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coeurify · 1 year

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THE PERFECT PAIR;

ELLIE WILLIAMS

·˚ ༘ * “if I told you, you'd know how to go break my heart in two."

pairing: bff!ellie williams x fem!reader . college au. summary: you and your childhood best friend ellie have always done everything together, but things & feelings are starting to change. part 1 of _. slightly based on. and the song the perfect pair by beabadoobee. part 2 here warnings: whole series: lotsss of pining, angst, fluff etc. references to drinking, smoking etc. smut in future. just lots of exposition & fluff in this one. wc 4.3k

There was something you missed about childhood. A bottomless pit of nostalgia rises in your throat whenever the air smelt a little fresh, whenever you hear the songs of the morning birds. Nothing was quite the same as that anymore, the sky was never as blue as it had been through your twelve-year-old eyes, and the flowers never smelt as sweet as they did outside your childhood home during the summer. You often were told you cling too tightly to it, onto the feeling that everyone loses when they grow past the age of sleepovers and elementary homework. But how couldn’t you?

You were sure no year could compete with those ones, especially sixth grade, and you claimed this every chance you got. Even now, head hung out the passenger seat window of your best friend’s car, wind pressing against your face gently as you pulled into the parking lot of your university dormitories.

“It smells like sixth grade,” you hum, eyes pressing closed as you try to picture the colors you swore only were bright in childhood. “What does that even fucking mean? B.O. and bath and body works perfume?” a voice came beside you, a chuckle following the statement. Your eyes shoot open, following the messy bun that shook as your friend laughed gently.

“Ellie,” you frown, “It smells sweet, you know? Reminds me of the air when we were kids.”

“Everything reminds you of middle school. Swear to god you're the only one who misses that place,” Ellie muttered, doing a pretty shit job of backing into a parking space near the dorm building. You would comment on it later, maybe take a picture to tease her with. For now, you focused on her words, a pout brushing your lips. “It was a good year! I miss it!”

“Rose-colored glasses,” El makes a dismissive motion with her hand, taking in your frown.

“I think you just say that 'cause it's when you met me,” your friend continues, looking very smug at the observation she constantly taunted you with.

Was it a little true? Maybe.

It had been the year you met when Ellie was still a lanky and loud-mouthed kid, unsure of how to act or dress. You had been no better, sitting alone at lunch tables, hiding behind your much too big flannel that was not at all the style of the other girls. When Ellie sat by you, a year older and wearing something just as awkward as you, a Savage Starlight shirt, looking just as out of place, well, it was love at first sight.

Love in a friendship way, of course, but love nonetheless. Those freckles that her face hadn’t quite grown into yet had become your favorite sight in middle school, green eyes that you searched for every time you bounced into the building.

A string had been tied between your two pinkies, and it never had once frayed. Not through the rest of middle school, not when Ellie tried soccer that year she left for high school and forgot to talk to you for a whole week— 13-year-old you was simply devastated— and not even when Ellie got her very first girlfriend in the tenth grade. She left soccer after the first month, her girlfriend broke up with her over text right before homecoming, and that thread led her right back to your pinky.

Of course, you were two teenage girls.. so you fought. She fought when you started skipping your Friday night movies to talk to a new friend when you were in the ninth grade. You fought when Ellie took a girl to prom in junior year and didn’t even tell you. The worst fight had been when she left for college, leaving you alone to face senior year in the small town of Jackson. Everything she did seemed to frustrate you that year, though you can now begrudgingly admit it was just because you missed her.

But all friends fight about things like that, right? In the end it was still the two of you. The nervous smiles of your middle school selves always found their way back to your faces, and always made you feel just as excited as you had been to meet. It was what led you to follow her to college. Now in your sophomore year and Ellie’s junior, not much has changed. You still had your Friday night movies— only now tucked into the small beds of your dorms.

So maybe Ellie was a little right. Perhaps she knew your mind a bit too well. Maybe you did love those years so much because they had been so filled with her. But you, of course, wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. “You're so full of yourself, Williams.”

Ellie flung the keyring around her fingers, shrugging again as she stepped out of her car. “Not full of myself, just right.”

The passenger side of her door creaked lightly when you pressed it, stuttering before you could really get it to push open . It was something that had started when you got too high once while visiting her after she started college, and you slammed it into a concrete wall. You refuse to acknowledge that's why her door sucks, but you both knew.

“Shut up,” you flip her off over the hood of the car, reaching below the seat up front to grab the bag stuffed full of clothes for the weekend drive. It was only the second week into the fall semester, but you and Ellie both found yourself craving a little time in the comfort of Jackson, hence the trip.

Ellie smiles in response, winking and grabbing her backpack. You start walking the path before she even locks the doors, hearing her trampling footsteps follow behind. “I was just joking,” the girl whined, eyes catching the side of your face as you looked straight ahead. You weren’t really mad, but you liked when Ellie apologized for her taunting. “You know, I think it's cute how… sentimental you are about that shit,” she knocks her shoulder into your own.

You feel your body tense lightly at the word cute, shrugging it off as you pull your favorite sweatshirt off your body, the early September air too thick for it. “Whatever,” you shake your head, nudging her back in a sign of acceptance.

“Gotta stop getting so worked up, peach.”

“Gotta stop calling me that,” you retort, eyes rolling at the nickname like you always did.

“I will when it stops being funny,” Ellie’s hand came to ruffle your hair, making your lips press together. You hated the peach story, and you hated when she messed up your hair even more.

“Swear one of these days I'm gonna bite you for doing that,” you puff, ID card slipping into the reader that opened the dorm door.

“I'm sure you’d bite me for a lot less,” she scoffs, thinking back to all of the times you had not so nicely bit at her for something like taking your food or roughhousing with you. She holds open the glass door for you to step inside the lobby. It's relatively quiet. A mid-Sunday afternoon meant most college students were tucked away in their rooms, probably studying or fighting a hangover. The AC of the common room welcomes you, painting your skin with goosebumps as you clutch your sweatshirt.

“Don't tempt me,” you joke, looking her up and down dramatically— like she was some meal. Ellie seems to shy away from your face, making a noise. “Shut up, biter.”

You pout at your friend, “You just don't get it.”

“I don't want to, dude.”

The response earns Ellie a slap at her arm, which she reacts too loudly at, watching as you flush and shush her. Ellie smiles and leads you to the elevator.

When you reach it, you pause momentarily, rocking on your heels.

“Maybe I should like— go get some food from the cafe or something,” you shrug, looking to avoid what was waiting in your dorm room. This was obvious to Ellie, who looked over at you with a slight sense of humor. She expected this reaction, just not as early as your tiptoes found the metal of the elevator door.

“Get in the elevator,” she shoo’s you inside, a hand against your back. “I swear she won't hurt you.”

The she that Ellie was referencing was your new roommate, Dina. She moved in late, meaning you had only seen her a few times before you left for the weekend. Most of that time had been spent sleeping, as you found yourself spending most free time in Ellie’s dorm to avoid her. It wasn’t that she didn't seem nice, because she did. You just weren’t the best with new people. It had taken you nearly a whole semester to get comfortable with your previous roommate.

“You don’t get it!” You pout, leaning against the cool surface of the wall. “You and Rose have been roommates since freshman year. I don’t know a thing about Dina. I mean fuck, maybe I should’ve stayed with Jade.”

Ellie quickly cut in at the mention of your old roommate, “Jade was a dick.”

Ellie's distaste for your former roommate was no secret, though you didn’t quite understand why she harbored such feelings. Sure, Jade was a little messy, and teased you sometimes. But she was always mostly kind to you, doing your makeup for parties.. inviting you to hang out. She even would hold your hand when you got too tipsy at events, pull you home to your dorm and shoo away everyone else, even El, to take care of you. But when Ellie told you she was bad news, to look for a new roommate— you didn’t question it much. She had been in Jade's year, after all, and probably knew better.

You spare a glance at her, watching how she looks away at the mention of Jade. It forced a swallow down your throat, suddenly feeling like you had just gripped a touchy subject by the neck and shoved it in her face. You couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to talk about, and you didn’t really want to. So instead, you sigh loudly when the elevator dings.

“What if she’s crazy? Like an axe murderer?” you begin to ramble, eyeing all the decorated doors that line the white hallway. Your door was only seven down from Ellie’s, you had counted, so you took in the numbers on each entry as you inched closer to your own. “If she was an axe murderer, wouldn’t she have already killed you?”

You groan loudly, finding comfort in picking at the seams of your bag’s strap. “You never know! Maybe it's a long game..”

Ellie’s hands find your shoulders, steering you from behind to be directly in front of the door with your and Dina’s name decorations on it. “You're fine, peach. Stop being a pussy.”

Your head flips back dramatically, landing on your best friend's shoulder. “If I die, it’s on you, ok?”

Ellie stiffens slightly, enough for you to notice, and enough for her to shove you off, but not enough to mention it. It never was. She mumbles a few ‘yea yea’s’ before waving you off and starting down the hallway to her own door, which your eyes follow right up until her hand finds the doorknob. She sends you one last look, nodding at you as another sign of encouragement. The staring session is long enough for you to swallow the forming lump in your throat and unlock your door, gently popping your head in.

The room is quiet and a bit warm— though you guess that's from the open window. At first, you think your roommate may not be here, but you find her soon enough. Dina is settled on her bed, earbuds tucked in her ears as she writes in some book, which you assume to be homework. The door clicking closed is enough to sound through the music humming in her ears, causing brown eyes to look up. Your stomach twists at the eye contact, nerves biting at your shaky hands. But Dina smiled like she had every other time you two interacted. A totally normal, non axe murderer smile.

“Hey! How was your trip?” she tucks the earbuds under her, turning the attention to you. You try your best to seem totally nonchalant, kicking your shoes off near your bed. Sitting over the plush comforter, a loud huff leaves your lips as you shrug. “Was ok, just a lot of driving.”

Ok. Small talk, you could do this. You could so do this. Mentally you pat your own back, thanking the stars above you had been blessed with a roommate who could carry a conversation. “Oh shit, that’s gotta be a long time in the car, huh? I think I’d die,” Dina shivered, “My weekend was spent cooped up, so I applaud you.”

“What’d you do?” you push, trying your very best to be social with the girl you would be living with for the following year. It only became easier to do when you imagined the look of approval from Ellie it would likely receive—a friendly sort, of course.

“Hm, just watched movies with my boyfriend. Studied, but personally I think it’s criminal how much work I already have to do,” Dina moves into a sitting position, beginning to rattle on about her classes. You listen, nodding along.

“It's two weeks into the semester, for fuck sake,” she finishes a few minutes later. It pulls an honest chuckle from you as you move your head in agreement. “Yea, I kinda shot myself in the leg choosing English major, all the essays,” you frown. “But god, my friend Ellie,” you can't help how easy it was to bring her up, “she’s got it bad. Physics major.”

Dina makes a sound through her teeth, shaking her head. “Tough,” her lips pull into a slight pout as she quickly switches back to the two of you. “Hey, at least we can suffer together..” the brunette grins, shrugging, “maybe we could have like study nights, throw on a shitty show and work on classes together. Fridays?”

The offer is sweet, making you feel fuzzy all over at the hint of a blossoming friendship. But the day suggestion had you frowning, a cold bath over your form. Fridays were for Ellie and you. “Me and Ellie do movie night on Friday..” you begin, a slight worry rising in your body that you may have ruined this building idea. Dina didn't seem to sweat it, smiling just as softly as before. “That’s fine, Lemme see your class schedule. We can plan a weekday.”

Dina stands, making her way to your side of the room and taking a seat on your bed without a second thought. It almost made you jealous how simply Dina had been able to talk to you, come into your space, and build plans like the two of you were not strangers being forced to live with each other. If Ellie were here, she would probably say someone like Dina was good for you. Someone who could bite into the world more harshly than yourself, someone who didn’t have to force the confidence. Ellie would probably really like Dina. The thought makes you smile, and a little less stiff when Dina presses against you to watch you open your phone. You swear you hear a giggle at the sight of your lock screen, but you push that thought away.

The two of you spend the next ten minutes with your heads tucked over the tiny screen of your schedule, finally landing on a night that would work for both of you, Wednesday night after your final classes. The topic quickly switched to creating a list of tv shows you could watch during these nights.

Before long, Dina had ended up lying on your bed, your teddy bear tucked in her arms as she stared at the ceiling. “Could I invite Ellie to this a few times? I'm sure she could use the study time..” You ask absentmindedly, fingers scrolling through a list of 2000’s sitcoms. Dina nods, “Sure, maybe I’ll invite my boyfriend sometimes too..” She flips onto her stomach, looking up at where you sit.

“What about Friends?” Dina hums, chin finding her palms.

“I’ll put it down, Ellie hates friends, though,” your nail scrapes across the phone screen, adding the title to the notes you had formed. “What about New Girl?”

Dina seems to like this idea, nodding quickly. “New Girl for sure..” she watches you, head tilting. “Is Ellie the one you kept disappearing for last week? You talk about her a lot.”

The question made you a weird sort of uncomfortable; not sure why the observation from your roommate had you shifting over your blankets. “Yea, I.. she’s my best friend. I was really, um.. nervous about meeting you last week so she kinda let me hide in her dorm.”

Dina laughs gently, “Oh! I thought I had pissed you off or something, and you were hiding out with your girlfriend.”

“No!” you quickly say, fumbling to make a gesture with your hands. “First, definitely not girlfriend,” it felt important to say that before anything else, “and second, you didn't do anything. I'm just a pussy.”

The answer draws another laugh from Dina, which has you smiling along. Your phone is discarded as you find yourself settling back into a conversation about tv shows, “C’mon, let’s keep going with the list.”

A few moments later, a buzz pulls you out of the little world that had grown around you and Dina as you chattered. It was your phone, the picture of you and Ellie that acted as your lock screen covered by a text notification.

els

she axe murder u?

You grin a lot more than you should have, lip sucking between your teeth as you reply.

you

why? worried abt me? 🤨

els

just wanted to see u say i was right

you

k🖕🖕

The text is sent without much more thought, pressing down your phone to be face down as you hop back to the conversation at hand. Ellie, though you hate to admit it, was right. Dina wasn’t an axe murderer. She was actually really cool. She made it easy to talk, the words falling from your lips without the usual pause to make sure it sounded alright.

“Maybe we should start New Girl now,” Dina suggested, pulling the fuzzy blanket on your bed over herself. “Deal,” you grab your laptop from its place under your bed, making quick work of pulling up the show and setting the screen in between you two. You pull your knees to your chest, listening to the theme song as Dina makes herself comfortable on the other side.

When the following text came in, you were a few episodes in, cheeks sore from the jokes Dina had made along with the characters in the show. The sun was beginning to dim by then, and though it was early— you still rubbed your eyes from tiredness. The long drive to Jackson and back always did that to you.

els

come over and watch smthn?

els

i got ur fave snack from the caf

You didn’t see the text this time, phone screen still pressed softly into the corner of your bed. The buzz didn’t gain your attention either, too focused on watching Jess steal a TV from her ex onscreen. You were sure Ellie loved this episode, one you had played far too many times in high school. But the crinkled nose of Ellie’s reaction to jokes was replaced by the loud laughs of your roommate this time, and you didn’t mind. You didn’t mind how you let your eyes blink closed while still sitting up, and didn’t mind how Dina turned off the episode and hopped off your bed.

“You look tired,” she commented, “get some sleep. Jesse wants me to come over anyway.”

You yawn as she speeds around her side of the dorm to put on shoes and gather her phone, blinking your bleary eyes as some sort of embarrassment settles in you. You had almost fallen asleep watching TV when it was barely even six yet. What a great impression to leave.

“Oh shit, sorry..” you sit up further, rubbing your eyes again.

“Dude, you drove like all day. I’d be tired too,” Dina assures you, ”think someone texted you,” she adds as she reaches the door, eyeing your phone screen that had lit up again.

els

???

You nod, offering a smile as a thanks, “See you later.”

Dina grins, shooting you a thumbs up as the door shuts behind her. A small huff is released, your head falling back against your pillows.

None of today had been as bad as you thought it would, but the tension of meeting someone new was still pressing on your bones, and the alone time allowed you to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Dina was sweet. She made you laugh and relatively comfortable.. but the attempt to make sure she liked you was still leaving a tired ache on you.

You should check your phone, Dina’s reminder ringing in your ears as you let your eyes flutter closed. But sleep seemed more important right now, so you tucked your face into the pillow under you and let yourself have that. Whoever texted could wait.

﹒ ♡₊˚﹕﹒₊﹕﹒₊˚

Ellie’s head was also pressed into a pillow. Only she was staring at the ceiling, picking at her nails. She tried to ease herself when the third text had gone unanswered, deeming that shoving her phone off the bed dramatically was the only correct answer. It would be too embarrassing to text you again.

Her own dorm room was empty, a movie pressed paused on the first few minutes— a bag of your favorite chips next to it.

Maybe it was a little selfish, texting you and asking you to come over when she had been the one to tell you to get to know Dina. But Ellie was always a little selfish with you.

Especially when you stopped answering her texts.

She wanted to know exactly how everything went, how Dina had acted to you, if she was friendly, and if you got along. She wanted to know what you thought of Dina, what you thought of anything that happened. Ellie wanted you to be sitting on her bed telling her all this like you always did. But you hadn’t answered.

Maybe you had really hit it off with Dina and were doing something. That was what Ellie wanted for you. So she knew there was no reason to feel a sharp twinge in her chest at the thought you had ignored her texts to instead hang out with your roommate.

Her reactions when it came to you never made much sense.

So she had instead ended up with her eyes glued to the white paint of her dorm, convincing herself you had most definitely forgotten about her. Part of her brain waited for a buzz of her phone, maybe a knock on her door. It didn’t come, and Ellie shoved the chips off her bed next in retaliation to this. Maybe she was a little dramatic, but you had ignored her! Or, Ellie assumed you had.

In retrospect, she knew it wasn’t a big deal. She had just spent the whole weekend with you, and it had only been a few hours of unanswered texts. She could survive. She didn’t need her best friend to watch every movie. Ellie could wait until tomorrow to hear about your roommate. She could tell herself all of this, but it still made her ribs hurt a little. A bit more than it should.

But Ellie didn’t like to think about those sorts of things, the things that stayed unspoken between you. That had stayed that way since you met. Honestly, Ellie wasn’t even sure you noticed it. She knows she tries not to. She tries to lock all the little things away in the little box in her brain labeled ‘DON'T GO THERE!’

But when Ellie was alone, when you did things like not answer her for a while, or you two get into a small banter— she knows her reactions weren’t exactly normal. She knows that the anger in her stomach that builds with each moment you don't text her back isn't exactly normal. But as always, Ellie pushes it down. Plays it off to herself as dramatic girl friendships, something Joel used to always say about you and her when another argument left her in a shitty mood.

Yea, that’s all it was.

So she tucked her chin into a pillow, pressing play on the movie by herself, pulling out her journal from its place under her pillow to begin doodling in.

Like always, the pencil begins to leave lines of you. Today it was your sweatshirt that you tugged all around today. Ellie knew it as her own, one you had stolen from her all the way back when she was a senior. She isn’t sure you remember it, but she surely does. She remembers it whenever you pull it over your arms or stuff it in your backpack. You took that thing everywhere when it was cold enough, and Ellie always noticed.

She huffs, scribbling over the sketch with hard pencil marks, ripping through the paper as she writes in bold, messy letters, ‘Don't go there with her.’ Ellie forced the journal closed, doing her best to focus on the screen.

