"You can call me Lee, darlin'. I'm not a fuckin' psycho," He says, referring to Neal's insistence on being referred to as Mr. Gamby during work hours. You return the favor, stepping into a first-name basis with him. It's nice. Like your first friend in your new town.

"Can I get you a coffee or anything, Lee?" You offer.

"No thank you, doll. I gotta get to-"

"Y/L/N, wake your ass up. I need you to hold any calls for me and Mr. Russell for the next," he glances at his watch. "45 minutes."

"Good morning, Mr. Gamby! No problem-" but he cuts you off.

"45 minutes, Y/L/N!" He exclaims, dragging Lee with him as they congregate outside in the woods by the train tracks.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Gamby? God damn." Lee pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Don't worry about it. I'm treating her like shit so she'll do better."

"She's been here for a day," Mr. Russell groans as they cross the empty field to get to their meeting area.

"Well, look at you, being at everybody's defense and shit for the first time in your life." Neal sneers at his cohort.

"I wish you would just shut the fuck up. For once in your life." Lee sighs, taking a seat on a large boulder. The two men bicker for a moment before breaking into brainstorming. Anything they can do to knock Dr. Brown off her throne. Eventually, and mostly to the credit of Lee's deranged mind, they hatch a plan to frame Ms. Leblanc, the meanest bitch in the school, for stealing and selling textbooks to a third party.

"I'll go plant the evidence," Gamby, stone focused on his objective, beelines for the school ahead of Lee.

"God damn... Idiot," he mumbles to himself. With Gamby occupied, he decides to stop by your desk.

"Y/N," he snatches your attention away from your duties on a dime. You quite literally drop everything when you hear his voice. You silently scold yourself for letting that dream get you bent so far out of wack.

"What can I do for you, Lee?" You wait for instruction as Russell just stares at you for a moment like he's considering something.

"Come with me to my office." He takes off down the hall. You round the desk and follow him with haste. Once you're inside Lee's office, he closes and locks the door behind you. You look at him with wide, curious eyes, trying your best to stifle back the heat on your face.

"We're going to frame Ms. Leblanc and turn her against Dr. Brown." Lee's words fill you with immense disappointment. Of course that's what this was about. You're embarrassed by how excited you allowed yourself to become, even if he's none the wiser. You furrow your brows and cross your arms.

"And how are we going to accomplish that one?" You ask, disgruntled. Lee gazes at you with a big smile, excited to hear you include yourself in his plan.

"Take a look at this." He grins, sliding an altered invoice across the table. In this convincing looking writing it says Leblanc signed for 600 books and no more than 60 have been accounted for within the school. "That bitch is fucked."

"Oh, wow. Is Ms. Leblanc a super bitch or something?"

"She's the super bitch, Y/N. And she is going to destroy Belinda for us. All Gamby and I have to do is sit back and watch." Lee revels in what he believes to be a foolproof plot. As if summoned by the sound of his own name, Neal appears. He steps through the door without knocking and looks at you quizzically when he realizes that Lee has just blown up their spot to you.

"What's going on in here?" Neal asks, hesitant to trust this new employee.

"Relax, Gamby. I'm just catching Y/N up on the details," Lee grins, pleased with himself

"Isn't this above Y/N's pay grade?" The mustached man does very little to hide the annoyance in his voice.

"Well, I'm trying to work her into the inner circle." Lee makes a circular gesture with his hands.

"Yeah, Gamby," you chime in, happy to be included in something that isn't reorganizing the incredibly fucked up records someone shoved into a box of papers before they switched to computers years ago.

"You can't just bring strangers into our plans just because she's an attractive person or what the fuck ever!" Gamby attempts to whisper, but it's just quiet yelling.

"Y/N, can we trust you, sweetheart?" Lee asks with big, shining eyes, grinning at you as he awaits your reply. And that name, "sweetheart." My God, you nearly melt on the spot. What's come over you?

"Of course you can. I only have time to talk to you two. Who am I going to conspire with?" You toss a hand up in confusion.

"Alright, but if I see you talking to any of the teachers after this, you will be fired on the spot." Neal wags a finger in your face.

"Fucking Christ, Gamby. Lighten up. You ain't firing anybody. Get your ass to the library." Lee snaps his fingers and points at the door.

"Am I really not allowed to talk to the teachers now?" You ask, a little confused.

"Don't listen to him, darlin'," Lee sweet-talks you, taking the falsified invoice in his hands.

"No. No, you do listen to me. I am your boss. If I see you talking to anyone besides me and Mr. Russell I will banish you from this campus." The pretentious vice principal stands firm in his decision.

"Okay, sir. I won't talk to the teachers," you sigh.

"Or the janitors and counselors," he adds and you nod. "No Para-pros either."

"Gamby come the fuck on!" Lee whines, rushing this interaction along so he can put his plan into action. The two men exit and Neal makes an "I'm watching you" gesture through the large, glass wall before disappearing around a corner.

You return to your desk and take a few phone calls, certain that Gamby's insane rule can't possibly include parents. After a while, a lady comes to introduce herself to you.

"Hey! Finally got over here during a planning period," she laughs. "I'm Amanda." She extends a hand for you to shake.

"Hi-" you stop in your tracks as you make eye contact with Neal way, way down the hall. He slowly shakes his head back and forth. You roll your eyes and return your attention to the woman in front of you. You begin to spell out a word in the ASL alphabet, hoping Amanda has even as little understanding of sign language as you have. You sign "Email" and she squints at your hands.

"Oh, I don't... Are you deaf? I swear I just saw you answer a phone..." She tilts her head. You sigh with frustration and begin typing out an email on your computer. Confused and feeling awkward, Amanda slowly walks away from the entire situation. You're quick to write her an email about Gamby's strange training practices, careful not to uncover their scheme.

You shake your head, hoping she sees the message soon so you're not blacklisted from making any friends besides these two maniacs in this new town.

"Hello, North Jackson High School," you answer the phone with a darling customer service voice.

"Oh, you're fake as hell, Y/N. That ain't what you sound like at all," Lee laughs through the phone.

"Hello, Mr. Russell-"

"Lee."

"Hello, Lee. How's the plotting?" You mindlessly twirl the telephone cord around your finger as you listen to him talk.

"I need you and Gamby's help tonight. We'll need a school bus."

"A school bus?" You ask, unable to fathom what you'd need a bus for.

"For the books, sweetheart. Stay focused," he scolds.

"My bad."

"I'll see you tonight," he says, hanging up right after. You could hear Neal calling his name in the background, otherwise you'd take that fast goodbye as an insult.

You attain the keys to a bus sitting out in the bus lanes. It was left to be cleaned after a kid pierced his own ear and bled everywhere on a field trip.

"Try not to touch any of the seats near the front. It's... Not good." You warn as you toss the keys to Gamby. "I'm not fucking driving."

You and Lee ride in his car, driving ahead of Gamby to the location to store the "stolen" books. Mr. Russell guides Gamby as he backs the bus up and you help the two men unload the boxes of extremely heavy textbooks.

"Holy shit, we fucking did it, Gamby!" Lee grins, self satisfied and hungry for confrontation. "And you too, darlin'. Thank you." He's quick to add.

"Nicely done, Mr- Oh, uh, Lee." You smile, hoping your newfound nervousness isn't too obvious. And to him, it isn't, only because he's distracted by his own infatuation with you.

The next day, shit hits the fan. Lee calls the front desk again and you answer.

"Hello, North Jackson High," you speak warmly.

"We're about to head straight to Leblanc's class right now!" You can hear his devious smile in his voice. "Brown is so fucked if she really tries to go against that stone cold bitch."

"Hey, do you think I'm allowed to talk to teachers now? Aman-" just as you're about to finish your sentence, Gamby swipes the phone from you and slaps it onto the receiver.

"No. And especially not Ms. Snodgrass."

"Why not? She's so nice and I don't know anybody in town besides you and Lee and I doubt you two are gonna want to go to bars and get drunk off fruity bullshit on Fridays." Your monologue leaves Neal pondering. He doesn't get invited to payday drinks, this is new for him.

"No. You'll let something slip. Snodgrass is wholesome. Too wholesome to get wrapped up in the shit we do," Gamby explains.

"Well then why the hell was I wrapped?" You raise a brow, questioning what he's insinuating.

"I don't know! I never would've done something so stupid and reckless like that." The broad man shrugs. "Russell has a thing for you or something."

"A 'thing for me?'" you repeat.

"Yeah. He thinks that you're an attractive person. And I guess he's not wrong, but... You're no Amanda Snodgrass." Neal shrugs as if delivering bad news he can't hold back.

"You're so right," you nod. "So when can I talk to her? I want friends."

"When I'm Principal." Mr. Gamby disappears to join Mr. Russell and Dr. Brown in pursuit of the books and you're left alone with Gamby's words. A thing for you. How delightful to know your little crush isn't as one sided as you thought.

"Ms. Y/L/N, could you come with me? I need you to take notes," Dr. Brown's eyes are narrow. It's clear she's on a mission when she makes the quick stop by your desk on her way to Leblanc's class.

"Yes, ma'am." You scoop up the board and a pen and follow her on quick feet. Just as she rounds the corner, you see Lee. You knew he was with her, and he smiles when he sees you.

"Mr. Russell," you smile, greeting him in a professional manner in front of the woman that holds reign over both yours and Lee's job. You follow the principal and vice principal down the hall and slowly you come up to a classroom with an involved teacher. She seems well educated and passionate about her teaching. Ironically, today's subject is about protecting your reputation with your life...

As you linger in the hall taking quick notes of the passive aggressive exchange, you see Ms. Snodgrass walking by. After a quick glance around, you're certain there's no Gamby.

"Hey! Ms. Snodgrass. Sorry about yesterday. Mr. Gamby has me on like... A vow of silence? I think I'm being hazed."

"Oh! That makes so much sense. I thought you were just kinda weird," she laughs, clearly relieved of the awkwardness.

"I emailed you about it," you chuckle, also relieved.

"Oh, I must've missed it-" Amanda's sentence is cut short as Belinda and Lee take off down the hall after the climax of the conversation. You wave a quick goodbye to Snodgrass and bolt after them.

Belinda is ranting and raving down the hall, all the while Lee cheers her on. He antagonizes every single time she seems to be calming down. It's eerie to watch the way he plays with her mind. You hope you'd be able to tell if he ever tried this sort of brain sorcery on you.

"I can't believe that bitch," Dr. Brown shakes her head, clearly fired up as she stomps into her office. Gamby follows her and closes the door behind him, keeping her on track and gathering information for later. Lee, laughing carelessly, leans against your desk as you take a seat. All you can think about is Neal's confession of Lee's feelings. Even if it was just a "thing." Whatever that means.

"Lee," you nervously call for his attention. "Do you want to get a drink tonight?" You're unsure where the nerve came from, asking your boss out, but it's not like he adheres to the rules very much anyways.

At first, he seems surprised. Caught off guard, mostly. He blinks a few times, knitting his brows for just a second as he calculates how to respond. Of course he's not worried about the rules, even if he plans on becoming Principal, the only thing he can focus on right now is you. His mouth hangs slightly agape as he carefully and regretfully makes his next statement.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Y/L/N. Maybe another time. I've got some stuff to handle real early tomorrow. I'll be a little late getting in, actually." He fidgets with his ringless ring finger, unable to keep meeting your gaze.

"Of course, sir. It's hard making friends here. You guys are... Different." You smile at Lee as best you can and turn your attention to the computer screen where you slowly and pointlessly sift through each individual piece of spam. Lee lingers for a moment, chewing on his lip in thought. After a short while, he's off to find Gamby and Brown to ensure she's still wrongfully fired up.

Immediately in your solitude your mind runs amok with rejection sensitive anxieties. You're heinously embarrassed, and the redness on your face only darkens when you replay it all in your head over and over.

"Jesus fucking Christ, why did I fucking do that? Who do I think I am? Where the hell do I get off?" You mumble to yourself, trying so hard to regulate past this visceral reaction. You begin to wonder if you've over valued yourself to this little team just because of your interest in Lee.

"What's wrong? Why are you doing that?" Gamby gestures vaguely to your whole being with his hand.

"Fuck, Mr. Gamby. You scared the shit out of me." You gasp, a hand placed on your chest in fear.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings and you won't get caught off guard."

"Hey, tomorrow's teacher work day, right? Do I need to come in?" You ask, hoping for a no so you can drink away the humiliation.

"At any other pussy ass school, maybe. But I need all hands on deck. You're coming in." Neal points at you with integrity and you groan to yourself.

"Are you sure? I'm going to drink the same amount regardless tonight. I might not be very useful tomorrow." You shrug, hoping the trust you've built allows for this sort of candid behavior.

"Something wrong?" He asks.

"You said Lee had a 'thing' for me, so I asked him to get a drink with me and he turned me down," you laugh, slowly accepting the embarrassment.

"Huh, well. That's just Lee, I guess. He's never made a lot of sense to me. All those fuckin' outfits." Neal shakes his head. "Guess he's not into you anymore."