Halfway through the movie, she fell asleep, head pressed halfway on the pillow, her phone still empty from notifications.

series taglist: @totheblood @elliewill @rxllingstones @elliesflower @hrtsellie @ellieluhme @darlingmisa @liabadoobee @muthafuckingstargirl @ribbonsouls @cretaceouss @bambiesfics @sl4t22 @callmekittenandyourmajesty @waywardpiratebird @starfaegirl @romantic-slaps-on-the-asss @haiixo @arcaneangstenjoyer @lllijeu

#the perfect pair ❀.#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams #tlou part 2 #the last of us part two #tlou fic #ellie williams fic #ellie williams fanfic

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gh0stsp1d3r · 8 months

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Can you please write about a dark/yandere Luke x Child of Ares reader? The reader has anger issues and Luke is like totally in love. How would the reader act if they noticed how Luke is always following/stalking them? IF YOU LIKE TO CHANGE THE PLOT THEN YOU CAN DO SO! THANK YOUU!

𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀ℯ𝓇

MASTERLIST

Warnings- LOTSSS of tension, mentions of stalking but nothing crazy,

“C’mon, You can do better than that!” You said to the kid, they picked up their sword and were breathing heavily, sweating.

“Can we just take a break?” The kid complained, leaning against a tree.

“No. Do the Gods take breaks? Do the monsters coming after you take breaks?” You replied. God, this kid was annoying. And if Chiron handed another one off to you, you were going to scream.

“No, but-“

“But nothing. You’re too weak, and you need training. No breaks.” You said. The kid huffed and you got in a ready stance again.

“You’re harsh on them.” You heard a voice say from behind you. You had just wrapped up the training. You knew that voice from anywhere.

“What do you want, Castellan?” You asked him, tone annoyed. You picked up your sword and tools, not even glancing at him.

“Easy, tiger.” He laughed, holding his hands up in defense. You ignored him. “Just wandering around and I saw you with the kid.”

“Mhm..” you rolled your eyes, standing up and turning to him now.

“Well, I’ll see you later.”

You furrowed an eyebrow at him. What was later?

“It’s capture the flag day…” he said, when he noticed your confused expression.

“Fuck.” You groaned, he smirked and left you alone for now.

You conversed with your team, and Annabeth was out sick, so you guys were going against fucking Luke Castellan.

You noticed him glancing at you from afar while you spoke to your team and he spoke to his. He had a shit eating grin that you wanted to wipe off his face, desperately.

You discussed the best plan, changing up some roles. “Any new campers, follow Clarisse.” And with that, Chiron explained the rules, the horns were played and game started. You and Luke looked at each other one more time, you flipped him off from afar and he just kept on smiling cockily before disappearing from your view.

You all went across the bridge, you looking for Luke, who you knew would be the biggest problem out of them all.

You ventured into the woods, you saw some kids, but easily brought them down and left them begging for mercy when they tried to pick a fight with you.

There was no sign of him, he usually didn’t go with the flag holder, because he was always looking for you. Of course you didn’t know that, but he did.

And that’s exactly what he was doing now. He creeped up behind you quietly, and put his sword to your neck.

“Found you first.” He breathed, his warm breath hitting the shell of your ear. His body was now pressed against yours as you stood, stunned.

“Great job, Castellan.” You said sarcastically. He was confused why you said it like that until you grabbed his arm from behind you, using all your strength to throw him onto the ground. He groaned, his helmet falling off next to him.

He went to grab his sword but you grabbed it before him. He looked up at you, cocky smile gone now.

You put your shoe on his chest, a smile of victory now on your face.

The horns started to blow again, and you both turned into the direction of the sound. You huffed, taking your foot off him. He stood up, brushing himself off.

You handed him his helmet and you walked ahead of him, glancing over your shoulder as you spoke.

“By the way, don’t think I haven’t been noticing you watching me, stalker.”

He stood still, stunned at your words. You just smirked as you walked away, already knowing your team had won by the shouts you could hear.

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo disney+#pjo tv show #pjo fandom #charlie bushnell x reader

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seoulzie · 3 months

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im not sure if u take au requests but if u do pls do a coworker!tyun (or even boss!tyun) x reader with lotsss of sexual tension ;)

office hours

WHEREIN: you and taehyun have always shared a professional relationship. but lately, the tension between you has been escalating, and it's only a matter of time before it boils over.

彡 pairing: coworker!taehyun x f!reader 彡 genre: suggestive, smut 彡 warnings: explicit sexual content, tension, suggestive dialogue, kissing, bending over (?) semi-public, from behind, lace tights ;)

the office was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clatter of keyboards. you glanced up from your screen to see taehyun across the room, focused on his work. his brows were furrowed in concentration, and you couldn't help but admire the way the screen light highlighted his sharp features.

you tried to focus on your own tasks, but it was difficult with the electricity in the air. it seemed that every time you looked up, his eyes were already on you, quickly darting away when you caught him staring. this unspoken tension had been building for weeks, each stolen glance and accidental brush of hands adding to the growing heat between you.

today, it felt different. more intense. more urgent. you felt it every time you passed by each other in the narrow hallways, the proximity igniting sparks that made your heart race.

finally, it was time for the weekly meeting. you gathered your notes and headed to the conference room, taking a seat beside taehyun. as you settled in, your elbows brushed, and the contact sent a jolt through you. you glanced at him, and he met your eyes with a look that was both intense and unreadable.

throughout the meeting, you were hyper-aware of his presence. his cologne, a mix of something fresh and woody, was intoxicating. every time he leaned forward to make a point, his arm would brush against yours, and you felt the heat radiating off his skin.

by the time the meeting ended, you were a bundle of nerves. you stayed back, pretending to organize your notes, while the rest of the team filed out. taehyun lingered as well, seemingly engrossed in his laptop.

when the last person left, the door clicked shut, leaving the two of you alone. the silence was thick, and you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. you glanced up to find taehyun watching you, his expression serious.

"there's something we need to address," he said, his voice low and intense.

your breath hitched. "what's that?"

he stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "this," he said, gesturing between the two of you. "this tension. it's driving me crazy."

you swallowed hard, feeling the air around you crackle with electricity. "me too," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

taehyun's eyes darkened, and he reached out, his fingers grazing your arm. "i can't stop thinking about you," he murmured, his hand trailing up to your shoulder. "about how badly i want you."

a shiver ran down your spine at his words. "taehyun..." you breathed, unable to tear your gaze away from his.

he stepped even closer, his hand now cupping your cheek. "i think about you every night," he confessed, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "i imagine what it would be like to kiss you, to touch you..."

your heart pounded in your chest, and you felt a heat pooling in your core. "what are you waiting for?" you whispered, leaning into his touch.

that was all the encouragement he needed. his lips crashed onto yours, the kiss hungry and desperate. you moaned into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulled you closer. his tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you willingly parted them, welcoming the heat of his mouth against yours.

the kiss deepened, tongues dancing in a passionate rhythm as taehyun's hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and dip with a possessive urgency. his touch ignited sparks along your skin, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. you pressed yourself against him, craving more of his warmth, more of his touch.

he backed you up until your back met the wall, pinning you with his body. his kisses trailed down your jawline, to the sensitive spot on your neck that made you gasp. his teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a low moan from deep within your throat.

he broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he stared down at you with a glint in his eyes. "turn around," he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

you obeyed, your body trembling with anticipation. he pressed up against you from behind, his hands sliding around to your front, caressing your stomach before moving upward. his breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, "you have no idea how long i've wanted this."

you gasped as his hands reached your chest, his fingers teasing and squeezing your breasts in a way that made your knees weak. "taehyun," you whimpered, arching your back to press closer to him. the sensation of his touch sent a rush of heat through you, igniting a desire.

his thumbs brushed over your hardened nipples, eliciting a low moan from your lips. taehyun's touch was possessive yet tender, his fingers exploring every curve with a hunger that matched your own. you could feel the intensity with the way he held you and the way his breath mingled with yours.

his began kissing and nipping at your skin. "bend over," he growled, his hands guiding you to lean forward onto the table.

you complied, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressed against you. he hiked up your skirt, his hands running up the backs of your thighs, the smooth fabric of your black stockings contrasting against his warm touch. you felt a rush of anticipation as his fingers traced the lace trim at the top of the stockings.

"you're killing me in these," taehyun murmured, his voice husky with desire. his gaze flickered up to meet yours, dark with longing and appreciation.

you bit your lip, a thrill running through you at his words. "do you like them?" you teased, feeling bold under his intense scrutiny.

his smile was sinful as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "i love them," he whispered, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "they make me want to do things to you."

taehyun's fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling them down. "you're so beautiful," he murmured, his hands caressing your bare skin. "i can't wait to feel you."

you moaned softly, your body trembling with need. "please, taehyun," you begged, your voice breathless.

he positioned himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips with a firm yet gentle hold. "are you ready?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"yes," you breathed, closing your eyes in anticipation.

without further hesitation, taehyun guided himself into you, his movements slow and deliberate. the feeling of him filling you completely made you gasp, a mixture of pleasure and desire coursing through your veins. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he whispered soft encouragements.

"you feel so good," he murmured, his voice thick with need. "so perfect."

you clutched the edge of the desk, your fingers digging into the wood as you surrendered to the intensity of the moment. he was rolling his hips into yours in such a way that he hit that spot nestled within your depths. each and every time. never stopping. never faltering.

the room filled with the sound of your shared desire, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin punctuating the air. taehyun's pace quickened, his movements becoming more urgent as he chased his release. you matched his rhythm, meeting each thrust with equal fervor, lost in the heat of the moment.

you let out a loud moan, the sound echoing in the empty office. reality crashed back in, and you froze, the realization sinking in that you were still in the workplace, surrounded by desks and papers.

taehyun's eyes widened with realization, a mix of panic and amusement flickering across his face. he quickly covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes darting around the room to ensure no one had heard.

"shh," he whispered urgently, his voice a breathy plea. "we have to be quiet."

you nodded frantically, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. the intensity of the moment had swept you away, but now the reality of your surroundings was impossible to ignore. you pressed your lips together, trying to stifle any further sounds, while taehyun kept his hand firmly over your mouth, his touch oddly comforting despite the situation.

"taehyun," you moaned airily, your voice breaking with pleasure. "i'm so close."

"me too," he grunted, his grip on your hips almost bruising. "come for me, baby."

his words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a shuddering moan, your body convulsing with the intensity of your orgasm. taehyun followed moments later, his release spilling into you as he groaned your name.

for a moment, you both stayed there, catching your breath and savoring the afterglow. taehyun finally pulled out and helped you stand, turning you around to face him. his eyes softening as he looked at you, "are you okay?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

you nodded, a satisfied smile tugging at your lips. "more than okay," you said, leaning in to kiss him gently.

he smiled against your lips, pulling you into a warm embrace. "good," he murmured. "because i don't think i can stop wanting you."

you chuckled, resting your head against his chest. "i don't want you to stop."

⋆˚࿔ taglist! @flowzel , @izzyy-stuff , @inkigayocamman , @vicurious28

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riseatlantisss · 1 year

Text

A New Beginning

Pairing : Astarion x gender neutral!reader, short and sweet one-shot

A/N: Minor spoilers for Astarion’s arc in BG3. The first half is from reader’s POV, the second half is from Astar’s POV, hope its not too confusing! Enjoy! Written while listening to this on repeat TW : mentions of abuse, trauma, PTSD, but most importantly : lotsss of cuddles

English isn’t my first language, sorry for any mistakes <3

It’s unlike anything else, the vivid pain of helpless past trauma that radiates through the body like a burn, the horror of it tight as a fist around the throat. Astarion knows it all too well. But in that moment, safe in his bed with the love of his life in his arms, the pain heals.

The room is pitch black as you wake up, except for the dim light of a candle glowing from your nightstand. The air around you feel cold, but the bed is warm and comfy. You don’t feel like getting up just yet. Astarion is laying on his side, facing you, eyes closed. Messy white curls are falling on his forehead and his arm is wrapped around your waist. You smile as you contemplate your so-called scary, blood-thirsty vampire boyfriend’s cute bedhead. He looks pretty damn adorable.

"You realise it's rude to stare, don't you?" Astarion says, voice gravelly and eyes still closed peacefully. "How did you know I was staring?" You ask, almost shocked. "It comes with being a vampire, darling!" He replies before tightening his grip around your waist and pulling you nearer.

You chuckle and roll on top of him. He pulls you even closer and holds you there for a long, delicious moment. Your fingers clutch on his curly silver hair. Since Astarion made the shattering discovery that physical contact did not necessitate pain, he has been eager to use touch for comfort. Fortunately for you, when it comes to touching him, you can never get enough.

His fangs glimmer like daggers as he brushes them along your skin, devouring you with kisses, drawing his lips lower and lower until they are resting above your thrumming pulse dancing at your neck. His skin pale and his eyes red, burning brightly in the near-darkness, sharp and piercing, he glows in the dim light of the room.

The way Astarion feels in your arms—the mixture of fragility and tensile strength—makes the protectiveness surge in your chest. His warmth pierces straight through 200 years of vampiric cold. Sometimes you find yourself thinking about all the horrors he had to endure under Cazador’s control, and you shiver. You know how tough he is. Everyday he gets up to fight the same demons that left him so tired the night before. And that, my love, is bravery. You think, running your fingers through his hair and down his neck as he lets out a long sigh of joy and relief. You are so proud of him. He is free now and that’s what matters most but what’s done is done, and you’ll never be able to protect him from the past.

“Astarion, are – are you happy?” You timidly whisper, a barely noticeable worry in your voice.

Was he happy ? The words resonate in Astarion’s mind. No one ever asked him that. No one ever cared about his feelings. Never. Before you, it used to be simple. Someone else did all the thinking for him. He never had any question to answer. Hunt victims for Cazador, entertain Cazador, push through the pain of his constant abuse, and repeat. So fucking cruel, but so fucking simple. Now it is all so... complicated. Everything is different. Now, he has someone who truly cares for him ? A friend ? A lover ? Gods help him.

But it's true. You hadn’t done anything but go out of your way to make Astarion happy since the day you’d met him. Even if he thought he was the last person that deserved to be happy. Yet every time he holds you in his arms, he is. He is the best kind of happy, a pure and wonderful happy that lights up his insides and makes his dead heart beat again. He actually didn’t think a vampire could get this happy. Brooding is in the job description. Angst is a part of the daily routine. Nobody can be a vampire without some anger issues and major emotional baggage. But in that moment, safe in his bed, holding the love of his life in his arms, he is nothing but happy. He is home. That is a gift and one he will be eternally grateful for.

Hoping actions would speak louder than words, he decides to keep quiet and pulls you in for a long, sweet kiss, holding you even tighter, never ever wanting to let you go.

“I love you,” he breathes softly after a while, keeping his mouth as close to yours as he can. “I love this. And I want it all.”

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barcarsenal12 · 2 months

Text

Soon you'll get better (Sickday pt 2)

Sickday pt 2:

As Mapi recovers and leaves on a trip, Ingrid realizes that she caught her illness. She refuses to ruin her girlfriend's trip by telling her, and fends for herself-- until it has gone too far. (Lots of angst, but also lotsss of hurt/comfort. Mostly Frido!)

TW: sick, throwing up, lightheaded

Mapi was contagious, as it turned out, because just as she as starting to regain color in her cheeks and keep food down, Ingrid started to pick up symptoms. Ingrid always felt the same when she was becoming sick, so when she woke up with a headache and a lump in her throat, she knew right away that she was in for it.

All that she wanted was to roll over and bury her face in Mapi’s shirt. Usually, that was the first thing that she would do in the morning, using her girlfriend’s body to block out the light streaming in through the blinds. Today, though, when she instinctively reached her hand out, stretching her fingers to Mapi’s side of the bed, she was met with empty space. She lifted her head to squint at the bed next to her, before flopping onto her pillow and rolling onto her back with a groan.

Mapi had gone to visit her family, Ingrid remembered as she woke up further. The trip had been planned for months, and with Mapi feeling well enough to travel, she had left the night before for Zaragoza. She would be back in a week. Until then, Ingrid was alone. Ingrid sat up on her elbows and reached for her phone, checking the time. It was an off day, which Ingrid was grateful for. She would have the time to let her body do it’s thing. Hopefully she would be better tomorrow.

Ingrid got out of bed and dragged herself to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she went. She leaned against the sink and look at herself in the mirror, noticing how pale he skin looked and the bags under her eyes. She thought, briefily, that this was the exact place her girlfriend had been a week earlier moments before she had passed out. Ingrid closed her eyes and hoped that whatever illness Mapi had had, Ingrid had caught a lesser version. She brushed her teeth and hair and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Ingrid made herself a piece of toast and a smoothie. Although she had no appetite and her stomach protested the entire time, she forced herself to finish both, thinking that getting some food in her might make her feel better. She thought briefly about calling Mapi because all that she really wanted was to hear her voice, but she pictured her girlfriend at the dinner table with her parents who she had missed so terribly this year, or napping with her childhood dog again, or laughing with her brother, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. If Mapi knew that Ingrid was sick-- much less that she had gotten Ingrid sick-- she would want to fly straight home. Even if she could convince Mapi not to cut her vacation short, Mapi would worry. She wouldn’t be relaxing, not like she deserved. Her heart was with Ingrid, always, but her head needed to be with her family. Besides, there was no point freaking Mapi out if she was feeling better by tomorrow. A few tears slipped down Ingrid’s face. She was determined not to bother Mapi, but she wanted her girlfriend. Bad. And she was starting to feel really awful.

Ingrid eventually managed to drag herself over to the couch, where she spent the rest of the day watching old matches and petting Bagheera. She responded to Mapi’s texts with enthusiasm but avoided her calls, distracting her with pictures of Bagheera in exchange for pictures of Mapi’s family dog. She skipped lunch, but practically force fed herself leftover fried rice from the fridge before getting ready for bed two hours earlier than normal. She buried her face in her pillow and tried to pretend it was Mapi, before falling into a very fitful sleep.

Ingrid woke up in the middle of the night and just barely made it to the bathroom before she threw up her dinner. She brushed her teeth again and pulled one of Mapi’s sweatshirts over her pajamas before climbing back into bed, and sinking into her girlfriend’s familiar smell. She missed Mapi, and she needed her so much that it hurt. So much that more tears crept into her eyes.

---

The next morning, Ingrid had to force herself to get out of bed to get ready for training. She didn’t feel like she had to throw up and she had called out of training all last week to take care of Mapi, so she decided that it was not worth staying home. She felt well enough to practice. She was fatigued and sore and a little dizzy, but she wasn’t bedridden. If she ignored the headache creeping back behind her eyes, she could struggle through the day. Better to save a sickday for when she really needed it.

Ingrid dragged herself to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, slicking her thick, dark hair into a simple ponytail before pulling a training top over her head. She looked at herself in the mirror, but couldn’t find it in her to care how sickly she looked. She made herself a smoothie for breakfast and forced herself to keep it down as she got in the car and drove herself to the training ground.

---

Ingrid walked into the changing room and immediately made her way over to her cubby, setting her bag down in her locker and digging through it. She found what she was looking for-- a small pill bottle-- and swallowed two aspirin before sitting down on the bench.

The locker room was crowded and energetic, as always before training, and she hoped that her lack of enthusiasm would go unnoticed. Alexia noticed, of course, clocking Ingrid’s entrance, her slumped shoulders, and the bags under her eyes.

“Hey, Engen,” She said, sitting down beside Ingrid on the bench. She kept her voice down, not wanting to draw the group’s attention to Ingrid if she was upset. “You ok?”

“Just not feeling well.” Ingrid told her.

“Where’s Mapi?” Alexia asked, “has she been hovering?”

“No.” Ingrid sighed, wishing that her girlfriend was there to hover. “She’s away visiting her parents this week.”

“Oh.” Alexia said, remember Mapi talking about the trip. Then, her eyebrows furrowed. “She left you home alone when you were sick?” Ingrid gave Alexia a guilty look. “You didn’t tell her.” Alexia sighed.

“I did not want her to worry. She was so excited to visit her family.” Ingrid put her head in her hands, and rubbed at her eyes. “I’ll be ok.” Alexia didn’t look convinced. “Please, Ale, don’t tell her. I’m fine, really. It’ll blow over in a day, and you know that she will insist on coming home.”

Alexia bit her lip, thinking. “You’re sure you’re ok without her?” She asked softly.

Ingrid looked at Alexia with tired eyes. “I’m alright.”

Alexia pursed her lips, and handed Ingrid a water bottle. “Drink lots of fluids.”

“Thanks, Ale.” Ingrid said quietly, smiling up at her captain. It was nice to feel taken care of, and she was grateful to Alexia for showing that she cared, especially when the person whose job it was to care about Ingrid was miles away.

Once everyone was ready, they made their way to the pitch. They had a session out on the field followed by a session in the gym. It wouldn’t be an easy day-- the day after a day off never was. Ingrid felt out of breath during the warm ups, but she held her own fairly well in the rondo. She could feel Alexia’s eyes on her as they did technical drills, and Ingrid knew that her movements were not nearly as precise as they were expected to be. It was a testament to Alexia’s concern for Ingrid that she hadn’t scolded her for her sloppiness, and she looked far more worried than annoyed when Ingrid sent her 5th mistimed pass to Ona.

Ingrid wanted to go home. She wanted to take a shower. She wanted to go to sleep. She wanted Mapi. Instead she forced the bile rising in her throat down, and listened carefully as Jona explained that they would be playing a five a side match.

Ingrid got into place alongside her teammates and willed herself to make it through the match so that she could go into the gym where it was, at the very least, air conditioned. Her crosses were too long or two short and she was almost constantly out of position, and very quickly she stopped focusing on trying to play her best and started focusing on keeping the pounding in her head from overwhelming her.

She lost the ball to the opposing team, who passed it back and looked for an opening to move into the box. Suddenly Frido was running at her with the ball, passing it forward to Selma.

Ingrid stumbled, and Frido caught her by the forearms, holding her up. “Ingrid?”

“I’m ok.” Ingrid mumbled. As she spoke, her knees gave out and Frido moved a hand to her waist to steady her, eyebrows shooting into the air. Ingrid pulled herself back up. As she tried to take a step, her knees buckled again and she slumped forward into Frido’s arms, eyes fluttering shut.

“Woah, woah, I got you.” Frido said, surprised at the sudden weight that she was supporting. “Let’s get you to the bench.” Frido practically carried Ingrid to the side of the pitch, and the next thing Ingrid knew she was sitting down on cool metal. Her ears were ringing and her vision was spotty, and as she moved her head side to side the world moved on a split second delay.

She flinched as someone pressed a waterbottle into her hand, urging her to take small sips. She drank, and unconsciously leaned further into Frido’s side. Frido ran a hand up and down Ingrid’s arm, and Ingrid leaned her head down, trying to take deep breaths to steady herself. “I’m fine. I just need a moment.” She told Frido.

Frido scoffed, and Ingrid turned her head to look at her. “I’m taking you to the physios.” Frido told her, leaving no room for questions.

Ingrid pursed her lips, but nodded. “I know.”

---

Ingrid tried to wave Frido off after she helped her up, but Frido still insisted on keeping a hand on Ingrid’s arm the entire walk to the physio’s room, like she could collapse at any moment.

The physio sat her on the bench, and gave her a glass of water before examining her. He had her follow his finger with her eyes. “Let me look at your throat.” He told her. Ingrid opened her mouth, and he shone a light down her throat. “It’s a little irritated. What are your other symptoms?”

Ingrid honestly reported all of the symptoms that she had experienced over the last day and a half while Frido watched, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. When she was finished he scribbled something on a clipboard, speaking without looking up. “You have the same thing that Ms. Leon had last week. It’s a viral infection, so I can’t give you anything for it. We have to let your body do it’s thing.” He clicked his pen and looked up at her. “Go home, rest, and drink lots of fluids. You can treat your headaches with aspirin if necessary, otherwise stick to home remedies. It should pass in a few days.” He smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry I can’t do more for you, but you’ll feel better soon.”

Ingrid thanked the physio and Frido walked her out to her car, promptly taking her keys out of her hand. “Frido!” She exclaimed.

“I’m driving you home, and I’m helping you get settled. Lucy already agreed to pick me up when she is finished training.” Frido told her.

---

Frido tucked Ingrid into bed and kissed the top of her head before walking into the kitchen to make Ingrid lunch. She checked the cabinets, and found that they had all of the ingredients for the swedish soup that Frido’s mother had always made her when she was sick as a child. 45 minutes later, she poured a bowl of soup for her best friend and put the rest in a tupperware in the fridge, assuming that Ingrid was not going to want to cook much when she was feeling this ill.

She peaked her head through the door, and finding Ingrid curled up but still awake, she pushed her way into the bedroom.

“I brought you soup!” She said, holding the bowl out infront of her with a grin, and pulling a spoon out from behind her back like it was a surprise.

“Thanks, Frido.” Ingrid smiled, taking the bowl from her hands and eating small spoonfuls. “It’s really good.” She mumbled.

“Oh, Ing. You’re really not feeling well, are you.” Frido asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and brushing the babyhairs off of Ingrid’s sweaty forehead. Ingrid gently shook her head.

“Poor thing.” Frido clicked her tongue. “Is Mapi coming home early?”

Ingrid’s face dropped. “She doesn’t know.”

“Ingrid!” Frido exclaimed, her voice accusing.

“I don’t want to worry her. Please don’t tell.” Ingrid pleaded, looking up at Frido with guilty eyes.

“I won’t tell anyone anything. I would want to know if the person I loved was sick, though, regardless of how worried it made me.”

Ingrid bit her lip. She really did miss Mapi, and talking about her only made her feel worse. “She’ll be home soon. I’ll tell her then.” She whispered.

Frido sighed, but picked up on the cue that Ingrid wanted her to move on. “I’ll stay with you until she gets home, si?”

“No, Frido, I’m fine.”

“Ing-”

“I’m fine. It’s just a bug.”

Frido clenched her jaw, thinking. “Alright, you can stay alone for now. But the moment you feel a little worse, you tell me and I’m staying here, ok?”

“Ok.” Ingrid mumbled. The doorbell rang, signaling that Lucy was there to pick Frido up. Ingrid looked at the door, and back at Ingrid with a sigh. She pressed a kiss to Ingrid’s forehead and stood up.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning after training with breakfast for you. There’s more soup in the fridge if you get hungry.”

“Thanks, Frido. Thanks for taking care of me” Ingrid said.

Frido stood in the doorway and looked at Ingrid, biting the inside of her cheek. “You sure you’re ok on your own?”

“Mhm.” Ingrid nodded slowly. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Feel better.” Frido gently shut the door behind her, and made her way out of the apartment.

---

Ingrid slept for a few hours before she was woken to the ringing of her phone. She rolled onto her side and flipped her phone over, revealing Mapi’s screen saver in the center of the screen. It was one thing to not mention feeling sick-- it was another entirely to ignore your girlfriend, so Ingrid cleared her throat a few times and picked up the phone. She wasn’t hoarse, so it would be hard for Mapi to tell that she wasn’t feeling well from over the phone.

“Cariño! How are you?” Mapi asked. “I’m ok, a little tired. How is your family?”

“They are good! I am having such a great time, I did not realize how much I missed them.” Mapi said, before launching into a detailed retelling of the prank that her and her brother had played on their parents the night before. Ingrid listened happily, smiling widely at her girlfriend’s familiar voice. She was starting to feel her stomach turn, though, and knew that she would have to get off the phone in a minute.

“I miss you so much it hurts, Maria. Te amo.”

Mapi’s eyebrows shot up at the sudden statement. “I miss you more, my love. I’ll be home soon. Is everything ok?”

Ingrid bit her lip. “Mhm.” She mumbed. “Frido’s coming over soon, so I should go. Say hello to everyone for me, ok?”

“Si. Adios amor.” Mapi ran a hand through her hair. She could tell that something was wrong, but she decided not to push it.

“Talk to you later.” She hung up the phone and promptly ran to the bathroom, throwing up last night’s dinner into the toilet.

---

Ingrid brushed her teeth and splashed cold water on her face, before dragging herself to the couch. With the exception of the two hours that she was training, she had spent so much time in her bed recently that she was sure that her body had left a permanent dent. She felt awful. So awful. Her stomach hurt and her head was pounding and she wanted to curl into a ball and fade into nothingness. It was not lost on her that this was the same couch that Mapi had found herself on when Ingrid was caring for her a week earlier. It felt like years ago.

Half an hour later, Frido used her key to open the door to Ingrid’s apartment and make her way inside. She found Ingrid tucked into the corner of the couch-- pathetically, Ingrid was sure-- watching a Norweigien rom com.

“How are you feeling?” Frido asked brightly.

“I’m ok.” Ingrid smiled, and hoped that it didn’t look like a grimace. “How was training?”

“Good. Fitness testing.” Frido pulled a face. “All of the girls send their love. I brought you a croissant.” She handed Ingrid a brown paper bag, the top folded over and sealed.

“Thank you.” Ingrid said, as Frido walked casually into the kitchen and came back to the couch with a plate for her to eat off of. Frido settled next to her and they switched the TV to an old match. Ingrid forced small bites of the croissant down her throat and listened to Frido chatter on about training.

Suddenly, nausea was hitting her in waves, crashing over her again and again. Ingrid slowly set the plate on the coffee table and leaned her head back, trying to breath, and fighting against the urge to throw up.

“Are you ok?” Frido asked, noticing the change in her demeanor. Ingrid raised a hand up to wave her off, sinking further into the cushions. Frido frowned, and brought a hand up to wipe the sweat off of Ingrid’s brow. All at once, Ingrid was on her feet and rushing to the bathroom, Frido fast on her heels.

“Oh, sweet girl.” She said sympathetically, leaning down behind her to hold her hair up as Ingrid threw up her breakfast. She rubbed Ingrid’s back as she slumped down against the toilet. Slowly, she helped her lean up against the opposite wall, and left to get her a glass of water. When she returned, Ingrid was back by the toilet, spitting stomach acid into the bowl.

“Shhh. You’re ok.” Frido comforted. “Are you done?” Ingrid shook her head, throwing up again. When she was finished, Frido handed her the water and sat with her on the bathroom floor, telling her to drink.

“Is that the first time you’ve thrown up?” She asked. Ingrid pursed her lips, and shook her head no.

“How many times?”

“Four or five, maybe.”

Frido breathed in sharply. “I’m staying with you. You shouldn’t be alone.” Ingrid sighed, before nodding and leaning her head on Frido’s shoulders.

---

The next two days, Frido’s concern for Ingrid only grew. She had been throwing up so much that she was now just heaving over the toilet, nothing left in her stomach. She had hardly eaten anything since Frido had been staying with her. Whatever she did eat she threw up an hour later, and Frido was sure that she was losing weight. Frido had been checking her temperature every night, and it was steadily rising. She was getting desperate, and knew that it was reaching the point where they couldn’t keep this from Mapi any longer.

---

The breaking point came that night, when Frido went to check on Ingrid in her bedroom, thermomator in hand.

“Ingrid,” She called, moving to Ingrid’s bedside. Ingrid’s face was sweaty, and she had kicked the blankets to the end of the bed, curling up under a single sheet. Still, she was shivering, like her body couldn’t tell if it was freezing or dangerously overheated. Frido was immediately on high alert-- Ingrid had felt awful for days, but now she looked different, more confused and shaken. she had never seen Ingrid like this, and it didn’t seem like she had even registered Frido’s entrance.

“Ing,” She said again, firmly. “Let me take your temperature.”

Ingrid looked at her with glassy eyes, and squirmed as Frido put a hand on her forehead. “I want Maria.” She mumbled, almost incoherently. She looked around the room, but wasn’t taking anything in, eyes unable to focus and brain jumbled from the fever.

“Ingrid, hey, can you hear me?” Frido asked, as Ingrid continued to move around. She placed a hand on Ingrid’s sweaty cheek. “Open your mouth.” Ingrid complied, and Frido put the thermometer under her tongue. Ingrid’s eyes fluttered shut and she lay still as Frido took the device out of her mouth, and read the numbers with a gasp.

“Mierda.” She cursed. The numbers were too high, way too high, and always-put-together Ingrid looked so out of it, and Frido was starting to freak out. “Shit, Ingrid, I think I need to take you to the hospital.”

“Can you call Mapi?” Ingrid mumbled.

“Soon, elskling. Just give me a minute.”

Frido walked out of the room, phone in her hand and Alexia’s contact already pulled up. Alexia did not answer the first time she called, but picked up the second time.

“Alexia.” Frido breathed in relief.

“Frido? What’s going on?” Alexia asked, concern in her voice at Frido’s tone.

“Ingrid’s really sick. She’s hasn’t kept a meal down in days, her fever is way too high, and she’s completely out of it. I think that she needs to go to the hospital.”

Alexia let out a sharp breath. “What do you mean she’s out of it?”

“I don’t think she even knows where she is.”

“Dios mio. Ok. I’m on my way.” Frido heard her moving around, grabbing her keys from over the phone. “Call Mapi.”

Frido sighed, dreading having to be the one to break the news.

A/N: Part 3 coming!

#mapi leon #ingrid engen #mapi and ingrid #barca femeni #fc barcelona #sick #sickfic #alexia putellas #barca women #mapi x ingrid #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #woso #fanfic #mapileon imagine #mapi leon fanfic #angst #fridolina rolfö

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hugs2doie · 11 months

Note

hello! i saw that u had your reqs open and if its not too repetitive to write do u think u could do something similar to the 'asking u to come home after an arguement' for the dreamies but for the tubatus please ? <3 or anything argument related pls im in my angsty era and in need of comfort 😭😭

pls & thank you lotsss ^_^

txt asking you to come home after an argument

AYYY FIRST TUBATU ASKK

HOPWVU LIKE RHUS POSTT

#txt headcanons #txt texts #txt imagines #tomorrow x together #tomorrow by together texts #tomorrow by together imagine #tomorrow by together fluff #txt fluff #txt fanfic #txt scenarios #txt drabbles #txt fake texts

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no-nameno-face · 1 year

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Better Than a Six (AUDIO ONLY)

Ellie Williams x Dina Weed Scene

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, minors do not interact. You will be blocked. sub!dina, dom!ellie, (but also kinda switch energy tbh), lotsss of moaning and heavy breathing, implied sex, sweet, playful, teasing

Author's Notes: ahhhhhhhh... heres my first attempt at the weed scene from tlou2 <3 i might try again, thinking about making a pt.2 with dina "pleasuring" ellie too... cause i get maddd switch vibes from them. like ellie thinks shes a top, but dina can take over for sureeee... I chose to leave this audio a bit up to the imagination, not as description heavy but more ?intimate?... more ?ambiance? (idk how to describe it lol). It feels more canon to the actual scene that way in my opinion. i also think everyone has their own interpretation of how this scene played out so i wanted your mind to have some room to fill in the gaps. hope you guys enjoy!!

(i tried a few new things with the audio and i want some (gentle) feedback plsss... first, a transition using the song from the actual scene into a different one that fit the scene better. there definitely was an attempt made lmfao... second, i split the vocals from the instrumental so i could have the music louder but the singing quieter so it didnt take away from the voice clips. what do we think? i wont be able to do this for all my audios cause it cost money and ya bitch is broke... so only on special occasions like this one... also if you read this far youre the realest and i love you <3)

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ickadori · 3 months

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[cws] fem reader. lotsss of kissing. choji and togame kiss 🤭 completely unedited word vomit.

i think togame sees choji kissing you in the beginning of y’all’s relationship and balks at the way the smaller man looks as if he’s trying to suck your tonsils out.

he’s always known choji to be eager and exuberant, but the way he grips you by the back of the neck and sticks his tongue down your throat has to be classified as cannibalism.

it’s painful to watch, and togame tells him as much the next time they’re alone.

“it looks like you’re trying to eat her face off, man. thought we were in world war z or something.”

“whaddya mean?”

“it’s a lot, choji. just calm down a bit. chill. relax.”

choji, in fact, does not relax. he keeps at it like he has been, and togame can see that you’re overwhelmed but too smitten with his friend to say anything. you just try to keep up with him, lids fluttering and hands weakly pressed against his chest to give a little push when it gets to be too much.

togame can’t continue to watch his friend go down this path, so the next time choji assaults your mouth he’s right there, looming over the both of you as he grips him by the shoulder and gives a squeeze.

“i don’t think she can breathe, choji.”

choji detaches his lips from yours with a noise of complaint, a thick web of saliva keeping the both of you connected, and you suck in a gasp of air, teary eyes blinking up at togame in a silent thanks.

“o’course she can breathe. you can breathe, honey, can’t you? of course she can.” choji beams before smacking his lips against your own again, and you shoot togame another look, prompting him to reel choji back once again. “togame.”

“what did i tell you the other day? relax.” choji looks between you and him, face twisted into an annoyed scowl, but then you’re intertwining your hands with his and giving a small smile, lips swollen and shiny with spit.

“it’s okay, choji. jo is just trying to help.” togame has never really thought much about you besides the obvious, beautiful girl who’s dating his best friend, but the way you say his name, still slightly out of breath, has a new feeling blossoming in his stomach that he refuses to acknowledge. “let’s take it slow, okay?”

he looks like he wants to protest, but anyone would have a problem saying no a face like yours, but he relents, leaning forward to press his lips back to yours.

togame watches, taking in the way your lips meld together, different variants of pink moving together. it’s going well, slow, but then you make a little sound that sends a jolt to even togame’s cock and then the two of you are back at square one.

“allllright.” choji is pulled back again, and he glares up at togame before grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him down to your height. “eh?”

“you kiss her then, since you know every fucking thing.”

togame blinks, you blink, and choji jostles him around again to get his point across. “go ahead.” togame looks at you to out a stop to your boyfriend’s behavior, but you only twiddle with your fingers and look up at him through your lashes.

ah, fuck it.

unlike the way choji had gripped you, togame lays a palm against your cheek, cupping it, and slowly leans in until he feels your breaths on his mouth. he stays there, waiting, wanting you to be the one to decide if you really wanna do this or not, and he doesn’t have to wait long.

you close the distance, tentatively, and the corner of his mouth twitches at the cuteness of it. his lips move against yours slowly, calmly, without rush, the complete opposite of your boyfriend, and he lets his hand drift to cradle the back of your head as he deepens it just a bit.

it’s open mouthed now, no tongue, still tasteful for the public, but you’re quickly pushing your tongue forward to meet his own and he realizes that the blame isn’t fully on choji. eager little thing. he indulges (himself, too) and lets you lick into his mouth as he does the same to you, slowly.

he peeks an eye open to look at choji, and his cock hardens further at the mesmerized look on his face, cheeks flushed and lids lowered as he watches his best friend tongue you down.

togames’ surprised that he can stand there so patiently and—spoke too soon.

choji joins in, wet lips pushing against the sides of both of your mouths, and you’re quick to invite him in, head turning as you messily kiss him. a sharp fang sinks into your bottom lip, and togame groans under his breath at the sight.

before he can feel left out, you’re pulling him into join, and his eyebrows shoot up when you move out of the way, choji’s lips fully colliding with his own in his haste to get back to you. both men pause, eyes clashing, but then another one of those little noises is leaving you and they’re back in motion, lips sliding against each other as your hands rub at their thighs.

you’re not content being left out, and choji’s attention shifts back to you, a grin on his plump lips as he reels you back in.

togame wonders if choji needs any pointers on anything else.