"Oh, word," you say, swallowing the bluntness of his words. "Window closed, got it." You give a small salute gesture and turn back to your computer. "I'll be here tomorrow, Mr. Gamby."

"Well, yeah. I just said you would. I just told you that. I am your boss and you'll be here tomorrow." He nods and emotes as if he's repeating obvious information like 'the sky is blue.'

"Dude." You pinch the bridge of your nose.

•••

Taglist: @its-in-the-woods // @blackwoodtree (you didn't ask to be tagged, but you did ask for a part 2 ❤️)

[gaymurdersalad]

[ HOWDY Y’ALL! WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A FUN BROADCAST!

If you haven’t noticed, it’s pride month! That means we’re legally allowed to be gay for an entire month before we have to disappear into our burrows once more! To celebrate the occasion, I decided to do a fun little pride post! ]

[ I’ve gathered all the little fuckers in The Void to poke and prod at them like zoo animals. In other words, I figure they all have some neat identities and wouldn’t mind being interrogated in honor of pride month. I’ll go ahead and turn it over to them, but I’ll say now, no matter how much they kick and scream, I am definitely NOT holding them at gunpoint! This workspace is… definitely OSHA approved. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. Have attem! ]

> This is fucking stupid. Stop waving that gun at me. I’m talking.

> My identity isn’t anything special. I’m just some guy who decided he was a guy way later than everyone else did. I don’t really give a damn what pronouns people use on me because usually they just end up avoiding me at all costs or scampering away like frightened animals.

> I’m bisexual, is that anything? But, like, only bisexual in a sexual way. I could not fucking fathom living a long prosperous life with anyone. How the hell are you supposed to enjoy someone for that long? Getting married seems like a scam. I bet it is. I bet it’s like the invention of Valentine’s Day for greeting card companies. You’re not actually supposed to be in love with someone for that long, it just doesn’t seem possible.

> … My marriage with Dave does not count, that wasn’t an officiated wedding. I’m fairly certain he fished those rings out of a water fountain and pawned his dress off a hooker. I do vividly recall dumpster diving for my tuxedo.

> Uhhhhhh wuh? Hmmmm, I’onno what the hell I am, Old Sport! Fuck!

> Shit, I guess I like everyone. A hole’s a hole. Why the fuck would I discriminate? I think I got a preference for men though! They’re so fuckin’ easy to romance! Unless they’re the likes of Sportsy, then it’s the hardest goddamn thing you’ll ever seduce. He gets real gay when he’s on acid, but then again, I get real gay on cocaine. Man, our wedding was immaculate. Imma tell our kids about it one day!

> Likewise, I’ll be any gender you fuckin’ want me to be. I got like, pocket gender, I can just whip it out on request. Want me to be a dude? Fuck yeah, alright. Want me to be a pretty lady? No goddamn problem at all! I can be both at the same time or one more than the other— who gives a shit? I’m just havin’ fun.

> Good fucking lord, really? That shotgun does not scare me, you orange fool—

> … I have a complicated identity. As any other living organism does.

> I have found that over the years I do not experience sexual attraction and that I experience little to no romantic attraction. I only recall feeling romantically attracted to one person in my entire life. I doubt it will happen again. > And it may seem, uhm... Embarrassing, but I do deviate from your traditional "man's man". In laymen's terms, I do not feel particularly drawn to being male. I am very certain I was born with the intention of being a man, but my mind has refused to accept it. I am not sure why. Instead of feeling like a proper bloke, I feel rather empty. If I could have it my way, I would be some... human silhouette rather than a full fledged man. I do not know. This is idiotic. > I cringe every time someone addresses me in a masculine way. I wish I could simply have no pronouns. I can deal with them because I am indeed a grown ass... person, but I just wish it were not so. Whatever. I am done complaining.

> Oh! That’s very simple, this is really easy.

> I literally don’t have anything going for me at all.

> What with the entire fabric of time being on my shoulders and all, I don’t even think about gender or romance much. I do love being a girl! It’s one of the things I miss most about being alive, actually. Pretty dresses, playing with makeup in the bathroom, trying to curl my hair without burning my scalp— I mean, it sounds horrendous sometimes, but you can’t beat it. Feeling alive and content in your own skin. Just one of those precious things that spawned from the chance of life.

> … Uhm, Uhhh… Men.

> Yeah. I Like Them. I Think… Yes, I Could Probably Date A Man Or Two. I Don’t Know, Employee, Why Did You Pull Me Out Here? You Know I Have Copious Paperwork To Do! Some @$!# $#*@ Kid Just Fell Into The Ball Pit And Got Mauled Jaws-Style And His Parents Are Really Grilling Us For It. Dumb&@#*s, It’s Not My Fault Their Kid Heeded The Call Of The Sirens. I Swear, This Job Is Going To Kill Me Or Force My Hand Into Becoming The Next Purple Guy—

> extremely in love with my wife and my gender!

> it was actually very cute how we met, employee. have i ever told you? heh heh, we met in highschool. she was on the football team and i was a cheerleader, can you believe that? oh, i was head over heels for her instantly. she was strong, she was quick thinking, she was so hecking beautiful, employee… i never got to tell her how i felt while we were in highschool, but we were good friends. very good friends. come a few years later, some old buddies of ours want to have a get together and dish it out like old times… go vandalize and drive off into the sunset in the back of a pickup truck sipping on horrendously cheap beer and laughing off our university work or our jobs. when i get to our spot, though, i see her. i’d recently wised up to my gender, y’know, had my hair cut and fresh scars on my chest, so suffice to say i looked nothing like i did when i cheered for her during football season. she’d done the same, employee— she grew out her hair to the middle of her back in such beautiful dark curls, her bangs tied back so every inch of her perfect face could glimmer underneath the neon lights of the derelict bowling alley we’d found ourselves in. she looked at me, and i sensed instant recognition. she smiled through her bright red lipgloss and rushed up to me, wrapping me up in a hug, and i swear, she hadn’t lost any of those muscles— almost broke my ribs!

> the rest of the night, we were so… comfortable together. sure, during highschool we were close, but without saying a single word about what happened to us between then and now, we understood, and employee— i think it brought us closer. it was around three in the morning while we sat around a bonfire with the rest of our buddies when she layed her head on my shoulder and i felt an unfathomable warmth. i knew i wanted her for the rest of my life.

> … i just love her so much, employee.

> oh ok

> its rlly whatever. any pronouns any gender anybody who wants me. who cares

> oh i do have a preference for girls. theyre pretty. if you disagree u are not blessed enough to be loved by gods best creation and ur pissed about it. i can tell

> what if i was actually catholic would that be fucked up or what

> …

> … I cannot… physically stress how abhorrent sexuality is to me. What… What an utterly damning notion. Someone’s greedy hands cursing you and plaguing your with their own dirty human desires. How disrespectful. How… invasive. Why on Earth would it be my responsibility to supply someone with something to love? Am I really subject to whatever the hell people think of me? Whether they “love” me or perceive me as some… some man, some object of attraction? Disgusting.