#togame x reader #choji x reader #i need a hobby or smth v.v #windbreaker you will not trap me

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hwajin · 3 months

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✞ 「 .✶۪ .° ✞ : 𝐇 𝐈 — 𝐋 𝐈 𝐓 𝐄 !! : a series

☆ — chapter two ; Cold Metal

✞ 「 .✶۪ : see series masterlist and warnings here

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter word count: 18.1k

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter warnings: suggestive tension, lotsss of angst, mentions of cheating!!!!

author's note: one of my weaker chapters tbh but i hope you still enjoy!!! i'm sooo so excited to post ch3 already ngl 🤭🤭🤭

The number of times your hand carded through your dyed black hair this class was abnormal, five times too much than it would seem natural, but you couldn’t quite care about it. It was soothing, your long nails massaging your scalp in the process calmed your nerves. You looked at Mr. Bahng, you looked at Mr. Bahng looking at you – and your hands were in your hair again, fixing it, or making it worse, you weren’t quite sure. You wore dark lipstick – the shade of red was close enough to be black though it wasn’t upon further inspection – which matched the colour around your eyes, dark and smoky, long, fake lashes making your irises pop. Your outfit was just appropriate enough for college, though you were almost uncomfortable about how revealing it was – lowcut dark tank top with a bedazzled star right on your chest, low-rise jeans which teasingly sat on the curve of your hips, revealing the subtle waistband of the dark red tanga you had decided to wear, with the only purpose for Mr. Bahng to see it. Your black boots made you taller by an inch, which made you carry yourself with the confidence you deemed to need today.

For the past week you had slept over your plan to seduce your teacher; now, a week later, the affair sounded far sillier than when you had first come up with it, when you had gotten over the initial shock of seeing the man, who, seemingly had rocked your pre-graduate mind. Though, now, a whole week later and after a lot of plotting and thinking, it felt far more realistic, too, something you could achieve if you acted smartly. Sure, it was still dumb and immature, and yes, you could get in trouble for it – you had thoroughly thought of Han’s words, and gathered that he, in fact, hadn’t been as wrong as you had thought – though trouble and problems would occur only if someone caught you, and only if you let the whole thing go on for too long, or got too involved in the process. You were simply supposed to keep your plan on the down-low, telling not a soul about it – that Han knew you didn’t deem as a risk; he was your second half, his secret was as much yours as yours was his – and you ought to end the instigation the moment Mr. Bahng left to let Professor Hwang teach again. That was, if Mr. Bahng would fall for you, in the first place. This factor wasn’t at all yet carved in stone, and it was the most important rule in the game you created; so, you’d decided to view your chances realistically. Surely, you had it all planned out, you had read through the entirety of the package insert and the risks that came with the plan – you were prepared, and said plan was nothing but manageable, if you only let the charm spark you believed you had. Everything after would be history.

Mr. Bahng had eyed you when you had entered the classroom this morning, for only a short moment, barely a second even, though you couldn’t have not noticed. His eyes had scanned you up and down before he had converted them to his pencils and notebooks on his desk, and his ears had painted red; you remembered having seen him flustered a week back, and the blush around his face was far more adorable now that it had been due to you, seemingly. He didn’t much pay you attention throughout the rest of the lesson; in contrary, Mr. Bahng seemed to be avoiding your piercing eyes altogether, seemed to only skim over you and your figure – your chest, too, which you put on display on full purpose – while holding the gazes of other students. Were you already crawling under his skin? Was one outfit and flirty eyes enough to weaken the teacher? You doubted it to be so very easy; though then his eyes scanned over you again for only a second, and his ears painted pink. Maybe it could be easy.

A cold can of Coca Cola stood before you, the freezing condensation of it having left a wet spot on the rough, old wood of the desk you were sitting at; you and Han had grabbed a drink before classes, though you’d lie saying it had felt like always. Ever since you had fought a week ago, Han had been acting strange, tense. You had realised that he was pretending to act normal, that he was trying to joke around as always and not let his eyes linger on you for too long, or tell you about his songwriting without growing flustered, or grab a drink with you without forcefully searching for possible subjects to talk about. He really was trying to be his usual self; but the endless years of friendship made you look right through him. There hadn’t been a day the past seven days when you hadn’t not noticed his clamminess around you, or how he suddenly started stuttering after every other sentence when talking to the others the moment you entered the studio, or his staring during practice or brainstorming or simply hanging, when he thought you weren’t looking. You never not noticed – and that was the worst of them all – Han’s inability to look into your eyes properly when you were talking to him, about anything. You hated the tension he created, you hated that the usual light-heartedness you felt in his presence, the utter and numbing familiarity usually around him had been so hard to achieve in the past week.

Above all, it angered you that you couldn’t understand the reason for his behaviour, nor were mature enough, apparently – or maybe too stubborn, simply – to talk of it, to try and resolve it. In retrospect, looking back at this very weekend years later, when you’d fondly remember your college years and your undeniable silliness, you would understand that you’d been scared, and therefore stayed quiet. You didn’t know why you were scared, exactly; but you knew Han’s reason of clamminess and seeming jealousy wouldn’t be an explanation you could possibly handle, nor wanted to hear, so as to not accept the reality of it. You hadn’t mentioned Mr. Bahng anymore to him, not after your fight. You had mustered up a plan all by yourself – you had, one fateful night, remembered that the teacher had been giving vocal lessons to students back when you went to high school, and you knew it was the perfect opportunity to get closer to him – but you hadn’t told your best friend anything of your excitement. Which was strange, keeping a secret from him, but you figured the tension didn’t need any more sensitivity, and you continued playing along with Han’s game of pretending, wordless and silent. Though you were doing a far better job at it, surely.

You had never apologized, either. Maybe that was part of the reason things were strange between the two of you. Though, if Han wanted an apology in the first place, then he wasn’t acting like it. He didn’t sulk around you, he didn’t give you the cold shoulder – he was strange, yes, but he didn’t seem to be upset, not anymore. Neither you nor he were people to hide anger, even if it was directed at the other; you could talk, had always been able to. Uncomfortable talks, sometimes, talks which bordered on fights, talks after fights; you weren’t afraid of any of them, and yet now, Han simply tried to sweep the entire thing under the rug. Sometimes this past week, though you didn’t know if your eyes fooled you – and you hoped they did – he seemed scared when looking at you, when talking to you. Not scared of you, you didn’t believe so, at least. He seemed scared of himself, almost; of the next words he’d speak to you, of his own clamminess, of his own stuttering.

Han also didn’t make a scene to apologize about the fight – now that a week had passed, you weren’t at all sure anymore if he was in the position to apologize, even; by now, you believed he wasn’t as much in the wrong as you had initially believed him to be – so you swept it under the rug with him, pretended as though the feisty conversation had never occurred in the first place. Not healthy, nor was it mature, and the sight effects were tangible, infuriating; though you forgot all about it when the class you were sitting in was nearing to an end, and Mr. Bahng was dismissing the students. He wore the same white button-down today, sleeves rolled up, though his pants were a dark navy this time around, and a loose tie adorned the thickness of his neck – it was far more attractive than last week’s outfit, you thought, and it got you giddy to go up and talk to him. You were nervous, though – you were painfully aware that your little plan resembled the plot of a bad romance movie, so you knew that the chances of your teacher falling for you were close to null. Mr. Bahng was a responsible adult, one who wore a gold band around his left ring finger, one who was a teacher – it didn’t get more responsible than that, and you knew your dark red tanga you wore specifically for him would probably be of little help when it came to seducing him. For all you knew, you were a mere student in his head, barely eighteen as he remembered you. Maybe you should fetch your best friend, and apologize to him, after all; it was obvious your stupidity and hormones had gotten the better of you.

With these thoughts on your mind, you waited for student after student to disappear while keeping the teacher pinned down with your gaze, despite your doubts; a plan was a plan, and you wanted your fun, you wanted to get laid; you would do what you needed to achieve it. This time around, different than a week ago, you were not pretending to be taking your time, nor were you making a scene of looking for something in your bag while waiting to be in lonesome with the teacher – you sat confidently, legs crossed beneath the table and arms beneath your chest, eye-fucking Mr. Bahng until the last, far too slow-paced person had finally abandoned the hot classroom, until you and him were the only two people left in it. He looked at you, shortly, his face unreadable – he did gift you a subtle smile, though, and only after he turned his attention back to his desk you started moving. Nervous, a tiny storm brewing in the pit of your stomach. The legs of your chair scratched uncomfortably against the linoleum floor as you pushed yourself off it, shooting goosebumps up your back, and your bag – a dark red handbag matching your nails and make-up, and a big contrast to your usual black, worn-out rucksack – rattling as you threw it over your shoulder, and made your way to your teachers’ desk.

You started walking, trying to appear as calm as humanly possible. You didn’t allow your hand to reach for your hair, or to your top to fix it, or to the hem of your jean to fiddle with it. You simply walked, slow, making use of your hips; and with every step you took, Han’s voice from a week ago increased in volume in your head, his words materializing as a cloud of uncertainty; ‘Are you insane? He’s your teacher. What’s in there for him, except the loss of his job?’. You shivered at that, despite the hot weather, despite the sweat that was forming in the back of your neck, beneath your waving hair. Were you so nervous because you knew Han was right, and the whole thing utterly wrong? Or was it Mr. Bahng who wouldn’t allow you to think straight, who got to you more than it was comfortable to admit? You walked, your thoughts and mind a mess, until you reached Mr. Bahng’s desk, until you stood hovering over him, until his eyes met you from below, until your knees grew wobbly, and your panties wet. Embarrassing.

“Hey.”

Your voice cool, airy. You were nervous, though you wouldn’t let it ruin your plan for you. You put on your best face, calm and collected, eyes hooded and lazy – the entire opposite from when you had first talked to him, or from the storm raging within you, your chest, the pit of your stomach, your core between your legs.

And Mr. Bahng looked like he’d noticed it, too. The change in demeanour within you; the change in attire. You saw how his eyes flinched to your chest, for only a second, how his head fell to his side barely noticeably, in curiosity. How his ears turned pink again; you loved seeing his ears turn pink, loved seeing him shy and flustered because of you.

“Y/N, hey. Do you… need help with something this week? Or… do you just- wanna talk again?”, he chuckled, softly, and it was your turn to blush now, to grow bashful. The sound of his giggles sent shivers down your back, and you granted him a smile. Nonchalant.

Han’s voice in your head again, louder than before; ‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’ You inhaled once, deeply, exhaled in one blow, quickly.

“I do have a question, sort of… it’s probably stupid, though.” Blinking twice as much as usual, and you looked at him from beneath your lashes, upper arms pushing out your breasts subtly – you were twenty-two years old, and you were embarrassing yourself. And you were less shameful about it as you thought you would be. It’s been ages since someone has gotten you this wet, and you were merely allowed to look at him, yet; you couldn’t imagine your own bodily reactions when you would fuck him, eventually.

Mr. Bahng coughed at your words, adjusted in his seat; was he getting nervous? Maybe he would be easier to crack as you thought, initially. Maybe he was as attracted to you as you were to him. Or maybe he was highly uncomfortable. In that case you would simply and frankly skip music class, until Professor Hwang returned again.

“Oh, no, ask ahead. There’s no such a thing as a stupid question.” Such a teacher thing to say, and you would have chuckled if you didn’t commit so much to your act. So, you only smiled, eyes losing his, looking down where his hands lay on his desk, folded together professionally, before you looked up at him again, seductively, you hoped. Was it too much? Was he looking through you? He didn’t look like it; his eyes were curious, and his cheeks red. He didn’t look uncomfortable, either. Maybe it was working.

You hummed as though in thought before answering, took your time with it, let his words melt into your brain; letting two seconds pass, then another two, until Mr. Bahng furrowed his brows in most subtle manner, and his head cocked further to the side. You quirked his interest, and you shot your question. Your chance. Han’s words were playing in your head.

“I was thinking about you the past week…”, leaving a deliberate pause, not breaking the contact with his deep eyes you trembled under, watching him redden further upon your words, “and I remembered that you were giving vocal lessons, back when I was still in school.” Another pause in which you looked at him, expectantly, as though he was supposed to understand where your question was going. The pause stretched itself, and Mr. Bahng’s blush had travelled to his neck at this point; he leaned forward, white dress-shirt stretching over his muscles, hugging his body tightly. He cleared his throat with a low rasp, inhaled slowly. You needed him. So very badly.

“Uh, yeah, I was. I- I am. I’m still giving vocal lessons.” His voice wasn’t nervous, per se. It was professional, too much almost, for your liking; though it sounded forced, and you heard a shake in it, barely noticeable, but you were hyper-aware when it came to him. “Why do you ask?” Almost trembling, and you would have smiled to yourself under different circumstances. Han occupied your thoughts again.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

“You see…”, deliberate pause, and you wondered if he was getting sick of you, or if he was a fish caught on your hook by now, “the band I told you about… you remember, right?” You bashed your lashes at him, waited until he gave you an affirmative hum before you continued. The hum was followed by the clearing of his voice. You couldn’t read him. You couldn’t tell if it was nervousness, you didn’t know if the next words would be your downfall. “I’m the vocalist in that band, and… I could use some professional classes. I’m self-taught, you know… so I’m not really confident in my skills yet.” You dragged out your words, and you almost pouted at the man if you hadn’t found your senses early enough; you might be a little too deep into your own bit.

One moment passed, and another, without an answer from the teacher.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

He would say no, Han was right. He had no reason to agree to you, after all, had no reason to give you private lessons, no less because he would be gone in a matter of weeks. There was not one thing in the situation working to his advantage, so he would decline –

“Oh, you’re asking me for lessons?”, he looked at you, though not questioningly. He looked at you with certainty. Too much certainty; he would decline, and you would simply die of embarrassment, on the spot. What the hell were you doing, standing in front of him? What the hell were you doing not apologizing to your best friend of years, not having seen your own stupidity far earlier?

“Sure, why not.”

Your heart sank a million oceans deep. A sentence only, merely three words, and your entire world seemed to have flipped upside down. Han had been wrong, and whether or not he wanted to speak about the entire subject, disregarding his – in your eyes, inappropriate discomfort – you would brag about this later. You didn’t care, you were selfish, and you were right. And you were one step closer to having the teacher the way you wanted him. You were sure Mr. Bahng could read your victory on your face, so you tried to keep composure, did your best in pretending to be entirely calm – though you were the opposite, the storms of doubts from before having cleared, instead allowing space for deafening and bright fireworks.

“Oh, yeah? I wouldn’t have expected you to agree… I thought you were really busy, you know, with your family.” Compassion; check. A path to trust; check. Showing clear interest; check. You were multiple steps further in your plan, and you were sure Han would be sensitive later, though you would gush about it all the same. There was no way you would keep this a secret. And maybe you wanted to rub it into his face.

Your teacher huffed out in feigned amusement, though his eyes stayed cold, humourless, the laugh not reaching that far. “Yeah, well… I’ll do anything to get out of the house for a bit, if I can be so honest.”

Your heart leaped, jumped left and right and down and up against its’ confines at the almost guilty confession he confronted you with. You were a sadist, after all. Or maybe heartless. Or maybe your underwear was so wet by now at the sheer sight of your teacher that any other coherent thought except his dick inside of you vanished entirely, forever. Whatever the reason was, you didn’t care. You needed him, and the stars stood in your luck. The chances weren’t only good; they were perfect, basically. You wouldn’t be shocked if by the same time next week you would stand pressed against this very desk, with Mr. Bahng’s hands groping at your body to his liking, with his face nuzzled in your neck and nibbling marks onto it for the others to tease about later.

“Oh… is it that bad? I’m sorry.” Puppy eyes, a bit more blinking; his ears were burning, his eyes searching for something other than you to look at. He cleared his throat for the third time today, before he stood suddenly, exhaling in an awkward chuckle, readjusting his shoulder, fixing his tie. You could jump at him now, eat him whole.

“Nah, don’t worry. I just… need distraction.”, his eyes flashed to your chest again before he locked eyes with you, bashfully; he would fuck you next week, guaranteed. You probably wouldn’t even need to work too hard for it.

“I’m ending class earlier next week anyways, actually – you can just stay right after, say for… half an hour? One hour? If you have some time.”

‘If you have some time.’ – what a silly thing to say. As if you wouldn’t make time, specifically for him, even if you were busy. Mr. Bahng looked at you expectantly, throwing his briefcase over his shoulder. You took your time with the answer; you hummed, as though trying to remember your non-existent schedule, thinking exaggeratedly. It was only seconds later before you answered.

“No, yeah, one hour should work. I’ll see you next week then, Mr. Bahng.”

At the sound of his own name the man tensed, the fist around the band of his briefcase tightening. He was easy prey, after all. It was almost adorable. Almost too easy.

“Yeah. See you next week.”

☆.☆.☆

15:09 meet me at the vending machine?

15:10 after class

You read Han’s text after you exited Mr. Bahng’s classroom – you leaned against the wall after having watched the teacher walk to his next lesson, and the cold of the tiles felt relaxing against your back; your skin was flushed, your cheeks burning, your entire body aflame. A smile has engraved itself onto your lips, one you couldn’t seem to get rid of, as stupid as you looked and as much as your jaw pained from it; you’d gotten so many steps further, far more than you had initially even dared to aspire, and you didn’t think you would survive the wait all until next week – you would cease to exist quite frankly, from excitement and anticipation and sheer impatience. You weren’t sure if your happiness was out of place, inappropriate; you remembered just what you were excited about, remembered Mr. Bahng’s wife, remembered Han’s negative stance towards the entirety of the affair – you didn’t ought to be so giddy. But then you remembered Mr. Bahng, in the classroom just ten minutes ago; the way he had looked at you, the way he had blushed. You remembered his tight dress-shirt, his dark blue tie, his strong arms laying exposed and heavy on his desk. You imagined those very hands on you, all over your, all over your body, discarding your clothes in the very classroom you’d just left one by one. You imagined to have him the way you had craved to for so long, to have his lips explore the entirety of your skin or devour your mouth in starving hunger, to card your fingers through his dark hair and let him push you against the upfront desk, to have him whisper sweet nothings into your ear before he’d bite down on –

Your phone buzzed again in your hand, and you jerked, having forgotten Han’s previous text entirely. You checked the new message while you tried to calm down; Han had sent you an image of two beverages – your Coke and his Root Beer – which he held in his hands, the old bench and the older weeping willow grazing the picture in the background. He had attached a short ‘my treat’ to it. You put a cool hand to your burning cheek, took three deep breaths before reacting to his message with a heart and made your way to the vending machine with knees wobblier than you would have liked to admit.

Han really did try. You almost felt bad about having to break whatever bubble the two of you found yourself in – one, that much was clear, that felt far too fragile, daring to burst if you as much as grazed it with a finger. The feeling was still strange; you couldn’t remember a single time where awkwardness like the current one has ebbed itself so deeply into your friendship. And to think it was because of a single, stupid argument – it hurt you, made you question just how strong your bond really was. It made you question, too, if there was an ulterior motive behind it; in fact, you were almost entirely sure that it could never be only the disagreement which had torn the crack in between you. Han had been acting far too strange for there to not be a buried reason, and you almost didn’t want to tell him any of the news about your teacher, the process you had made; almost didn’t want to rub your success under his nose after all, even though you’ve been so excited to before, especially after his words from a week ago, his accusations and doubts. Worries, even.

It did sound like he had been worried about you last week. Worried, and jealous, and almost unreasonably emotional. You didn’t want to hurt him. A big part of you didn’t want to hurt him. You would if you told him all about what happened just moments ago, remembering the feeling of his discomfort, his clamminess, and his giddiness around you, and it burned like poison in your veins. You despised it. You despised the fact that a smaller part of you, far smaller though it was there, did want to convince him of your victory; did want to hurt him, after all. You despised that you couldn’t despise yourself for not wanting to solve the argument, to resign after the fight, to get over the peril you had suddenly found yourself in – out of fear, you thought. You couldn’t know the reason for his jealousy. You knew there had to be one, a reason, why the small bickering had turned into something way too big. And maybe – and it scared you immensely – you knew all about it already; maybe you wouldn’t be able to bare the confirmation, simply. Han’s reason for his strange behaviour over the past week would maybe be the last poke against the bubble which your friendship still kept concealed before it burst open to let the both of you fall onto the ground of reality.

You made your way over to the vending machine; whatever it was, the reason for the sudden cleft between you, and no matter how long it would take to sew it back together, you decided to keep your mouth shut about Mr. Bahng, after all. It would be like gasoline to the fire the two of you had set, only a small flame now, but waiting to be ignited. You hadn’t found any water yet to put it out fully; so you’d be a fool if you didn’t choose silence.

The afternoon sun was scorching onto your skin, making it hotter than it was already, and little beads of sweat collected in the back of your neck. You should have taken a hair tie with you – your hair against your nape and down your shoulders drove you near crazy in the heat. The distance between the music building and the vending machine wasn’t all too big, so you could catch a glimpse of Han the moment you turned the corner and were walking right towards his seated figure beneath the big tree. His eyes were busy with his phone, mindlessly scrolling, as it seemed. His teeth constantly picked at his piercing – it wasn’t new, though he had never grown out of the habit, and you wondered how much longer he could keep it up before his teeth took serious damage. One of his legs moved in rhythm to the music that you imagined to be blasting in the earphones you saw dangling from his phone to somewhere behind his ashy hair – he needed a retouch, you just noticed. His roots had grown out quite a lot. You wondered when he’d ask you to help dye it – he never trusted himself with his hair.

When you were close enough Han’s body jerked, and his eyes found your figure; whether he heard you or saw your shadow hovering above him you weren’t sure, but you greeted him all the same.

“Oh, hey. You’re later than I thought.”

You sat down opposite from him, discarding your bag next to you. The rough wood of the bench beneath you was hot under your figure, though you basked in the shadow the weeping willow gifted. You couldn’t help catching the tone in Han’s voice as you looked at him with a greeting smile – cautious, though feigning carelessness. For some reason, you couldn’t stand him this moment. Couldn’t he just be calm around you? The way he’s always been; your best friend?

“Yeah, someone kept me. Notes… and stuff.”

You took the Coke Han slid over to you as silence fawned over you both, and you opened the can momentarily, mostly to be doing something, partially because you were dying of thirst – you had finished your first drink earlier, in Mr. Bahng’s class, though it was impossible to stay constantly refreshed in the heat – maybe you should simply switch to water. The sizzling of the fuzzy drink spilled over as it opened with a loud hiss, and it was satisfaction to your ears, anticipation to your dry mouth. You looked at Han, didn’t say a word anymore. You put the tinned can to your mouth, sipped away the spill before making your first gulp; refreshing as you had expected it, though you weren’t truly satisfied – for some reason, you couldn’t stand yourself this moment. You couldn’t stand not being able to talk to your friend; couldn’t stand that you were unable, even, to thank him for the drink – you couldn’t stand not knowing the reason behind your anger for his recent behaviour, and your cowardness of speaking about it. But you only continued drinking, nonchalantly, as though you bore no ill thought altogether. As though you and Han had always behaved this way around the other; sitting in uncomfortable silence, grasping at topics of conversation just to end the nerve wreck.

Han hummed at your words, far too late, but he did. As though he had expected further explanation; you could tell he didn’t believe you, but you didn’t care. You wouldn’t tell him anything. You couldn’t tell him about Mr. Bahng if you wanted this awkwardness to dissipate. And you were too stubborn, too scared to try and dissolve the weirdness; so you let it be, altogether. And it was torture – Han was the only person who knew you inside out, who was aware of all the thoughts you bore. Silence was equal to a dagger to the heart when it was with him.

You clicked your tongue, took another big gulp of your Coke. You would win the game of pretending. You could fake it, get over the feeling of utter coldishness until everything between you was back to normal. It had to work, you thought – if you pretended for long enough, if you kept shut about Mr. Bahng and anything regarding him, the argument from a week ago and Han’s strange motive of worry – and potential jealousy – would drive into the back of your minds, would dissipate itself… right? And it’s not like it was all bad; the problem occurred simply when you were in lonesome, anywhere else but the studio with the others. Only then it seemed like you two barely knew each other, only then uneasiness occupied your body almost to paralysis, sheer because it was so very unknown with him. You wouldn’t let it go as far as to rot away your friendship; that would be stupid. One fight against years of friendship; things just didn’t end like that.

“So… did you finish the song?”

You leaned back against the backrest of the bench, legs crossed, relaxed; you could never go wrong talking about music, and you were relieved when you saw Han’s face light up at your question. Ever since Han had first told you about the new song he had planned to write for the band a week ago – the one he still claimed to be suited especially for you, the one he grew so shy about when he had first brought it up – he hadn’t stopped gushing over it. He had asked you to try singing melodies he experimented with, had asked your opinion on lyrics or the instrumental, had wanted your help in naming the song; Cold Metal is what you had settled on after you heard the finished text, and saying both of you were excited to practice the song with the band was an understatement. You’d argue it to be Han’s best work as of now, and you knew the others would love it.

You had been grateful for the song for the past week. It had worked as the only subject Han had talked to you about with no hesitation, no remorse; it was purified passion whenever he had proposed a name or decided to change up the chords or asked you to sing for him. You had been grateful that one thing had stayed the same, and bore hope that it always would – that with him, no matter the situation, music would stay unchanged, would always be the connector between your hearts, the invisible red string between you.

“I am done, actually, I was just finishing up last stuff before – we could show the others today, and start practicing it like, instantly. …if they like it, even.”

You snapped your eyes open – you had been sunbathing while you listened to him talk, had enjoyed the warmth on your skin, the faint sun on your face, hidden slightly behind the long, crying branches of the tree. Han had always been talented, and was never one to grow insecure about his work. Though he had been over this particular song, and you disliked it, immensely – it baffled you that he couldn’t agree with you on having written his best work as far as you were concerned, and you had made it your goal to convince him of it.

“They will like it – it’s your best song so far, I’m serious.”, you replied in a stern voice, making Han flush in his place. His eyes lost yours, and after a couple of seeming unsure moments, he grabbed his drink and took three big sips from it. When would it end? When would you understand why a simple fight – not even quite, a mere heated discussion, really – changed him so much, so drastically? When would he stop shying away from your gaze and be your best friend again, the one he’d always been?

You sighed, and Han gave you a hum after he placed his Root Beer back on the bench. It was a questioning hum almost, as though words hidden behind it, as though he was preparing to speak though wasn’t sure of what. You gave him time, sipped at your Coke. Han fiddled with his own drink, furrowed his brows; then he looked at you, suddenly, and hesitation was written all over his body. Yet he asked away.

“So… how was it with Mr. Bahng today? Did you talk to him?”

He brought it up. He asked himself – not confidently, and if you were honest the tone in his voice made you shiver. It wasn’t a genuine question, it was forced. He forced himself to be a good friend and ask, though it was obvious he didn’t want to hear the answer. Why didn’t he? And why did he, after all, yet force himself to ask? Because he wouldn’t hurt, you thought. Because he got over the whole thing, surely; he was still strange, though then again, you were still strange, too. None of you were known for your maturity; the awkwardness of the fight, the sudden heat over it a week ago simply hadn’t settled yet. You were people, and you bore emotions like any other, even if you were friends of years. Sometimes arguments simply took time to dissipate – yes, you were convinced. Han was over it. So you were, too. He couldn’t be hurt about news of your true happiness; he was your best friend. He was the closest person you had, he wouldn’t grow jealous anymore – for whatever reason he did in the first place. And maybe, you had misread him entirely. Maybe he was merely worried of the consequences; you couldn’t claim your little scheme of seducing your music teacher to be perfectly safe and without risk, and Han was simply too good of a friend to not be worried. His strangeness over the past week had been guilt, for having started a fight, for not having apologized after; similar to you, so you understood. It wasn’t jealousy, after all. He was worried. He would be excited, now, if you told him about the progress. He had to be excited. You needed him to be excited.

You had promised yourself not to talk about it, but if there was one thing you were worse at than keeping a secret from him, it was lying to Han. You couldn’t possibly; though you deemed him to be ready for your answer – otherwise he wouldn’t have brought it up. He wouldn’t have asked himself.

“He might…”, you started, though you needed to clear your throat before you could continue. You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes were unreadable, and it made you shiver despite the scorching sun on your skin. You cleared your throat a second time, forced yourself to a grin; play along, play pretend, act as natural as always. “You might not like the news, but you were wrong last week – Mr. Bahng agreed to give me private lessons from next week on.”

You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes sunk, his brows furrowed in the most subtle way though you couldn’t not have noticed at the way you were staring him down, and his beaten expression was far worse than the unreadable one before – it made your heart beat faster, it started scorching you from within, the sun cold now on your skin. Why did he look so… sad, so hopeless?

“So I made progress. He was eyeing me, too – I guarantee you he wanted to fuck me back there… I bet he will next week.”

You didn’t know why you said that. It wasn’t intended to hurt him, or maybe it was, and Han choked on the drink he had just placed on his lips – his coughs were daggers to your heart, and every further one made you regret your words. What the hell was wrong with you? You hadn’t wanted to tell him altogether, and now you told him too much for his own good – did you want to hurt him, after all? You thought back on the excitement that had found a home within you when Mr. Bahng had mentioned the rough patches with his wife, how utterly happy you were. Cold and heartless, sadistic. This moment, you couldn’t find any more fitting words for yourself.

You looked at him as he calmed down from the swallowing up. He cleared his throat a couple of times, getting rid of the remaining sting his drink had caused before he looked at you. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes big, glassy; dark. It was his turn to speak, his turn to show enthusiasm, to be happy for you – you knew you were lying to yourself, were holding onto the last straw of meagre hope for the last couple of seconds it was possible before Han would cut it in half altogether. Though he looked clueless. His words were as though stuck in his throat – he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish without water, and no sound came out. The seconds of silence passed in torture; why wasn’t he excited for you? Why did you continue lying to yourself?

“I would have expected that you let go of the whole thing.”

Finally, after he had been quiet for far too long, Han spoke, and your heart sank in the process. It wasn’t his words that hurt you; it was the tone he used, the melody of his voice as he converted his eyes to his fiddling hands again, refusing to look at you, forbidding you to look through him. He was hiding from you. Why was he hiding from you? He had been building a wall the past week, you just realized; a wall intended just for you, a wall around his heart which was just high enough to keep you out of it. The realization was a sip of the strongest venom.

If someone asked you, you weren’t all too sure if you could have described what you’d heard in his timbre, what exactly sent the shiver down your spine in the sound of his voice. Was it the regret you heard, or the despair? It might have been the hopelessness – it could have been the sound of his heart breaking in half.

You wouldn’t provoke him any further. You’d stay silent about Mr. Bahng, until the moment the teacher left, just like you had promised it to yourself – whether you’d make any progress or not. You’d apologize to Han, you’d concentrate on the band, you’d go back to a week ago, before this strange awkwardness had created a gashing crevice between you; you would fix it.

“Why should I let go of the whole thing? Can’t I have some fun without you judging me for it?”

Stupid. How could you be so thoughtless, so immature? You despised yourself; you disgusted yourself. And then Han looked at you, and you could tell he was hurt – and you hated yourself even more.

“I’m not judging you. But you can have fun like, literally anywhere else… I just still don’t think fucking your teacher is the best idea you’ve had.”

He was right, and you hated that you knew that he was. You couldn’t be angry at him, you couldn’t be mad; you weren’t in the position to. The sooner you got over your pride the sooner you could be back to normal. You looked at him; you would simply apologize. You would forget Mr. Bahng, would tell him you couldn’t take private lessons after all, that your schedule was too busy and your band too important; you would fix it.

“Why the fuck are you so sensitive? It’s not like you’re in love with me, so get over it.”

Your words took form in the dampness outside before you realized, settled uncomfortably between your bodies, and the only thing you could do was look at each other. You, fearfully expectant; him, far too nervous for your own liking. Han’s cheeks were suddenly three shades darker, his blinking rapid, his eyes searching for something to focus on; something other than your scrutinizing gaze. His teeth bit into his silver piercing – the sound was uncomfortable, and you almost told him to stop; yet you didn’t tell him anything. You stayed silent, because though you had never despised yourself more than this very moment, when those words had left your mouth, you were far more cautious of his reaction. He wasn’t in love with you, so there was no reason for his sudden nervousness, his clamminess. Why wasn’t he laughing – why wasn’t he denying it? You wished he would deny it; you needed him to deny it.

Your brows furrowed with every passing second. He wasn’t denying it; he wasn’t doing anything, quite frankly. He wasn’t even looking at you, almost as though you hadn’t spoken to him at all. He was back to fiddle with his can of Root Beer, half empty already yet daring to spill with his movements. He placed it on his lips rapidly, the sun throwing golden rays and darker shadows against his face as he threw his head back and took a gulp, only to do something. He continued nibbling on his piercing; the clinking sound was still uncomfortable, cut through the excruciating silence like nails on a wall. The awkwardness was tangible, and it was impossible to bare; you hated it.

“Ji… what the fuck. Get over yourself. It was a joke – you’re not in love with me.”

You spoke, but your voice was trembling. He looked at you; wrong. He forced himself to look at you. There was fear in his eyes, one he tried to overplay with a sudden nervous chuckle. He cleared his throat, grabbed his Root Beer – a little too hard, deforming the tinned can in the process – to finish the drink, throwing back his head again as he let the last droplets run down his throat, and you watched the sun dance on his face again. You saw beats of sweat glistening in the light – you hoped it was due to the heat. You held your breath as you kept looking at him, continued to hold it while he stood, while he threw his rucksack over his shoulder. He was clumsy with it, tripping over his feet somewhat, though he didn’t let it seem as though it was bothering him.

“Hah, of course I’m not, just… I’m just worried about you… whatever. Let’s just go to practice.” You looked at him; you looked right past his feigned carelessness. He was giddy, too smiley all of a sudden. Was he believing his own words? It almost seemed as though his goal wasn’t convincing you, but himself. He looked at you; he tried his best to keep his composure. “The others are probably waiting already.” His voice was thin, though this too, he didn’t seem to let get to him. He was back to pretending, to playing a game that was so obviously gnawing at him; you weren’t all too sure anymore if you wanted to play along, or if you wanted to lay the cards on the table, open and honest.

Though he didn’t give you a chance. Han started to make his way to the studio, not waiting for your answer; not that you had one in mind. Was it possible? Was love the reason he behaved so strangely when it came to Mr. Bahng? The thought alone scared you, and you took hold of your bag quickly before following him; you didn’t want to think about it ever again. It wasn’t possible; it couldn’t be. Han was smarter than that, and your bond far too ancient. There hadn’t been a day in the past decade that you could point to where either you or he had felt more strongly about each other than regular friends did. There had to be a different reason for his strangeness – yet you weren’t sure why it still scared you to ask, to get behind said reason. However; love wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. You wouldn’t let it be.

When you and Han arrived at the studio – you always five steps behind, not feeling brave enough to walk up to him on one level – Lino and Jeongin just grinded their cigarettes with the heavy soles of their boots, the stoned pavement crunching beneath them; Changbin’s bass was audible in the back already, the sound of his tuning occupying your senses and distracting you from your deafening thoughts, if only for a moment. Jeongin disappeared inside, Lino stayed to pet a stray cat which had been snaking around his legs; when he went into the studio eventually it followed him, and he let it. Han went in before you – he tried to ignore your stare he very much felt on his skin, tried to play it cool. What was wrong with him? He had known beforehand that you wouldn’t have let go of the whole fucking-your-teacher thing; yet he had hoped, nevertheless. He had very much noticed the way you had avoided to talk to him about Mr. Bahng, though he had been prepared for your gushing after music class had ended; why had he still felt as though you had shot him right through his heart, had pulled the last cables that had kept him alive?

You closed the door behind you when you entered the studio last, discarded your bag onto the sofa with a dangle, mindlessly. The room was filled with people, and it was filling with vibrations and tunes, faint melodies; it was Han’s favourite part of the day. Settling in, getting ready; he enjoyed nothing more than preparing to practice new songs. The sound of your humming, the sound of reserved warm-up notes, the sound of chattering getting quieter, because music was getting louder. Han put down his rucksack next to your bag, mindlessly too, listened to the static sounds of everyone plugging in their instruments, the purring of the cat that had followed Lino; felines weren’t forbidden in the studio. Lino had persisted on it when you had first started practicing together.

Jeongin and Changbin were chatting while they were getting ready, not loud, but obnoxious, almost. It seemed like they were continuing a conversation they had started when Han and you had been at the vending machine, but the point of exchange wasn’t hard to guess.

“Wait, I thought her name was like… what was it – ah! Nabi, no?”

Jeongin shook his head at Changbin’s words, putting the aux cable into its’ designated spot on the backside of the piano, and turning it on after. It gave a pleasant sound of feedback, and quiet, experimental chords filled the studio after.

“No, Nabi was the girl from the club; I broke it off with her like, ages ago. I met the other girl in the store; she just came up to me and I thought she needed help, but she asked for my number.”

Jeongin had a history of taking his dating life rather easily; too easily, some might say, but he wasn’t one to care much. Whenever he gave his number to women – or men, for that matter – he never intended to spend too much time on that person; and he always made it fashion to clarify it beforehand, so there hadn’t been many instances where people left with a broken heart. Funny enough, and all of you teased him about it far too much for his liking, the small grocery store right outside his and Changbin’s place he kept a part-time job in was the place most people came up to him – it surely couldn’t be the unflattering uniform he had to wear, so all of you wondered what it was about that particular store that brought in so many of his admirers.

Another thing you teased about was how very graphic he was when he told Changbin about a new person he met. How very… detailed. Not to brag, not even to tickle a reaction out of any of you; sex and intimacy, as you’ve learned, were simply subjects he wasn’t shy to talk about, not in the slightest. It came to him like talking of the weather – much to your and everyone else’s dismay. You weren’t often in the mood to get intricate detail on how exactly a girl had sucked his dick right before he came in to practice.

“Bro, she was insane. I’m so glad you slept at Jae's yesterday; she was so loud, I though she…”

Han tuned out the rest of the conversation, momentarily. He didn’t want to know anything about the girl Jeongin had banged the night before, nor wanted he to hear more about Changbin’s girlfriend he spent the night at. Was he jealous of them? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that their talk of intimacy and relationships and one-night stands reminded him of his own loneliness; and that reminded him of you; he wasn’t certain why, but it did. And that, again, reminded him of your – in his humble opinion, unhealthy – obsession with Mr. Bahng, and his own unhealthy weirdness about it. Or was it healthy? Was it reasonable? He wasn’t at all sure anymore. What he was sure of was that he hated being so weird about it. He wanted to be happy for you… didn’t he? He believed himself that he wanted to be, convinced himself of it. Besides the worry of the consequences you might get yourself into there wasn’t a single factor why Han should be so very against the entire affair – and since he had already expressed his worry, there was nothing more he could do, really. He should start being excited for you, if he thought about. It wasn’t his business to be jealous, now, was it? He didn’t have the right to be.