> If I could shed every trace of a sex or gender from my loathed corpse, I would. Often times I lay awake at night and consider skinning myself for the hell of it. I’ve related this to David and he said I sounded “fuckin’ insane”. Stupid bastard. I want to be a skeleton. I wanna be a fucking skeleton! Pretty and thin and not alive whatsoever! God damn this accursed body and its… rancid flesh and unidentifiable mystery goop. Ugh. Ugh!!!! God, the biggest blight on my “life” was being cursed with gender!

> I was born as a female which was just laughably wrong, then I recall amending that and trying to become a man, but none of it worked. All of it sucked. All of it was wretched. The ideal form is a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. You can’t romance a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. Can’t have sex with that. Unless you’re really, really determined. I don’t think even David could be that serious about his sexuality.

> … I… Hope. Oh dear. Oh god, I really am unsafe from the horrors of this world. God, I wish that bear had taken me out before I showed him to his grave.

[itaipava]

— champagne problems.

ft: oscar piastri x reader

wc: 892

genre: angst

tw: none

oscar looked at his watch in the silence of the train, 10:47 pm, it said. he wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, but he knew it wasn’t where he belonged. it wasn’t the place he had planned to spend this day that should have been so important: he should be celebrating with the most special person in his life tonight. sighing and his eyes threatening to let out all the emotions he’s been holding back, he looks out the window, trying his best to ignore the sharp pangs he’s feeling in his chest as a new melancholy song starts playing in his headphones.

he didn’t know what he wanted at that moment, whether it was to be alone to understand everything that happened and finally let his heart finish breaking completely or surrounded by his closest friends to try to feel more alive and try to ignore this pain that only increased.

looking at the other passengers on the train, he sees some people looking at the window, a couple holding hands, another couple where the woman is lying with her head on her partner’s shoulder while he holds her hand, and some noisy teenagers on the other who apparently just left a party. each one with their life, their story, their thoughts and feelings… he would give anything to feel like them now.

he thought something was wrong when you showed up that night. his suspicions proved true when you dropped his hand in the middle of dancing to your favorite song, your song; that song the two of you would listen to when you were driving your car and sing at the top of your lungs, him laughing at you as he hummed the song and lightly tapped his fingers on your thigh, that song he played on your first date, that song that seems to have was written to tell your love, that song.

when you walked out the door, you left a heartbroken oscar behind; eyes fixed on the door you left through, shaking hands seeking some support before his legs gave out. in that moment you completely changed your lives, where everything was sunshine and soft smiles, gentle caresses being exchanged at sunset, became an acid rain that burns your hearts, a wound that will never be cured.

he was going to ask you to spend the rest of your life with him that night; he should be surrounded by all his friends and family, but instead he is completely alone, traveling to an unknown destination. oscar opens his wallet and looks at a photo of the two of you that you took on your first date; he runs his fingers lightly over the photo, as if he’s caressing your happy face, and he feels a pang of pain when he thinks about how happy you two were back then. suddenly, the train conductor’s voice echoes, signaling that they are approaching the next station, and oscar is brought back to reality with a heavy sigh.

he feels so stupid thinking about how differently he planned that night. his entire family saw his face fall when you let go of his hand and your smile disappeared, giving way to a look of doubt and melancholy. but he didn’t care about that part now. his heart hurts too much to worry about the humiliation of it all.

he didn’t want to believe everyone when they warned him about you; he loved you too much to let other people’s opinions get in the way of his happy relationship with you, well he thought he had been happy anyway. maybe he should have listened, maybe it would have spared him so much pain and humiliation, he thinks as the train slows to a stop.

he was so nervous writing his speech that night that it had to be perfect. after all, you would remember that moment for the rest of your lives. turns out he was right, but the night will be remembered for very different reasons than he expected. the worst of it was that you couldn’t give him a single reason for your decision, and he couldn’t give you a word in response.

but you contacted oscar soon after that night, asking to see him again. coincidentally, the place you chose was the same coffee shop where you shared your first date. taking a deep breath, he steps through the door, looking around the crowded room for your familiar face. as soon as he sees you, his heart races and he feels like all the air has been stolen from his lungs. as he approaches you, you realize how much his appearance has changed in just a few weeks; his eyes are sunken and lifeless, and his sweet smile can’t be found on his beautiful face. you explain to him why you decided to end things and that you simply weren’t ready for that level of relationship, but you still love him and will always remember the incredible moments you had together. and that the person who marries him will be the luckiest in the world. so you leave him for the last time with a kiss on the cheek - which he still feels a slight tingle when he remembers it every night - and with a champagne problem.

[horangboosadan]

DOMINO | MASTERLIST

synopsis:  A literature student with a procrastination problem and a dancing major who always says yes makes for an interesting combo of neither getting things done. It doesn’t help that there’s a best friend in the mix certain that the two will fall in love and makes sure they spend time together, only the two of them. 

Somehow, every deadline is still met. Even the amount of time expected before the start of a developing crush.

pairing: Kwon Soonyoung x gender neutral!reader (they/them pronouns)

genre: romance, fluff, smau

warnings: swearing, drinking, implied 18+ content

status: completed

started: 29.06.2023

complete: 29.10.2023

main masterlist

boo talks

finally posting this. on hoshis birthday because why not when it’s about him. i’ve been working on this since late november i think and it’s taken a lot of time and been through a lot of revisions, but it’s finally close to done and i cannot wait to share it with people. i hope you guys like this as much as i do. 

profiles: no one asked, someone’s got a bad idea 

chapters:

001: impromptu tuesday movie night

002: i would like to report a crime

003: sometimes i wish

004: putting my trust in you

005: *slave / im not paying you

006: i didnt know i was presumed dead

007: im friendship material

008: sounds like something a furry would say

009: it was a friend date

010: shingibanggi bbongbbongbanggi?

011: i hope the rain is acid

012: you have a powerpoint?

013: freaking out because your favorite artist liked the cookies

014: mostly just highly unexpected

015: creepy guy?

016: you did something embarrassing

017: more torture earlier in the day?

018: loophole

019: the bad kind of embarrassing

020: ARE YOU STALKING ME?

021: the likelihood of having had a crush on other friends

022: the chicken or the egg?

023: ghosts can’t read tweets, right?