He looked over at you, watching you watch Jeongin and Changbin, listening to their conversation and pretending to gag occasionally whenever something rather repugnant left their mouths. When your eyes swayed his direction, he converted him to his guitar, continuing to tune it. He feared that if you looked into his eyes for only a second, you would read him, inside and out. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want it, because he didn’t understand the words written on his heart himself, in the first place. You couldn’t be the one to read them first; he needed to untangle their conundrum before he let anyone else near it; it was exhausting, excruciatingly frustrating.

Lino was sitting behind his plexiglass, silently, not adding anything to the conversation besides the occasional hum; though all of you doubted it was regarded to Jeongin’s new girl-toy, but rather towards the black cat that has found a home on his lap by now and was purring in full contentment. None of you really knew anything about his love life; he didn’t always sleep over at the shared apartment you and Han owned with him, though he had never brought anyone over, not in the three years you’d known him. You didn’t even know if he preferred nights with strangers; for all any of you knew, he could be having a serious relationship that none of you knew about. You didn’t know, either, that the man had been eyeing you the moment you and Han had come back from the vending machine. Lino was quiet, but he was attentive; he had noticed that you and Han hadn’t been talking before entering the studio, that you still weren’t. That Han’s eyes only found themselves on you when you weren’t looking at him; otherwise, they would flee somewhere else, suddenly busy with his guitar, or overly interested in his music stand and the apparently wrong height of it. Interesting.

“Quit the nasty talk – I have a new song I wanted to show you.”

Han’s voice cut through the studio almost uncomfortably; his voice was sterner than he had expected it to be, killing the fun in the room in an instant. All of you had a silent agreement that practice would be always taken seriously, though that has never meant that enjoyment wasn’t allowed. All of you had always been able to joke around plenty before locking in to rehearse with full concentration; so the strictness in Han’s voice was out of place, almost, and everyone else caught onto it; Jeongin and Changbin looked at each other questioningly, you cleared your throat and converted your eyes to Han – of course he wasn’t looking, but you pretended it to leave you cold.

“Sorry, just – let’s start with practice, okay? I have a lot planned, kinda.” Voice thinner now by a lot, and you looked at each other; Changbin and Jeongin on the verge of giggles while Han returned to his backpack to get the song sheets he had printed for everyone.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry – we forgot sex is like, a sensitive topic for you… since you’re not having it, you know.” Changbin’s chuckling voice in the studio, and you almost punched him.

“Yeah, right. Our condolences, for real.”, Jeongin jumped in, just the comedic duo you knew them to be.

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed at the two; but you watched Han’s reaction closely, noticed how he halted in his movements at the sound of his friends’ bickering, how his face sunk into further despair. How his eyes flickered over yours for barely a second before he continued handing out the sheets. How he flinched barely noticeably when his hand brushed your own while he gave you your paper.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just start.”

There was a storm brewing within him. A storm when he locked eyes with you, a storm when he touched you; a storm when the two friends made a comment that was all but unusual for them, though for some reason, he was sensitive to it today. If he was honest, Han would have walked right out of the studio; he couldn’t bare the eyes on him, the attention, he couldn’t stand the stuffiness suddenly, he hated Jeongin’s giggles, Changbin’s snickering, Lino’s silence; your presence. He didn’t normally mind any of this – but ever since he had talked with you under the weeping willow his mind has been running marathon after marathon, and he struggled concentrating on anything else. He could barely speak when he started to explain the plans for his new song, the division, the harmonies, details about it. He was stuttering at every other word, losing his thought entirely when he as much as passed you with his eyes; why was he so very incapable of holding his emotions in control? Emotions, feelings he wasn’t even certain of, to make matters worse.

The rest of you eyed him, but you didn’t say a word. You could see that Changbin and Jeongin almost did; they looked at each other with a mischievous flicker in their eyes, with an all-saying grin plastered onto their faces – they weren’t evil, and they were well able to read the room, though both of them were unaware of the rough patch the both of you were going through. Rough patch; what a strange thing. You wouldn’t have ever imagined associating Han with a rough patch. You looked at the two friends again, and your thoughts swept back to them; they would tease the poor boy to death any second if you didn’t save him from his misery.

“Ji…”, you called out, interrupting Han in his all but confident semi-presentation. At the sound of your voice he flinched; though he finally, for the first time since you’d both entered the studio, looked at you, properly. His eyes were deep, dark; you felt as though looking right past him, right into his soul he’d been trying to hide from you for the past week.

“Let’s just play it. I’ll sing.”

Gratefulness in his eyes, and he breathed deeply before he nodded at you. You got ready, snaking your hands around your guitar after prepping your microphone, and you waited for Han to get his own instrument ready. You looked back at him; you shivered at the glint in his eyes. He gave you another nod, and you counted in softly, before the studio filled with the sound of your guitars.

Though, and he was so very embarrassed by it, so deeply ashamed, his fingers suddenly forgot how to play, lost its’ place on his guitar when you started singing. The song was made for your voice, truly; you had never sounded prettier. And Han had never played worse. He could see you looking back at him, though he pretended to not notice it, pretended that his bad playing was somehow part of the song. Pretended to keep his cool; though the sight in his peripheral vision of Changbin’s and Jeongin’s confusion and your eyes on him drove him into a spiral, and the more he tried to gloss over his mistakes, the more he seemed not to bare the power to.

The music stopped, your voice dying out after you heard the insecure sound of Han’s guitar disappearing. Ear-scratching feedback echoed through the room, before that, too, dyed into nothingness, and painful silence filled the room. All of you looked at the guitarist, while he eyed the red burgundy carpet beneath him in all firmness. He was flushed, his cheeks as red as the carpet.

“Uh, sorry. Let’s start again.”

His voice was but a whisper, and all five of you could sense that tension, and Han was trembling under it. He didn’t dare lock gazes with anyone in the studio; it was a death sentence, quite simply. He would cease to exist, merely vanish if he had to see the look in any of his band mates’ eyes. Confusion, amusement, maybe; suspicion or understanding, which would be the worst of them all.

Han heard Changbin huff out in what supposedly should have sounded like amusement, though it didn’t quite; Han jerked internally at it, and the storm that had started brewing prior was now coming down on him in thunder and lighting. They knew… was it possible for them to know something he wasn’t even sure of himself? How could they; it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t confident, even, in his own feelings; how could any of the others know anything about them?

“Damn… didn’t know you were this sensitive to the whole sex thing.” Changbin was tone deaf, and you wished you could punch him. Han was almost relieved; Changbin, at least, did not know anything about the storm within him. Because sex – or the lack thereof – surely wasn’t the reason for it. Yet he almost feared his next words. He suddenly felt humiliated; he wasn’t one to overthink a joke, but today, he couldn’t bare it. “You know…”, the bassist started again after moments of silence as Han nothing but stared holes into the ground. He was about to lose it. He was about to burst into tears, or implode – worst of all, for the first time in many years, he felt like he wasn’t able to search for comfort in you. “I told you already, we can like, set you up with someone if want, no need to be so weird about the whole – “

Changbin didn’t get to finish his sentence. The harsh feedback of Han’s guitar sounded through the room, stinging in your ears as he threw the fabric band over his neck and placed the guitar on his stand, mindlessly, not as much as plugging it off. He was clumsy, tripped over the thick, dusty carpet while scurrying to grab his rucksack, before he disappeared out of the studio so quickly barely any of you noticed, simply leaving the rest of you behind with no explanation.

You looked at the door he had let open for several moments after he left. You had been excited to practice the new song, though he hadn’t given the chance to. You had been ready to play pretend for a little while longer, had prepared to never speak of Mr. Bahng again, not after his reaction under the weeping willow; yet Han seemed to be the first to have grown sick of it. He hadn’t been good at his own game the previous week, and it must have gotten to him now – what you feared, now, was the truth. You still weren’t quite sure what that was, in the first place. But you knew it was enough to tear Han up, to toy with your friendship, to make him behave like an entirely different person, almost. And it made you despise yourself. It made you a different person, too; a worse one, and you hadn’t been a saint to begin with. Would he talk in all honesty to you, now? Would he sleep over today and seek out a conversation with you, like two mature friends would? You hoped he would; and simultaneously, you feared it. The truth about his antics and behaviour, you thought, had doomed on you a week ago already; you simply didn’t want to confess it to yourself, you thought. So, you had avoided it, had continued hurting him instead of hurting yourself.

You had decided to shoot Han a text before you and the others wrapped up the rehearsal – not that you had played anything in the first place, it wasn’t of much use if a member was missing. You weren’t talking, not about Han, nor otherwise. You were deep in thought, zoning out Changbin’s and Jeongin’s conversation, not noticing Lino’s eyes on you. You kept checking your phone; your own words – hey, everything good? let’s talk when i’m home? – staring back at you mockingly, without a reply beneath it. You would talk to him. You would listen to the truth, whatever he was hiding whenever he avoided your eyes – but you feared it, with every fibre of your body.

☆.☆.☆

Your steps the next day were not as light as you had hoped them to be. You were on the way to class, to Mr. Bahng’s – you ought to be excited, you ought to be flying more than walking, yet your feet weighted heavily on the ground beneath you, and you couldn’t help but sink into your own body. The faint feeling of frenzy when you remembered Mr. Bahng’s class after waking this morning was not enough to conceal the misery over the text Han had yet not answered, or the fact he had been asleep – or, had pretended to be – when you’d reached home. You had left the prior day linger on you without redemption, and now it was pressing down on you with all its’ strength; it had gnawed into your brain, words you said and words you didn’t say, Han’s frustration, Changbin’s teasing, Lino’s silence, your silence, Han’s final outburst, his silence. It was all that occupied your mind, your thoughts, your sleepless night. That, and Mr. Bahng. And not in a negative way, either; you had been excited ever since you had set the date for private lessons. Were you that bad of a friend? Or had Mr. Bahng enamoured you so much that you clearly struggled to think straight? It baffled you how you could possibly stay eager, giddy, even – though admittedly, surely not as much as you would have been if the events of the prior day had never occurred – about something your best friend was so adamantly against, that was so very obviously the reason for the current coldness settling between you?

Maybe it was your stubbornness. It has always been one of your greater weaknesses, one of many reasons of miscommunication with your parents, or friends, or Han. Your stubbornness, and your defiance, a mixture of characteristics prone to immaturities. What everyone else hated you loved out of spite, what everyone else advised you against you were more excited over only for the sake of it; it was but a curse, brewing within you and out of your control. As though the crush on Mr. Bahng increased in volume with every objecting word Han spoke, as though your body was physically powerless to rationalize, slave to be left doing the very opposite of the righteous. Was it to piss people off, to mess with them? Or laid the problem deeper, someplace locked within you? A fear, maybe, of rejection and disappointment so you induced it yourself before others could. Fear of judgement, so you acted purposefully irrational to feign carelessness; were you maybe deeper damaged than you cared to admit? Or did you know Han’s secret, after all, and so were adamant to do everything in your power to stop him from ever admitting it?

The more you thought about it the more your head felt as though bursting. It was hurting, and the scorching sun in your eyes wasn’t much help to get rid of the headache, despite the dark sunglasses you were wearing. You couldn’t wait for summer to pass, for it to make room for colder temperatures and a cozier atmosphere. Fall had always been your favourite season, though, as you made your way over the sizzling, black asphalt, it seemed so very far away still. You sighed at the thought of it, hummed, then, when you finally entered the main hall of the music department. An artificial chill welcomed you, granted by stone and concrete, engulfing you in a familiar scent and a silence so sacred you almost grew embarrassed of your own footwear echoing through the building. You took off your shades, placed them on the top of your head to imitate a hair band, creating a wanted mess of your bangs, some falling in frames around your face, some tucked behind by your sunglasses. You passed classrooms, few people who greeted you politely, professors who you were familiar with from previous semesters; before you stood before Mr. Bahng’s classrooms. Professor Hwang’s classroom, to be precise – though you haven’t given latter man a thought in the past weeks altogether. Now that you remembered him again, you hoped he was fine, and on his way to well-being; then again you hoped he’d stay absent for a little while longer, for Mr. Bahng would vanish if he didn’t. Cruel, sick, and you couldn’t decide between being disgusted or confused with yourself. You chose both, before you knocked on the heavy wood of the entrance door, and entered Mr. Bahng’s classroom without waiting for an answer.

The plan had initially been a different one. You were supposed to meet next week, right after a shortened music class. Just before yesterday’s rehearsal you had wondered how you could possibly wait a whole week for private classes with the teacher you so badly wanted to fuck, had wanted to for the past five years; until said teacher had shot you an E-Mail that night, when you had reached home after the unsuccessful practice, proposing to meet the next day if you could make time, due to a busy schedule the entirety of the next two weeks. You had tried to dismiss the fact that the Mail had rolled in a little past midnight, had tried to dismiss the causality of its’ tone. Yet you had grown giddy, and had answered the very moment; you hadn’t cared to play hard to get. Your time with Mr. Bahng was limited, and you would use every second that was granted to you. You had texted that you could squeeze in an hour between your Uni classes and afternoon rehearsals, and Mr. Bahng had answered – momentarily – that he looked forward to tomorrow. He had attached a smiley face at the end of the sentence, and you had been a lost cause.

Now you stood before him, a day later, an hour from rehearsal, an hour away from seeing Han again, from speaking to him, from hopefully finding back normalcy. You stood before Mr. Bahng, clammy hand fisted around the strap of your dark handbag, the other forced to casually hang by the side of your body. Your bejewelled wrist clanked against the chains you had added onto your dark jeans, matching the silver around your neck. Your top – short, little, exposing far too much skin though it didn’t necessarily raise a question in the hot weather – was dark and simple, as though you hadn’t much thought about your outfit altogether, and had thrown together the first thing in your closet. As though you weren’t trying too hard. No one needed to know you had spent over an hour getting ready in the morning, for this moment alone.

“Hi, Yn.”

Every coherent thought you had formed up until this very moment, up until his greeting had been wiped with as little as two words, with the singsong of his voice. You feared to flush, to turn a dark shade of red at the sight of your teacher, feared to sweat profusely – lose, white dress-shirt, black pants. A watch adorning his right wrist, silver, matching the dainty necklace dangling on his chest. His chest, that he wore exposed, only enough, with two buttons of his dress-shirt kept open; what was it about him that made you revert to a hormonal teenage girl, needy for a man’s attention, giddy when he granted it? What was it about Mr. Bahng that made you lose all sense of moral, everything you stood for – what was it about him that made you lose yourself, entirely?

“Hi, Mr. Bahng.”

Your voice was stronger, more secure than you had expected – you feigned confidence while your body ran hot and cold all at once, while your knees dared to give out if you as much as moved an inch. But Mr. Bahng bought it, didn’t sense your nervosity; he gave you a smile, kind, welcoming, while he waited patiently for you to set down your things and take a seat by a table right in front of his own. You felt his eyes on you with every move you made, while you bend down to drop off your bag under the table, while you sat down and ran a hand through your hair. You felt his eyes on you even when you pretended to fix your attire, picking at your top and jeans – was it normal to look that much? Was he staring? You were surely reading too much into it.

And then you saw his eyes on you, when you finally, after having let him wait for a while, reciprocated his gaze; maybe it was normal to look that much, but you could swear to have seen Mr. Bahng’s cheeks redden only a taint when you locked his gaze with your own, from beneath your lashes, dark make-up sure to accentuate your piercing eyes. You weren’t seductive, you’d argue, not yet – though you were teasing. On the brink of seduction, though not quite there yet; letting him quiver, making him wait and wonder if he was the one reading too much into it. Into you.

The teacher cleared his throat, gave you another kind smile. “Alright, should we start?” A nod from you, and Mr. Bahng stepped from behind his desk to lean on it before you. You looked up at him, barely two meters away from him, face levelled with his core, his crotch, and a quiver made its’ presence in the pit of your stomach. Your thighs squeezed a little, and you wondered anew what it was exactly about him that made you lose all control over yourself.

“Tell me about your singing first. When did you start, where did you learn and so on.”, his voice was serious, just the teacher. Kind, but disciplined. “Oh, and… just call me Chris. We’re both adults, and I’m not your official teacher anymore. No need for formalities.” A smile, a grin almost, if you read too much into it, and it was then your entire world seemed to start spinning.

Tell me about your singing first. When did you start. – you could not, for the life of you, remember. Anything. About your singing, about the band, about Han. All memories wiped away in Mr. Bahng’s – in Chris’s – presence. In how casually he treated you. In how easy, you suddenly realized, it would be to wrap him around your finger. He wasn’t the unattainable man from five years ago anymore. He was here and present, having suggested dropping formalities, showing interest in you, spending time with you solely by his own wish, uncoerced. He was far realer now – and the realization hit you like a truck.

It was about twenty minutes later when you and him stood before a music stand, warm-up sheets presented before you. Talking with Chris had been easy, fun. He was a good teacher, a good listener. A good explainer. A good talker. A terrible flirt, though. You couldn’t possibly be any bolder, you thought. The fleeting touches all upon him – never inappropriate, but always surprising, once seemingly coincidentally passing his arm, or purposefully swatting his shoulder in light manner at a stupid joke he told, or standing so near to him it wasn’t all that necessary, but also not enough for him to back away – seemed to make him nervous, but you weren’t sure if he picked up the signs. He was flushing, ears red and glowing, the coughs stuck in his throat never seeming to end. It was adoring, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t yet what you wanted, wasn’t yet close to meeting your goal – though that was given. A married man wouldn’t jump at the first opportunity presented to him, if he bore even the faintest presence of a moral compass. It would take you far longer than a simple one-hour lesson to get the teacher exactly where you wanted him.

“Hm… I’m not feeling it… is this right?”

Chris stood in front of you, inches away, watching your hand hovering on your throat. He had told you to sing and to feel what exactly your vocal cords were doing – you weren’t even much sure what you should be feeling, what your vocal cords really should be doing while you sang the practice melodies on the sheet in front of you. Not that you weren’t listening to your teacher – techniques, as sorry as you felt for Chris, were of secondary importance to you today, though. You bashed your eyes at him, fluttering lashes, brows furrowed as though genuinely confused, fingers caressing your neck – you hoped you looked somewhat seductive instead of making a fool of yourself.

What you didn’t know, what you were blissfully unaware of – Chris was running laps in his mind, was sweating profusely. His dress pants, normally perfectly fitted to his body, had started to feel far too tight over the span of the last forty-five minutes. The lesson was coming to an end – and the teacher was almost thankful for it. You were a good student, adapting anything he explained quite quickly; though you always asked for a second explanation, one that, not seldom, required physicality. A hand on your jaw, or your shoulders to put you in a proper posture, or on your chest, to check your breathing. Touches and brushes of skin against skin not necessarily unusual for vocal lessons – but with you they felt too intimate, too close. But maybe Chris was reading far too much into it. You had been his student once; if not for long, and half a decade ago, and though he only barely remembered you – you had been his student. Should he feel disgust towards himself, at the feeling of his tightening pants rubbing against his core, with every further touch you granted upon his body? He couldn’t really be blamed though, he thought – you had grown into a woman, and he couldn’t as much as recall you as a teenager. He had barely recognized you, when he had spotted you in the universities’ classroom a week ago – he had spotted you and his body had gone up in flames, his limbs running hot at the sight of you; and only then he had noticed you had looked familiar. Only then he had been able to attach your face to the name he first read five years ago. And only then, only after initial attraction, after followed revelation, only after both embarrassment and bashfulness, but also a wave of desire had filled his every fibre he had remembered his wife, his kids; he had felt a horrible husband, are far more horrible father.

And now it wasn’t any different. The thought of his wife, his family, flashed through his mind only shortly, and only after having worried about every other possible thing – about whether it was wrong or not to feel the attraction he felt towards you, about whether the half-boner in his pants was at all appropriate or not, about whether his nervousness was your doing, even, your goal, or if it was his very own hunger for intimacy, his thirst for physicality which blinded him, lead him wrongly. If your flirting wasn’t flirting at all, only your persona, your nature. If he was the problem. Only then he thought about his wife, when Chris’s hand lay on your throat, to check for proper technique, on your warm, sweat-laced throat, bobbing with each gulp you swallowed, with each word your spoke, your piercing eyes through his own, your slow blinking, your slower licking of your lips, your hand then on his own, why he couldn’t quite make out, that he thought about his marriage. When his face was inches from your own, when you had stopped singing already, when your voice, strong and sure and rich, wasn’t echoing in his mind anymore, when it needed only a wrong move for your lips to meet, with his fingers still wrapped around your throat – that’s when he thought about his family. Only when it was almost too late. He thought about his wife, not having seen her in over a week, to get space, to clear both your minds’, and he thought he couldn’t really be blamed for his attraction to you – he hadn’t seen his wife in over a week. You were attractive, you were flirting, profusely so; and he suddenly felt a horrible husband again.

So, he didn’t act on it. He thought about his wife, Chris felt your breath on his skin, on his face, he remembered how he hadn’t been this close to his own wife in ages, how he hadn’t seen her in over a week; and he took a step back. His hand fell to his side, left your throat cold and empty – left you cold and empty. Left you with your hopes up, left you falling against concrete made of bitter rejection. He had been so close to you, so near – you had felt his breath against you, his tightening grip around your throat; and with the blink of an eye, it had been gone. A memory, a thought flashing past him and there was distance between you again; which was given. He was a married man, one carrying a moral compass – it would need you longer than this. More effort than this.

Chris cleared his throat – you lost count how often he had done this throughout the hour of your lesson. The room was hot, the sun scorching the old, dark wood. You could see dust particles dancing in the rays of light as Chris stepped behind his desk again, heaving his bag on top of it. you weren’t sure if you imagined the bulge in his pants, or if it was really there, but either way you grinned at it, internally. It needed several moments before Chris granted you a look, after checking the time on his wrist-watch – the hour was over, though you had hoped he wouldn’t have noticed.

“So… that was good for the beginning. You’re a good singer…”, he packed his bag, scattered stuff all around the desk which he stuffed hurriedly, though feigning calmness. You did the same, though much calmer than him, no need to fake it – you had gotten him nervous, you had gotten his exposed chest to be flush, even now, minutes after he had created physical space between your bodies. “We just need to work on details, stylistic choices, techniques. It’s obvious you’re self-taught, we’re gonna work on that-“, his bag was packed, and you stood with your own thrown over your shoulder, in front of him, calm as can be, satisfied, smirking. He looked at you, questioningly, “…same time next week?”

When you had stepped outside the classroom, bidding Chris goodbye and watching him set off to the exit, granting you one look back, bashful when he’d noticed your staring and shy over his own antics, you checked your phone – Han had answered your text from last night. Finally. An hour ago, when your classes with Chris had begun, asking if you’d be up to grab a drink. He couldn’t know of your classes with Chris – he had been asleep, or, at least in his darkened bedroom – when you had come home, and he had been out the door before you’d been awake that morning; you had never gotten the chance to tell him, though you wouldn’t have done so anyways, under different circumstances. You would have kept quiet about Chris, because Han’s sensitivity towards the matter still got to your head; though now, looking at his text, at the followed question mark fifteen minutes after the first message, you didn’t want to lie to him. You didn’t want to lie, and you didn’t want to hurt him, or upset him, or do whatever he thought you were doing any time Chris was the object of your conversation; you didn’t want any of it, didn’t want him strange and quiet and unknown to you, almost. Didn’t want him different. So you went with a half-truth as you made your way to the studio, shooting back a text that you were busy with lessons – it wouldn’t work on him. Han knew your schedule, and you knew his. The half-lie was only uttered to save time, to not leave him waiting on an answer any longer, to not shoot yourself into a position deserving of his condemnation once again, in a matter of seconds. The distance between you was enough as it was; the lack of shared dinner last night was nagging on you, the absence of a sweet Coke on your tastebuds suddenly strange. It wasn’t like you, the silence, the distance. And not even the high from ten minutes ago was vibrant enough to lull out the worry.

☆.☆.☆

Han sat on the shabby, sheeling sofa in the stuffy studio, staring at his phone, staring at your message. He wasn’t sure if you thought him dumb, or if your respect for him was finally reduced to null.

16:44 sorry, was busy with lessons. let’s grab a drink after practice ^^

Han wasn’t stupid. He was aware your schedule was supposed to be free now – he was aware your lessons had been probably private, and probably in presence of Mr. Bahng. He hated the guy. He hated you for liking him, for having this teenage crush on him that didn’t seem to leave you alone. And he wasn’t sure why. Han wasn’t sure about the reason his body seemed to set aflame whenever Mr. Bahng’s name occupied your mouth, the sound of it so repulsive it shivered within the boy, despite the flames set inside him. He wasn’t sure just why now, in the silence of the room, in its’ loneliness, only instruments and the faint, static sound of electrics granting him company, he couldn’t be at ease with the thought of you spending time alone with a teacher he despised – for seemingly no good reason. Why now, as he watched dust particles dance in the heat of the room, illuminated by the sun only for seconds before they grew invisible to human eye, only shortly shining in golden rays before they vanished, why his heart bled, had started bleeding when you had first told him of Mr. Bahng. Why since then, it hadn’t stopped bleeding. Why since then, whenever he looked at you, whenever his eyes met yours, or only your face, your figure, he saw someone else now; still you, but changed. Not the girl he grew up with, not the girl he taught the guitar, the girl he had spent endless nights laughing with, about nothing, careful to not wake parents. Suddenly, he wasn’t seeing that girl anymore, not a girl – he was seeing a woman. A woman who desired a man he didn’t like; was it brotherly protection? Was that the reason his heart was beating faster whenever you entered the room, any room, whenever you laid your eyes on him, soft, known, familiar? He never felt like a brother to you, though; closer than a best friend, though never a brother, not quite. Something in between, something linguists haven’t found a name for, yet. Something linguists couldn’t name, maybe, because it only existed between the two of you. Or something only he believed existed, and you were entirely unaware about.

Maybe his heart bled not because you desired a man altogether, but because you desired him. Mr. Bahng, who he simply couldn’t stand. Must there be a reason for his hatred, he thought? No one can like everyone – his ill feelings towards the teacher could be entirely unsolicited, random at their core. It wouldn’t make it more right, but it was possible. Han wasn’t obligated to like him, nor did he need a reason – though it only felt like an excuse, nowhere near the answer he was looking for.

The answer he was looking for – what, exactly, was he looking for? He stood from the sofa, turning off his phone and throwing it onto the cushions where it bounced two, three times before coming to a halt, denting into the old, brown leather. The others would arrive soon – he made his way over to his guitar, busying himself with tuning it, warming up. He would use the time he had working, instead of thinking – he had enough of the insides of his head, the very depths of his brain. Seemingly, it was useless to think, altogether; it’s not like he was aware of the purpose behind all the thinking, anyways. He knew only three things, and none of them were of much help: he hated the teacher you so much adored; he didn’t know where this hatred came from, didn’t know why his heart yearned, suddenly, for something he couldn’t name; and that he saw you in a different light, though you had never changed. He saw you as someone who desired, who loved. Who wasn’t only a best friend to him, the singer of his band, his entire childhood. He was aware, now, that both you and him had changed. That you could, but did not, did never, desire him, desire Han; someone between a best friend and a brother, someone unnameable, something previously unknown to Han.

The door to the studio opened, and you tore Han from his spiralling thoughts. Thankfully so, or not, he wasn’t sure. But you stood in the little college studio now, skin glistening from the sweat the summer sun had drowned you in, eyes careful, searching. For him, for a sign in him – what sign neither of you quite knew, but you doubted you found it, now as you looked at your friend. Your friend you barely recognized – when had he turned so different? When had he turned away from you? Was it when you had first mentioned Chris? If so, it was stupid – it didn’t make sense.

Han’s eyes weren’t flickering in excitement as you stepped closer to him, his mouth was silent, no words gushing out to tell you of mundanity which always meant the world if it was the two of you. He stood and looked at you, for a moment too long, only looking, before he went back to his guitar. His teeth fiddled with the ring around his lip, the silver chains around his neck sounding against each other as ever, his grown-out roots dark in contrast to his bleached, dry hair. He looked as always; yet he didn’t look the same.

It was you who needed to break the silence – you were scared that otherwise, if no one uttered a word, it would stay silent forever. That silence would swallow you forever. And you weren’t sure why. You didn’t know why this moment felt so fatal, so deadly if you as much as breathed the wrong way. That if you did, everything around you would crumble – you didn’t know why, within the four walls of the small studio, time seemed to be frozen, waiting for either the right or the wrong, before everything would shatter, or go back to normal.

“Hi.”

Your voice was hopeful, almost. Desperate, one might say. Desperate for normality, for Han to look at you, to return to himself. He halted in his movements of tuning his guitar at the sound of your voice. He did look at you, granted you a smile, not quite awkward, but something close to it. A smile you would greet a good friend with, or a class acquaintance you met outside of class for the first time – not a friend of decades. And all desperateness was gone, all hope. Every bad feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach vanished to give room for sudden anger. You looked at him, ever tuning his guitar, the sun only inches away from blinding him but instead choosing to illuminate his hands, to find home there, to make the red on his instrument shimmer, and he looked so peaceful in his uneasiness. Who was he to feel peaceful? While you were worrying about him, choosing the right words say and the right actions to do – lost for, of course, the wish to sleep with Mr. Bahng –, actually trying? Who was he to smile at you, almost awkwardly, without a word before going back to his fucking guitar? Anger in every fibre of your body, behind your lids, flames in the tips of your fingers.

“Why are you being weird.”

The question wasn’t asked as a question at all, said like a statement instead. With a voice so stern it made Han face you momentarily. You hated your temper, you hated your stubbornness. You hated him. You hated yourself. He blinked, once, twice. He played a couple chords on his guitar, as though he hadn’t heard you at all – you hated his fucking guitar.

“I’m not being weird.” The tone in his voice undetectable, unsure what it meant.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m no-“

“You are. Why aren’t you talking to me.”

Han looked at you again. You haven’t moved from your spot beside the door ever since you walked in, bag still thrown over your shoulder, your chest heaving in heavy breaths. Han trembled under your gaze. He trembled, and every thought he had been gnawing on before you had entered was suddenly forgotten about. He only saw you, your questioning eyes, awaiting eyes, as though desperate, clinging onto something he wasn’t aware of. He saw you, your frustration – and if it hadn’t been directed at him, this frustration, this anger, he would have found you beautiful. The revelation came like a tidal wave and almost drowned him entirely. You stood before him, and he felt as though unable to breath, looking at you. Actually, truly looking at you – he wasn’t sure if he ever has before. He had never believed you to be beautiful – he had never believed you to be ugly, but he had never paid enough attention to your exterior to have believed you to be either. The thought scared him, intimated him; you intimidated him, the way you were standing there, looking at him, expectantly, having taken only one step towards him. And he was quick to free himself from the waters that were you – was quick to join your anger, because it seemed to be the only thing holding the both of you afloat.

“You’re the one who was too busy fucking your teacher to answer my text, so…”

You knew he regretted his words the moment he uttered them. You weren’t sure why you knew, but you did – be it the years of friendship, be it intuition, be it whatever you wanted to call it. You looked at him, his eyes feigning steadiness yet laced with regret, and you fumed. Though not at him; at yourself. Because he was right, because you couldn’t blame him, not really.

You sighed, making your way to the guitar stand. You dropped your bag off along the way, it joined Han’s phone on the dirty sofa. The instrument felt heavy in your hands; heavier, for some reason, than you remembered, even after years of playing. Strange. Maybe it was your spirit that was weighing it down, the lack of motivation you usually only seldom felt before rehearsals.

“Don’t start with that again. Please.”

You threw the leather strap of your guitar over your shoulder, plugged in the aux, started tuning. Without a gaze to Han, but you heard the lack of notes from his own guitar. Maybe he was looking at you, maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was about to apologize. You didn’t really care; and yet you couldn’t possibly care more.

“Why?” His voice provoking, almost, and you weren’t in the mood to fight – but you would, if he wanted to. If his version of not being weird meant offence, you wouldn’t back away.

“How was it? Did you get Mr. Bahng…”, he spat the name, “…to cheat yet? Or is that still-“

“Shut up.” Your voice interrupted his, and it hadn’t needed much volume to. Despite his words, almost hateful, too hateful, unknown coming from him, there wasn’t much weight beneath them, no support. He didn’t mean what he was saying. Not a word of it. As though his mouth wasn’t part of him, saying the exact opposite of what he meant, only to bask in regret right after. He wasn’t able to control it, his mouth. He didn’t want to hurt you, not with a single word he uttered, but he did. Because maybe it was, after all, the only way to stop the tidal wave flooding him whole. Maybe it was the only way to forget that suddenly, he believed you to be beautiful. Why were you beautiful, so out of the blue? Had you always been?

“I don’t wanna talk about this. I fucking hate talking about Chris, it always leads to a fight.”

It was the use of Mr. Bahng’s first name which set Han off, which made his head cock in subtle disbelief. You called him by his first name – what had happened during your private lesson? And why did he care so much? You were grown, you could do whatever you desired to do – why was it bothering him so very much?

“Ohh, so it’s Chris already, huh.” Chris. The name tasted even sourer than the man’s surname. Han saw you roll your eyes at him, his words – he understood why. The comment was bitter, petty. It didn’t carry any meaning, anything. He would have rolled his eyes as well. He did, internally, at himself. But he couldn’t stop the pettiness. The fabric around his neck pulled on his skin, marring it red, and he saw that little strands of your hair tangled in your own leather band, the one around your neck. It was red, too, your skin, as you were tuning your instrument. It was pretty, your neck. The little hairs were, your eyes, though angry still, were too. You were pretty. Notes and unfinished melodies sounded against hurtful words, words not meant. Words not real.

“God, I’m fucking tired of you. What the fuck is this? You bash out yesterday fucking leaving me to worry about you, and you bash out now out of fucking nowhere? I haven’t even fucking mentioned Chris before you brought him up, because, guess what! I fucking notice how you become a fucking pussy every time I mention him, as if you’re fucking jealous.” Your voice loud, too loud. Your words real though now, so real you’re scared of them yourself.

“You’re not my fucking dad.”

A beat, a silence in which Han looked at you, disbelief crossing his features, shock, maybe. You had never screamed at him like this. Meaning everything you said. And being right, with every word, every letter spilling past your mouth in spit and wetness. Why did he think you to be beautiful, even now?

“Or my fucking boyfriend.”

Before Han could further dwell on those words, trying to make sense of the feeling they left within him, Changbin burst open the door, making his entrance known loud and clear. The other’s followed right behind him, Lino closing behind him with a heavy click. You and Han stayed silent, while the others greeted you, not yet picking up on the coldness icing the room, the storm brewing in the space between you and Han. Only Lino was curious, careful. He watched you both as he made his way behind his drum set, discarding his bag next to him – it was covered in small bits of cat fur. He watched you intently as both of you continued playing chords to warm up, not speaking a word – not even looking the same direction.

The small studio erupted in sounds of various instruments. The room smelled of heavy smoke, of leather, of sun. It was stuffy and sweaty bodies only made it stuffier, meaningless conversations made it smaller, tighter. Changbin and Jeongin, talking about classes they missed, notes they needed to borrow for an upcoming exam. Chatting with Lino, who was still more concerned about the pair of you, not about whatever Changbin was nagging him about – and then the bassists’ eyes found you and Han. You could see the wheels in his head rear and turn, work their way to a coherent thought, to make sense of the silence he wasn’t used to. He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brows, lay a finger upon his chin – a caricature of a man thinking.

“Yo, what’s up with you two lovebirds. You hadn’t said a word since we came here.”

Both of you shot him a look, both glistening with impatience, with frustration and regret and worry. Both of your gazes made the bassist take a step back. Rehearsals had never felt so dreadful, and the hour has barely even started.

“We’re fine.”

We. Even in times of distance, when you couldn’t seem to stand each other, it was you against the others. A united front, against all odds – against, even, yourselves. The thought made you melancholic.

Changbin glanced over at Lino, who wasn’t paying any attention to him – his gaze was fixated on you, questioning, brows furrowed. Though not in innocent curiosity, like Changbin; the older man was worried. After the few years he grew to know yours and Han’s friendship, neither of you had ever acted like this, not towards each other, especially. There would always be giggling and laughter, bickering conversation and banter in your corner of the studio. Always exchanging looks, always aware of something none other picked up. A secret language, a secret code. You barely fought, and if you did it never carried weight, and was forgotten within the hour. Lino lived with the two of you sometimes, too – the two of you were a synergy. He was never able to explain the relationship you seemed to carry; it has always felt deeper than the one you would describe best friends to have, though you always denied of being together, of being in love. Lino wasn’t so sure about that. He wasn’t so sure love and feelings had never been object in any of your hearts – but he wasn’t one to push, or to dip his toes into business not meant for him.

But the two of you were different now, that everyone noticed. Why, no one knew – but Jeongin, being him, applied the same theory to everything he crossed. “They probably fucked.”

Two sets of eyes met him, angry, fuming. Though wordless. You and Han looked at the youngest, unsure if to throw him out of the band or kill him altogether. He looked at you both, questioning, as though analysing. “And it was probably bad, so now they’re awkward.”

It was said with a chuckle; he wasn’t at all serious, teasing, as always. Though neither of you caught the tone – both of you took the words as personal offence, not less after your previous fight hadn’t yet cooled off your nerves. Both of you agitated, both of you ready to jump at the next thing which flashed before your eyes, which made a wrong move – and both of you not looking at the other, because that would be the worst of all. You denied Jeongin’s accusations in a choir, a simultaneous ‘No, we didn’t’ sounding through the room – against your words instruments, tapping of feet, the sun, suddenly, loud too. Too loud. Everything was making noise, and it was too loud. You even heard the damn dust particles dancing before you, tickling in your nose.

“Well, then maybe you should. Wouldn’t be so worked up all the time.”

It had only been a murmur. Jeongin might have not even meant the words, just said them to say them. To wash over the uncomfortable atmosphere you and Han had created. But Han heard every of his word, and with each further one his blood dared to boil. The temperature almost hot enough to make it run out and over, and his face reddened as he tried his best to shut his mouth, to stay silent against the speech which wanted to spill. He looked at you as you pretended to not have heard Jeongin, adjusting your microphone stand, getting comfortable behind it; not looking his direction. Pretending like he didn’t exist. And he couldn’t even blame you – he had been an asshole today. And, as it seemed, he would continue being one – because before he could restrain from it, words were bashing past his lips and into the hot, stuffy room, tight and small and clammy with hate and regret and judgement already, and he made matters worse. He filled the room further though there was no room, filled it with more dust and anger, ignited it to burn.

“Well, that’s gonna be hard for me to arrange. Yn likes to fuck older men who happen to be her professor.”

The room, having erupted in a variation of sounds before, fell silent now – entirely silent. You don’t think you’ve ever heard this studio so very quiet; but then again, within you, within your head, thoughts were screaming and roaring so you took into account only little of said silence. You looked at Han, and it was the only thing you noticed. Him, his eyes of regret. He didn’t mean it, you knew. Though it didn’t make it better. It didn’t mend the fact he had broken your trust; you were aware he wasn’t in peace with your crush on Chris, but you would have never believed him to blurt it out to the others. It had been a secret, never told as one and yet known to be a secret. No matter how angry he was, no matter if he meant it or not, the sight of him now, already begging for forgiveness, silently, only with his eyes, repulsed you. You didn’t know him. You didn’t know the man that stood before you. It surely wasn’t Han, not the best friend you knew and held so dearly.