024: a prank isn’t fun if you let people off easy

025: panicking as some unexpected people showed up

026: you give the impression you’d be impatient

027: would be a lot easier if he wasnt so cute

028: that show you how much you suck

029: you have to watch barbie with me

030: such stupid ass information

031: the type of singing enjoyed when everyones drunk and wants a laugh

032: thats why i ran to the bathroom to text you

033: no nudgning allowed

034: EMERGENCY EMERGENCY EMERGENCY

035: i thought maybe they would notice

036: i get all giddy inside and dont know what to do

037: i live on the 4th floor / i can climb

epilogue: its horanghae

BONUS

FALLING FOR YOU | YOON JEONGHAN ↳ related to tweet in 029. takes place around 037

[hybridzizi]

Here are some things that are true: if you don’t have gluten intolerance, gluten is not going to hurt you. Gluten does not cause autism or ADHD or whatever.

Here are some other things that are true: Up to 20% of people will suffer from IBS during their lives. IBS is more common in people with autism and other mental disorders. IBS symptoms are uncomfortable and having them all the time can distract you and push you towards a meltdown. Bread is a common IBS trigger.

I’m going to ramble, so here is the important advice: if bread upsets your stomach try switching to sourdough (check the ingredients -- if it contains vinegar or acid it’s not real sourdough) and make an appointment with a dietitian (not a nutritionist. Dietitians have training. Nutritionists have opinions).

Now let’s pretend you don’t know the above facts. You just know that dealing with meltdowns is hard. One day a friend tells you that cutting gluten helped them and you’re desperate for anything so you try it. You feel better. You have less meltdowns. You make an appointment with your doctor to tell them about this. The doctor runs a test and tells you you aren’t gluten intolerant. The doctor doesn’t ask any more questions. Maybe you try reintroducing bread back into your diet and your symptoms come back. Do you conclude that your doctor knows what he’s talking about? Or do you conclude that gluten is bad for you despite your apparent lack of gluten intolerance -- maybe it’s just a poison! Maybe no one should be eating it!

I don’t have a point. Rather, I have several points.

The first and most important point is to get yourself checked for FODMAP sensitivities. Wheat is not the only FODMAP and if you tweak your diet a little you can have a much better time. 

The second point is that if someone tells you something stupid try to meet them with compassion. It might not be true that they have a secret gluten issue that the doctors are lying about, but it might be true that bread upsets their stomach and makes them miserable and they are telling you about this with the best language they have. It might be true that everyone else is either dismissing their problems or telling them that gluten is a poison, and by giving them a more even view (it probably isn’t gluten but did you know that wheat has other components?) you are opening up the world to them! This will be a lot more persuasive to them about the gluten thing than just telling them they’re wrong will be. 

The third point is that even if someone is wrong about why something helps they might have a point about it helping. Homeopathic hospitals had better survival rates in the 1800s because the doctors washed their hands. Buying gluten-free bread can help your autistic meltdowns by not triggering the IBS you don’t know you have. Asking why someone thinks something will get you a lot farther than just telling them they’re wrong. Curiosity is an awesome tool. Use it!

Shit’s complicated. We’re all just doing our best.

[siriusleee]

midnight | part 1

Simon Riley x Reader Summary: He’s always been attractive, but at this moment, with the moonlight coming through the window and the gun on the side table, he’s something else entirely.

part one | part two | part three

"Can you do something for me?”

His words freeze you - your fingers barely wrapped around your mug of lukewarm tea. The glow of the computer in the dark of your office illuminates him just enough to see his outline filling up the doorway.

“Excuse you?” Your voice cracks, and you cough to cover up the redness creeping up your chest.

Ghost doesn’t say anything else - instead he holds out something towards you. The light glints against the screen of the cell phone. Confused, you flip it over in your hands, trying to figure out why Ghost just handed you a cell phone.

“I need you to get the information off of it.”

“You know my rule, Ghost. You know I’m not your fucking personal IT department.”

“Just this once, love.”

He stares at you, eyes nearly expressionless. You know that he knows you can’t resist him calling you ‘love’ in that stupid fucking accent of his. He doesn’t move away from your desk, doesn’t take the phone from your hands. His hands tuck into the pockets of his jacket - a stark sight of comfort against his tactical pants and baklava.

“Fine,” you say dropping the phone down beside your keyboard, “but I demand payment. I do have a job and a life outside of you, so if you want it done before I go on leave tomorrow, you’re paying up.”

“What do you want?”

“A coffee. Not one you made - I don’t want to drink battery acid. A real one from Starbucks or something.”

Ghost grumbles; you turn your eyes away from him and back to your work on the computer - Price’ll have your head if you don’t have everything squared away and finished before you go home tomorrow.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to get something like that at this time of night.”

You shrug, shifting in your chair so you can tuck your legs into the seat.

“Not my problem. You bring me payment, I’ll do it for you. Otherwise get out of my damn office.”

When he comes back with the largest possible Starbucks cup, you almost think about asking which Starbucks he held up to get a drink at the hour, but you get the feeling that he’s not in the mood for humor. When you take the cup from him, you already have the phone connected to your personal computer - unsure if there’s anything on there that he wouldn’t want multiple government agencies to see.

“There’s no nudes on here right? No sex tapes or anything?” You ask as he drops to the floor beside your chair, back pressed against the wall.

“Why do you need to know?” His voice is quiet - you can hear him trying to edge towards that monotone playfulness that he has - but there’s no force behind it tonight.

“Just making sure that I don’t accidentally see your dick - it’s not exactly the ideal way to see it is it? Anyway, is there anything I’m supposed to be looking for or do you just need everything put on a flash drive? I got a million of them around here. ”

“A flash drive is fine.”

It’s quiet except for the sounds of the wind outside, and Ghost breath behind his mask.

“You know-” you start, just to break the silence, “you could have taken this to like, the store you got it from, and they could have does this for you right.”

Ghost doesn’t speak for a moment - weighing his words before he does.

“I don’t trust random people.”

“So there is sex tapes on here. With who could it be so important that you have to make sure you save them from a dead phone?”

Your joking - teasing him; his silence makes you glance over at him. His head is leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He must know you’re looking at him because he answers you without moving.

“It has pictures of my family.”

His tone opens up a million questions, but gives you a million answers. You can hear the rest of his sentence, unspoken but loud enough to bounce around the walls of your small office. Don’t ask .

It doesn’t take long to finish transferring the files to the flash drive and hand it over to Ghost. He leans towards you, never leaving his spot on the floor.

“Is that everything?"

"Are you going to work here all night?"

"Are you going to stay here all night?"

You turn your chair around towards him, foot dropping down between his boots to stop yourself from spinning away from him.

"Nothing else to do around here."

You know he doesn't sleep much - the amount of times he's been in the same spot, the sound of your keyboard lulling him to sleep before you finally kicked him out so you could go to sleep is unfathomable. You sigh, pulling your foot back up into your chair, brushing against his calf as you do so.

"I'm almost done anyway, and I have to get some sleep before I catch my flight tomorrow. You want to watch a movie?"

He cracks one eye open at you.

"Is that a fucking line?"

You can't help it - the tone he asks it in makes you bark out a laugh.

"No, it's not a line. I'm just trying to be nice."

"It sounds like you're trying to lure me back to your bunk to get my pants off."

You roll your eyes as you switch off your computer, the office plunging into darkness.

"Ghost, if I wanted to get your pants off, I could do it without a Netflix and chill session."

When the two of you reach your room, you blush at the mess. You're one of the few civilians who get to live on base full time - you've collected more crap than the average soldier who never knows how long they'll be assigned to live here. In a whirlwind, you'd thrown everything around the room trying to figure out what you needed for a two week trip home. You're not entirely sure, but Ghost strikes you as the type of person to live by cleanliness being close to godliness.

He doesn't say anything, instead pointing at the television stationed on top of your dresser, among bottles of perfume and make up.

"How'd you get that?"

"Oh you know, I get special privileges and all."

Ghost hums at you as you snatch up a ratty t-shirt and shorts from a pile on the floor.

"Turn around so I can change. And don't try to sneak any peeks."

He turns, ever a gentleman, and you change as quickly as possible, throwing your clothes into the corner. You settle onto the bed before Ghost turns back around. You pat the edge of the bed beside you, your hands faltering as you do. It's suddenly hit you how intimate this entire situation is, how this would be taken if anyone were to just walk in.

"You can sit up here, or you can lay on the floor. It's up to you."

You can see Ghost's eyes roam the floor, the mess, your suitcases that aren't zipped up. Slowly, like he's realizing the intimate nature of this situation, he lowers himself down to a sitting position beside you. His bends over, you can hear him working at the laces of his boots before he kicks them off and lines them up neatly beside the bed. His hands reach up to the small of his back; he pulls a gun out from underneath his jacket and places it lightly on your side table. The movement is strangely intimate, the sight of his gloved hand on the gun in the moonlight coming through the small window is enough to make your stomach flip.

You try to push the thoughts out of your head, focusing instead on the movie you’ve picked out. It’s some dumb action flick that you’ve seen a million times before, but it’s something to do, something to pay attention to other than the feeling of Ghost's thigh against yours. Ghost doesn’t seem to mind, and you can feel his eyes heavy on you. You pretend not to notice as you settle back against the pillows, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

You’ve seen this movie a million times before, but you don’t really pay attention to it. Instead, you steal glances at Ghost out of the corner of your eye whenever you think he’s not looking. He’s always been attractive, but at this moment, with the moonlight coming through the window and the gun on the side table, he’s something else entirely. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks and try to focus on the movie, but it’s no use. You’re acutely aware of every move he makes, every breath he takes, and you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be closer to him.

You don't know you've fallen asleep, until Ghost shifts beside you, waking you. You feel his tactical pants under your leg, in your sleep you've hooked your leg over his, your hand snaking across his stomach.

You try to pull away from him, but he reaches out to grip your wrist in his hand, calluses warm against your soft skin.

When Ghost speaks, you can tell he's not looking at you - the light in the room enough for you to see his face is turned away from you.

"Tell me to leave." His voice is rough, low.

"Ghost I-"

"My name is Simon."

He turns, forcing you to shift onto your back. Ghost - Simon - hovers above you, looking down at you finally. Your pinned under the weight of his gaze, a heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. He's so large above you - just like you'd imagined when you-

"Tell me to leave. Please."

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts, he presses into your harder, his grip on your wrist tighter. You know there will be a bruise there tomorrow.

"Why should I tell you that?" Your voice is syrup thick, you bend your knee, trying to push yourself closer to Simon.

You can't see his face in the dark, but you can see his thoughts in his eyes, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.

You reach up with your spare hand, brushing your fingers against his jaw. Simon jerks back, pulling away from you, and dropping your hand. Before you can push yourself up in bed, Simon is gone, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

[gojos-thot-patrol]

🌶️ nsfw HCs for jjk men 🥵 general sexy times~ what are they like in bed?

ooo, IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE!!! TURN IT UPPPPP!!!

Now Presenting...

Starring Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, and Ryomen Sukuna.

Sugru Geto

Cigarettes and feelings keep me Laughing when everything is all fucked up

C O R R U P T I O N  K I N K  DO YOU HEAR ME?!

He sees himself as dirty and ruined and he needs to see that in you too. 

His loves how you look when you’re choking on his cock

He loves it so much he’s gonna take a picture! He’s big on recording you in your most vulnerable moments

Mirror on the ceiling so you can watch him fuck you stupid

I hope you have a degradation kink cause he's going to call you his stupid fucking whore

But hey! At least you’re his stupid fucking whore!

He needs to push your limits. He needs to see how far you’re willing to go for him, and what you're willing to do to get his praise.

Unlike in your daily life, his praise is rare in the bedroom. That’s what makes it so intoxicating when he finally does give it out. You’re still going to have to work for it though.

CONTROVERSIAL TAKE: he hates to be called daddy. Call him literally anything else, but the moment you say “Daddy” he’s over it

Now Sir on the other hand? Sir will always make him act up, use it strategically, lest you get pounded in a dirty bathroom.

He gives me the vibes of someone that would convince you to drop ex or acid then fuck him for a “religious experience.”

IDK maybe that's just me seeing the cult leader in him.

All of that being said, I also think Suguru has mastered the art of aftercare

During the act he’s a monster, but after? Nothing but praise and love. He’s worshiping your body while cleaning you up, cuddling with you for as long as you’ll let him. 

You need water? He’s getting it. You want a bath? Say no more he’s running it for you.

He never wants you to think he’s just using you for your body.

Even if he is.

Satoru Gojo

Set my alarm, turn on my charm That's because I'm a good old-fashioned loverboy

My most controversial Gojo take is that he’s actually not all that experienced

This man has spent his entire life either as a child or raising a child he didn’t have a lot of time for romance.

Not only that, but having sex with someone is an inherently vulnerable position to put yourself in. Man’s got too many enemies for that.

BUT that does not mean that he isn't willing to learn for you!

Gojo is above all else adaptable, and his main goal in the bedroom is to get you off. He’s willing to do whatever you need. 

Honestly, that’s probably his kink. Overstimulation. He wants to make you feel so good you're delirious, he wants to make you cum so hard you forget anything other than his name. 

He is the king of oral. It’s his favorite thing, eating you out through multiple orgrasam until his face is soaked in you. And he’s good at it too. He knows exactly how to make you  melt under him.

His dick isn’t thick, but it is long, and weirdly pretty for a cock. He also uses a ring light to take dick pics. Tell me he doesn’t, you can’t.

He’s also very vocal. He likes when you're loud, it’s how he knows he’s doing something right. So, he’s pretty vocal as well, wanting to let you know just how amazing you make him feel

when he's not telling you about how good you feel, he's kissing you. He LOVES kissing you, its like a drug to him.

Gojo struggles a lot with the feeling that people don’t really like him, so he has a praise kink. On both the giving AND receiving end

I also feel like he’s really into lingerie, and has no problems dropping a paycheck on a new set for you. 

Definition of “There’s a difference between fucking someone and making love.”

God, I hate that phrase but I'm genuinely not sure how else to get my point across lmao

When ya’ll are just fucking, he tries to play the part of a big tough dom, dirty talk galore, overstimulation to the point of tears, the man is a beast.

But in your quiet moments, when you’re, for lack of a better word, making love, there’s a 63% chance he's going to cry.

He gets overwhelmed by his love for you, and the realization that you love him for him, 6 eyes or not. It gets to him. 

And the best part? He’s not even embarrassed by it, because you don’t shame him for it. He’s truly safe with you

Kento Nanami

Hey pretty baby can you feel that heat? You got me twitchin to the edge of my seat

Dare I say daddy kink?

I do, I do dare. Nanami knows the type of person he attracts (riddled with daddy issues) and has decided to play into it. 

I feel like Nanami never loses his composure, even in the bedroom. He could be giving you the ride of your LIFE while calmly explaining the stock market to you. It’s part of why teacher Nanami is so appealing to me I’M SORRY-

“Are you paying attention? This is going to be on the test.”

He says as he's skullfucking you into oblivion 

Despite his calm composure, he's big on dirty talk…mostly as a way to ask for consent and gauge how you’re doing at the moment. He’s still Nanami

“You like that Princess?” “Beg for me.” “Tell me what you want,” All phrases that pop up commonly in your bedroom

He’s a panty snatcher, there I said it. He’s taking your panties with him when he leaves your place. You can get them back the next time you two get together. 

He is prone to taking out his frustration on you in the bedroom when he’s had a bad day.

Not that you're complaining, nothing like his thick cock splitting you open after a rough day, amiright?

Public sex. Nanami loves covertly fucking you, in various ways, and watching you try to keep your composure. Be it him finger fucking you under the table, or reminding you that you have guests downstairs while he rails you in your bedroom, he likes to test your volume control.

In a similar vein, phone sex! He’s away on “Business” a lot, so late nights on the phone with you are basically a necessity for him. 

M A R K I N G. You think it’s  childish? He doesn’t fucking care he needs EVERYON to know you’re together

Hickies everywhere, dark ones that don’t budge for days, even weeks

Brat tamer. No, I won't explain, look at him. 

He’s probably the best dom, even if he is a softer dom. He's going to discuss your hard and soft limits, safe word, and discuss the red yellow green system. Your comfort and safety is his number one priority. 

Going hand in hand with that, Nanami has mastered the art of aftercare. Anything you need, he’s got, anything you need him to do, he’s doing. He’s showering you in words of affirmation while trying to rehydrate you.

Also He’s cuddly. He wants you to fall asleep resting on his chest while he traces lazy patterns in your back. It’s his ideal way to go to sleep.

Ryomen Sukuna

My whole existence is flawed You get me closer to God

BESTIE idk how many different ways I can tell you not to go near this man, but let's find out

For one, he’s incredibly selfish, prioritizing his pleasure over yours every time. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t at least try to get you off though. Nay nay, getting you off is a part of his pleasure. Because it strokes his ego. 

Daycraphillia. Be it from pleasure or pain, he loves to see your tear soaked face.

This man is PACKING btw. It hurts at first everytime no matter how ready you are for him. The king of curses has the dick to back up all the shit he talks, you can’t convince me otherwise

He’s got four hands and he’s gonna use them all. Fingers in your pussy, on your tits, in your mouth, in on your ass. You're going to feel like you’re drowning in him.

Degradation. You're a filthy little whore, the only thing you’re good for is being a hole for him to fuck.

Does he actually mean this? I mean…shit, maybe! Depends on where you’re at in the relationship honestly. 

He will summon mouths in random places when fucking you. On his palms, above his cock, anywhere. Be prepared to feel a random tongue in random places.

…..breeding kink.

Honestly, I don’t think he’s proud of it. But something in him wants to fuck an heir into more than he wants to breath.

Also, blood and marking kink. These go hand in hand as far as he’s concerned. He will bite you until you bleed with no issue. 

He may not truly love you yet but the moment he stuck his dick in you, you became his. Which means no other man can touch you. Hence why he clearly marks you as his.

Aftercare who? He doesn’t know her, you’re lucky if he doesn’t immediately kick you out of the bed when he’s done. 

The exception being if you somehow managed to rope him into a “real” relationship. I still don’t think he’d be an aftercare king or anything, but he would at least cuddle with you until you passed out. 

Sukuna likes to find your limits, and then push you past them. He needs to see how far you’re willing to go for him, even if that breaks you.

God, this mf is so toxic. Why do I love him?

[arealphrooblem]

A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find Part 3

Synopsis: Ben has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job

CW: blood mention, wound care

Part one here:

Ben’s job offered him a transfer  to another bank in the city but he declined. Despite jumping every time the automatic doors opened, he figured lightning wouldn’t strike twice and Adam’s team wouldn’t target this bank a second time.

The next couple of weeks were almost unbearable.

That next morning Adam returned Ben’s phone with all the nonchalance as if he just merely updated it. Ben snooped around a bit but couldn’t see anything new in his apps. Of course, he wasn’t a programmer like Adam was. God only knew what spy-ware Adam put on his phone and he had no hope of getting rid of it.

To Adam’s credit, he tried valiantly to act as if nothing happened.  He did dishes without complaint, always cleaned the bathroom to spotless perfection when it was his turn, sat in the living room with one of their favorite shows on or Mario Kart to tempt Ben into the living room.

But Ben did not know how to act. It wasn’t even that Adam had gotten himself involved with bad people who robbed banks and shot guns at innocent bank tellers like Ben. It was that Adam would threaten to kill him at a moment’s notice. That Adam felt comfortable and skilled with a knife at someone’s throat.

It felt like living with Jekyll and Hyde and he didn’t know when Other Adam, Knife Happy Adam, would leap out again. So Ben played the Normal Game for as long as he could stand it, which was approximately the length of dinner and maybe one youtube video before he disappeared back into his bedroom. Sometimes Adam would try to coax him out again with temptations such as running down the street for ice cream or renting a movie that just came to streaming, all things Ben would have loved to do Before and now which he declined.

Eventually Adam stopped asking. Eventually they both played the We Pretend We Don’t Have a Roommate Game. Adam disappeared from the living room, coming home late at night or sometimes into the next afternoon.

Ben avoided the news as much as possible because he didn’t want to know but he couldn’t help overhear what coworkers and customers talked about: bombed warehouses and robberies and a body or two in the streets.

Each time he heard something the guilt and fear of his secret burned up his throat like acid. It felt like it was stamped on his forehead, that anyone looking under the shaggy bangs he needed to trim would see it, spelled out to the world.

A month of this passed in slow agony. Ben missed the Before so much he dreamed about it, about the whole thing being some elaborate joke or nightmare and  he could return to a life where his biggest problem was hiding his stupid gay crush on his roommate.

A month passed and then Adam didn’t come home for two days. Ben paced the living room for two nights, gnawing his nails down to stubs and wondering if he should put in a missing person’s report or if that would just make the whole situation worse.

And then Adam stumbled in at 1 in the morning, covered in blood.

“Holy shit,” Ben yelped.

Adam looked like a zombie extra in a movie, shuffling on wounded leg, blood splattered down his neck. It’d almost be funny if it wasn’t so heart-sickeningly real.

“I’m   — I’m fine,” he mumbled, staggering to the shower.

Fine? Fine? Ben stood right in front of the shower door as the water ran, listening for the tell tale thump of a body falling. He didn’t hear that, but he did hear several pained grunts and hissed curses.   

Did he need the hospital? Would he even let Ben take him to the hospital? Oh god, what if he died in the apartment? How the fuck was Ben supposed to explain that? How was he supposed to live with himself, ignoring his best friend the last month of his life instead of trying to — to —

The water shut off and the door wrenched open, steam billowing around Adam wrapped in a towel. The blood was gone save for scrapes and cuts that still wept.

“We still have that first aid kit, right?” he asked.

Like he scraped his knee playing basketball at the park.

“Yeah,” Ben said faintly.  

“Cool.” He waited a moment and then cocked an eyebrow. “Are you . . .going to move? It fucking hurts to stand right now.”

That kick-started the panicked fog in his brain.

“Sorry! Shit. Okay. Just sit on the couch and I’ll get the — the —“

He didn’t bother finishing, zipping out to the kitchen, where he kept the kit stashed above the fridge. Thank God he kept it stocked, knowing how often he nicked himself cutting vegetables. Not that the stuff in here would help much if Adam needed stitches.

Adam leaned back on the couch, chest shuddering with his breathing, his mouth pinched in a tight, painful line. Ben perched himself on the edge of the coffee table and plucked out the pain killers first out of the kit. Adam dry swallowed them before Ben could offer water.

“Go to bed,” Adam said tersely. “You don’t need to see this.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ben. “You’re hurt really bad. Maybe we should go to the —“

“Don’t. Don’t you dare even suggest that.”

“What if you die?”

Adam snorted. “I’m not going to die. Just get me a warm wet washcloth and pass me the antibiotic cream.”

Happy to have something small and manageable to do, Ben immediately complied. He picked the softest, most worn out washcloth they had and soaked it in warm water. When he returned, Adam was already dabbing at a scrap on his knee with rubbing alcohol and hissing. He took the proffered washcloth with barely a glance at Ben, using it to rub away the excess blood that had started to leak from a gash on his side.

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“You don’t want to know. I just . . .wasn’t fast enough this time.”

“This time?”

Adam gave him a flat look, as if to say Quit asking, I’m not telling you shit.

“You don’t have to stay up, Ben. Really. I can take care of this. I’ve done it many times before.”

That’s not reassuring Ben thought. It was heartbreaking.

“I can help,” he said.

“I don’t want you to help.”

“Too bad.”

Feeling daring, he took a cotton ball and smeared the cream on it before dabbing it onto a scrape on the back of Adam’s forearm. To his surprise, Adam allowed it, propping his arm on his knee and watching been with those keen eyes.

This was not the time to pop a timid, curious boner but dear Jesus.

Whatever Adam had been doing the last several months had whittled his body away into a lean, muscular machine, so much of it on display dressed in just a towel. He had to lean in , smelling Adam’s body wash and the sharp scene of the alcohol, getting close enough to see the light constellation of scars on Adam’s chest and arms.

It all felt strangely intimate, the only light coming from the dim glow of the living room lamp. Their breathing the only sound in the room.

Once he was done with the arm, he taped gauze to it and wrapped it. Adam held perfectly still, his gaze a heavy weight that Ben could not hold. When Ben finished and started to pull (reluctantly) away, Adam’s hand darted out and gripped his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ben chanced a glance at Adam and flinched at the intensity he saw.  

 “Don’t,” he said, swallowing. He took the hope in his chest and crushed it. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for. You just . . . want to manipulate me into liking you again.”

“I know what I did. It was wrong. You didn’t deserve it.”

“And yet you still did it. You didn’t even think first.”

“I was afraid.”

Now Ben gave him a flat stare of disbelief. “You? Afraid of me?”

The fucking audacity when Adam put a knife to his throat.

“You were never supposed to find out. I didn’t plan on it. I didn’t know how to react.”

“You have a plan for everything.”

“I never know what I’m doing when it comes to you,” Adam said softly.

Ben froze, his mind drawing  conclusions he didn’t dare to dwell on. “What does that mean?”

Adam went silent. The bright intensity of his emotions shuttered off in his eyes,  like a shade being drawn.  

“I was bluffing,” he said, voice calm and even. “I don’t need a knife to hurt you. But the threat should have been a last resort and I’m sorry. It was a knee jerk reaction and you didn’t deserve it. You’ve been nothing but a loyal friend and good roommate.”

Disappointment — stupid disappointment that came from a hope he should have never fostered, not even for a second — tugged down like a lead balloon in his chest.

“Good roommates are hard to find,” he added softly.

Adam’s mouth curled up in a wistful smile. “Exactly.”

Ben tried to pull his hand away again, but Adam didn’t let go.

“Ben,” he said softly, squeezing Ben’s wrist until he looked up. “It will never happen again, okay? You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me.”

“Okay,” Ben said, nodding.

Later that night, as he tumbled into bed sometime past two in the morning, he could hear Adam’s voice echoing in his head.

I don’t need a knife to hurt you

God, how true that was, in ways Adam would never know.

Taglist: @itsmyworld23

Part 4 Here