Only out of your peripheral did you see the others faces – shock lacing it, and a fear of moving, of speaking. Everyone stayed silent; no one said a word. Changbin and Jeongin exchanged gazes, Lino’s was ever fixated on you and Han; trying to understand, trying to make sense of a situation so absurd it didn’t feel quite real.

And then the situation dissolved itself. As though unreal, after all. After moments of stagnation in which you held Han’s eyes with your own, hurt, laced with disbelief and drowned in betrayal, you took a step back, and when you looked away Han felt everything he was crumble. You got rid of the guitar around your neck, placed it onto the standee, fled to grab your bag.

“I’m not in the mood for practice today.”

Your voice quiet, but a whisper, though everyone heard you in the silence of the room.

Han, in his confusion, in his frustration, in his chaos of thoughts, knew only two things: he had hurt you deeply. So deep, he wasn’t sure he could repair it. Your friendship had survived worse, deeper bruises – but this one he had claffed open again and again, not having let it rest. And he wasn’t sure either of you were capable of mending the wound, deep and bloody and tearing you apart.

He only knew he hurt you; and he knew, now, that you were beautiful. Still, after storming out the studio, having left open the door – a stray cat found its’ way inside, and Lino pet it absentmindedly. The revelation yet felt surreal; you were beautiful, enticing, and he had written a song for you – a song he feared to never hear now. Because he had hurt you.

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bunnyley00 · 11 months

Text

Camping

pairing: fem!reader x vamp!gojo (i have no idea why just roll with it. part of a story i never finished; 5.2K words)

warnings: PWP :3, degradation, praise, lotsss of dirty talk and compliments, fingering, oral sex, marking, daddy kink, gojo loves you a lot

A game of truth or dare gone right.

Gojo led you off of the RV, the sky painted with deep reds and oranges, as well as bright yellows as the sun got lower and lower. He opened the side panel on the bottom, revealing a tent or two and some sleeping bags. “So? What d’ya say, baby?,” he smiled, and you nodded with a smile of your own, “Let’s do it.” “I knew you were mine for a reason,” he hummed, pulling out the tent and handing you the sleeping bags. It didn’t take long to set the decent sized portable home up, only taking about 10 minutes before the both of you were settled in and cozy. “I’m glad this thing has a bottom even though we have sleeping bags and a blanket,” you mused. “Yeah. I never did like the tents that were exposed on the bottom. Leaves room for too many bugs to come join us,” he mused, “Want to watch a movie?”, he asked, having grabbed his iPad before exiting the RV. You raised an eyebrow. “Does your hotspot even work out here?” He opened his mouth to say something before checking and closing it. “Nope. Dead zone,” he sighed dramatically, falling back against the blankets under him. “I thought as much,” you giggled, “What should we do then?” “Hmm,” he sat up, “Truth or Dare?” He wiggled his brows as the suggestion left his lips.

“Truth or Dare it is then, fuckboy,” you nodded with a laugh, sitting criss cross across from him. He mimicked your position, “Hey! Be nice. Truth or Dare?” “Truth,” you hummed. “Hmmm, is it true that you like wearing my clothes because you love the way I smell?”, he asked, watching as you rolled your eyes playfully and blushed. “Well, duh...stupid. We’ve been together for 6 months. Truth or dare?” “You’re the one who called me a fuckboy, I was trying to be cute for once,” he grinned, “Truth.” “Copycat. And try harder,” you teased, “What was the first thing you noticed about me when you met me?” He paused, taking a minute to think briefly. ‘Your scent.’ “Your hair,” he settled, looking up at you, “Your hair, definitely,” he repeated softly, reaching a hand out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear, fingers grazing your jawline as it came down. You leaned into the touch, cheeks flushed as you rolled your eyes half heartedly. “Cute,” he mumbled with a chuckle, “Truth or dare?” “Dare,” you spoke up. “Ah, now she’s getting bold,” he teased, “I dare you to,” he trailed off, tapping his chin, “I dare you to let me give you a hickey,” he said, “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.” This was uncharted territory. Of course he had kissed your neck before, but he’d never actively left any marks yet, for fear of not being able to control himself. He was absolutely dying to do so. You felt your face heat up. “Alright.”

That was all Gojo needed to hear. It would be a major test of his metal, to not extend his fangs and sink them into your supple skin and finally taste you. He moved forward, tucking his face in the crook of your neck before kissing it a bit. “Tell me when to stop.” His voice was like silk, as was the feeling of his tongue and soft lips on you. You fought the urge to whimper, just letting out a breathy sigh as he gradually began to use teeth. His mouth was gentle against you, kissing and sucking in the same spot, slowly, and frankly, knowingly working you up. He suddenly bit down a little harder than before, causing you to gasp. “G-Gojo”, you whimpered, a hand shooting up to tug his white hair a little. He couldn’t stop the groan that left his mouth after that, easing up before pulling back. The look on your face was priceless, face flushed, pupils expanded as you reached up to graze your fingers over the blossoming mark, your pretty lips parted. Fuck. It made Gojo want to pounce on you. “Don’t stare at me like that,” you murmured, looking off to the side. “Sorry, sweetheart. I can’t help it when you whimper my name like that,” he whispered. “Truth or dare?”, you asked, meeting his gaze again. “Dare,” he said immediately. “I dare you to let me find your sweet spot,” you proposed and Gojo hummed, intrigued by your boldness. “Go for it,” he smirked, watching as you crawled forward. You kissed him first, your lips slotting against his soft ones with a breathy sigh through your nose. His hands moved to rest on your hips as you pulled back, trailing your kisses down to his neck. His eyes fluttered closed as you peppered his skin with your kisses, occasionally licking and nibbling on some spots just to get a reaction out of him.

He groaned at each small bite you delivered, taking your ministrations down his neck. His groans did nothing but turn you on, making your thighs pressing together as whimpers sounded out against his skin. “Fuck,” he suddenly moaned loudly, your mouth at the base of this neck and grazing the edge of his soft, defined collarbones. To hear the way his voice dropped, to see his body tense and watch his eyes close even tighter than before- it was enough to make you want to straddle him. You trailed your mouth lower, running your tongue over his collarbone before biting down slightly, sucking on the now light red skin. His reaction was immediate, his hand moving to weakly grab the back of your head. His other palm laid on your hip, thumb absently rubbing at the sliver of exposed skin. One of your hands was on his thigh, giving you leverage as you continued. “Fuck-, harder. Bite down harder,” he groaned, his fingers gripping your locks. You bit down harder, using more force as you looked up at him through your pretty lashes. You didn’t pull back until there was a blooming hickey, the purple and red looking oddly pretty on his light skin.

When he opened his eyes, his gaze met yours, swirling with arousal. As were yours, your hands clasped together in your lap. “Do you want to keep playing?,” he asked, voice slightly rougher than before. “I don’t know,” you answered back, yours breathy and airy, a stark contrast from his. “What do you want, then?”, he asked. A long moment of silence washed over you two, your gaze lingering on the floor of the tent before you looked up at him again, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You.”

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice lower in volume. He wanted, needed to hear you say it.

You sighed softly. “I want you, Gojo”

“I’m sorry, who, my love?,” he purred out, tone as sweet as honey yet devilish at the same time.

“I want you, Satoru,” you nearly whined.

“Better.”

He moved forward then, guiding you toward him again. One hand cupped your face as his lips met yours, kissing you languidly. A small shuddering breath escaped your nose as your body drew closer, his other hand returning to your hip. You shifted as you finally got close enough, not pulling back as he pulled you in so you could straddle his lap. Your breath hitched upon feeling his cock pushing up against your ass, tensing above him. The change in your body language didn’t go unnoticed. Gojo pulled back, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. “You sure you want it, sweetheart?” he murmured, “We can wait longer.” You shake your head, “No. It’s fine.” “Are you-” You shut him up with another kiss, and he took your answer happily, starting to move your hips back and forth on top of him. The sensation of your pussy rubbing against your wet panties made you moan, his length twitching against you. “So pretty,” he breathed against your lips, rolling his own hips upward. “You look so fucking good right now, grinding on top of my cock,” he groaned, running his thumb over your bottom lip, “My pretty girl, God, you’re gorgeous.”

With each compliment, your cheeks grew hotter, his lips kissing yours again before he moved them to your neck. “I can’t wait to make you cum over and over again. Make your legs shake and hear your cute little voice moan my name,” he whispered into your ear, and you were glad you were still grinding on top of him, as the words made your clit throb and your hips squirm from his low tone. His mouth laved over your neck, his large hands still guiding you back and forth on top of him. He left copious amounts of hickeys behind, the desire to see your skin marked up almost as strong as the carnal one wanting to bite you with his fangs and leave you a moaning mess on top of him. He could feel your arousal, how potent it was in the air of the small tent. Soft lips grazed against your jawline, the hand on your face moving down to grope one of your breasts. He kneaded it in his palm, listening to your breathy moans while he nibbled and kissed at the sensitive spot. You threw your head back and he nearly lost it, your neck on display with the marks all over it making his fangs want to extend.

“Yeah?”, he whispered, “Does that feel good, love?” You bit your lip, nodding and moaning as he pinched at your nipple. “F-Fuck, Satoru-” “That’s right, baby, keep moaning for me.” The hand on your hip slid around to your ass, squeezing it while his mouth continued its path down to your shirt collar. When he got there, he stopped, ceasing all movement with your hips despite your protesting groan of disapproval. He chuckled softly, shifting and picking you up to lay you down on your back. “Cute,” he hummed, “Patience, love. I’ll make you cum soon enough.” His hands ran down your sides, fingers hovering at the hem of your shirt. He looked up at you in question and you answered with a small nod. He lifted your shirt up then, helping him take it off and toss it to a corner of the tent. He growled softly at your choice of bra, the piece of lingerie black and lacy, a red bow in the middle of your round breasts. “Such gorgeous tits, fuck,” he breathed, kneading each one as he leaned over you, kissing and mouthing at the tops of them. Your back arched a bit, a hand running through his hair. He left his marks there as well, wanting to make his presence known all over your body. His slender fingers reached under you to unclasp it when you could take no more, your hands tugging at his shirt. “God, fuck, just look at you,” he murmured, taking in the sight.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding them down against the tent floor as he latched his mouth onto a nipple. He sucked on it softly, wrenching a moan from your lips. “Mmm,” he hummed, looking up at you as you writhed under him. He switched between the two, blowing cold air on them after he showed them love with his hot tongue. “T-Toru, please,” you whimpered suddenly as he slipped a knee in between your legs, teasingly rubbing it against your soaked core. He finally let up, kissing down your stomach to the hem of your shorts. He bit at the waist band, pulling them down with his teeth as he stared you down. The look in his eyes was enough to make you moan, a heavy lust dancing around in them. Tossing the garment aside, he let go of your hands to slide them down to your thighs, making you press them together. “Shit,” he groaned at the matching panties, the obvious wet spot making him bite his lip. Running his fingertips over the expanse of your thighs, he trailed more kisses to the thin fabric, slowly but surely pulling them off. You let him open your legs and the groan that came out of his mouth was loud, pupils dilating as he ran a finger down your slicked folds. “Fuck- look at this pretty little pussy,” he growled out, “Look at you, absolutely soaked, hm? Did Daddy get you this wet?”

“Y-yes,” you moaned as he thumbed at your clit, your hips rolling down against his hand. “Yeah? Is this what you were waiting for? Hm? Me touching this gorgeous cunt?” “F-Fuck, yes-”, you managed as you threw your head back a little, his thumb moving faster. He stopped then, unable to hold back any longer as he settled his head in between your legs, breath fanning out across your pussy. He immediately placed a flat lick over your folds, and the whine that left your mouth only motivated him more. Wrapping his lips around your clit, he sucked on it, making one of your legs lift and your toes curl. He hooked his arms around both of them, putting them over his shoulders as he ate you out with more fervor. “You taste so fucking good, fuck”, he groaned, dipping his tongue into your entrance, lapping up your arousal.

“Sa-Satoru! God, fuck!,” you moaned loudly as his tongue assaulted your clit, the iron grip he had on your legs leaving you to just lay there and take it. A hand pulled at his hair, the other digging its nails into your discarded shorts next to you. You were panting, back arched and eyes shut tightly. His eyes didn’t leave your face, obsessed with the way you moaned and cried out from what he was doing to you. He slipped his tongue inside of you, moving it in and out as his hands kneaded your thighs. He felt your legs tremble and it made him chuckle. “So cute,” he groaned, “Does my cute cock slut want more? Hm, love? Does this greedy little pussy want my fingers too?” All you could do was nod, and he happily obliged, pressing in a single finger. Moving it in and out, he flicked his tongue over your sensitive bud, the two drastically different in speed. His digit moved with slow purpose, tongue rapidly working you up. “Look at you, falling apart under me- such a good fucking girl. You can’t get enough, can you, love?” No words could make it out of your parted lips, too busy moaning and whining as your lover fingered you, mouth unrelenting against your clit. When he curled it up, the resounding sound made him growl loudly. He bit his lip hard, watching as a wave of pure pleasure rolled through you. “Did Daddy find something? Hm? Is that my whore’s favorite spot? You’re weak here, aren’t you?” You moaned with a frantic nod of your head, rolling your hips down. “Do you want more, baby? Hm?”, he breathed, fighting to stay patient as his cock throbbed in his pants. “Adorable, you can’t even speak, can you? Something got your tongue, baby?”, he asked teasingly, slowly pressing another digit in. Your body practically begged for it, the single finger feeling like nothing but a tease.

Your back arched, lips perpetually open while he worked you open. He licked around your entrance with his tongue, still keeping your legs still as much as he could while your body trembled and shook from the pleasure. He slowly began to speed his digits up, sucking on your clit harder. Your orgasm was speeding toward you like a bullet train, the man’s hot tongue and long fingers bringing you to heights of pleasure you’ve never experienced. The faster he got, the higher pitched your moans became. “Oh, you’re close, aren’t you?,” he asked even though he could feel it- feel the way you clenched down on his fingers and see the way your chest rose up and down erratically. “Are you going to cum? Huh? Gonna cum all over Daddy’s tongue and fingers? Go ahead, baby, cum for me, give it to me, love,” he panted himself, his self control getting less and less stable the more he watched you moan and writhe. Your brows were furrowed, sweat prickling along your hairline as you pulled his hair harder while he rapidly worked you up to your orgasm. Within seconds you were convulsing, moaning out broken English while Gojo groaned, lapping up the cum around his fingers while he helped you ride it out. “Fuck, that’s right, that’s my good girl- keep cumming, love. Moan my fucking name just like that”, he moaned, pulling his fingers out to replace them with his tongue. Your legs trembled hard, your world shutting down for a few seconds as you rode the wave of ecstasy.

He was still lapping at your folds by the time you came down, and you whined loudly from overstimulation, your legs closing around his head. You gently tried to push his head away and he relented reluctantly, licking his lips as he stared down at you. No more than five seconds passed before he was kissing you again, impatient at this point. “Do you still want me? Still want my dick in this tight little pussy?”, he asked against your lips, rolling his fabric covered dick against your core. “Y-Yes”, you barely answered, nodding. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. He kissed you again before quickly sitting up to peel his shirt off, abs on full display for your eyes to take in. He took off his pants and boxers, hissing at the cool air hitting his shaft as it bounced up to slap against his skin. Precum coated his tip, rock hard from watching your body submit to him. He gripped his base, groaning as he fought to gain his composure. The sight of his dick made you whimper loudly, and you suddenly wanted, no, needed, to feel the weight of it in your mouth, needed to taste him and hear him moan, needed to make him feel the pleasure he gave you with his mouth.

Instead of voicing your desires, though, you sat up, reaching down to stroke it yourself when he moved his hand. “Shit!”, he groaned, brows furrowing as his hips jerked. You pushed his chest back with your hand, guiding him to sit instead of hover over you. “Greedy, aren’t we?”, he groaned, relenting under your soft touch. He could tell you were determined, could see it in your eyes as you finally got him to sit and you sat, kneeling between his legs. His reassurance came in the form of a hand running through your hair, guiding your face up to his so he could kiss you gently. When you pulled back, you leaned down again, hand stroking him slowly, mimicking the hand movements you saw just moments prior. You then gave his tip a lick, making him moan softly. “Fuck,” he breathed, looking down at you, a hand still in your hair, stroking it gently. “Again, baby, lick the tip again for me,” he requested, and you obliged. His groan made your thighs press together. “Fuck, good girl,” he praised, biting back another moan as you stroked the base. When you wrapped your lips around the tip, his eyes fluttered closed, groaning as you swirled your tongue around it. He couldn’t stop his hips from jerking up as you moved your other hand to his thigh to steady yourself, his head lulling backward. You slowly got used to the feel, and after a few seconds you allowed him to guide your head down. Moaning at the thickness of his length, you slowly bobbed your head, your own eyes closed as you felt him throb against your tongue. “Just like that, sweetheart, don’t stop- fuck,” he moaned, taking in only half of his dick into your mouth. You licked him from base to tip, tracing a thick vein before taking him into your mouth again. “God, your mouth feels so good, baby,” he moaned. You slowly started to take in more and more of him, fighting not to choke on it. His hand in your hair was still gentle, not forcing you to take more than you could handle.

So when you suddenly pushed your head down to take in all of him, and coughed a little, he was surprised, moaning loudly while his grip tightened in your hair.. You bobbed your head a bit faster then, taking him all the way in with each descent of your head. Gojo’s hand matched your pace, letting out a low, guttural groan each time his tip hit the back of your throat. His sounds only made you more eager, wanting to pull more and more out of him, your folds getting impossibly wetter. You let him move your head faster, moaning around him when he let out a loud curse at you deep throating him. “Shit!,” he growled, biting his lip as he watched you sputter and choke before lifting back up and doing it again. Whimpering, you opened your watery eyes, looking up at him while you sucked his dick. “Fucking h-hell, oh god, fuck yes, choke on it,” he moaned as you sunk back down. “Like this? Yeah? Like choking on my dick?” You moaned in response, deep throating him again. You started to stroke his base again, and he rolled his hips up before gently but quickly pulling you back. “As much as I want to cum- I don’t want to do it in your mouth,” he breathed, making you whimper as he laid you down again.

He loomed over you, hands roaming all over your body, pinching your nipples as his mouth kissed and licked at previous marks he made. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned against your ear. “You’re all for me, aren’t you? Aren’t you, baby?” “Y-yes,Toru,” you nodded weakly. “Say it, baby. Daddy wants to hear you say it.” He kissed at your neck as he moved a hand to grip one of your ass cheeks, kneading it with a soft hum. “I-I’m yours, T-”, you were cut off then, a gasp breaking your sentence up by Gojo’s cock slowly pressing into you without warning, making sure to take his time at first. He groaned against your ear, eyes shutting tightly. He was glad you couldn’t see his eyes after they opened again, the blue in them becoming crystalline as he fought his primal instinct to fuck you into oblivion. “Sat-Satoru-,” you breathed, your voice quivering much like your pussy as he sheathed himself inside of you. “I know, I know, baby,” he growled softly, nibbling at your ear. He didn’t want to bite you more than right here at this moment, his instincts screaming to finally claim you. “You can take it, can’t you? Be a good girl for me.” The both of you took a second to compose yourselves, moreso him than you. When you finally felt him start to relax a little, you rolled your hips with a moan, hearing him hiss above you. He took that as a sign, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. The feeling of your pussy wrapping around him made him moan, his hands balled into half-fists against the tent floor. You moaned against his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck for leverage and pulling him further down.

His pace was languid, his thick length moving in and out of you in a torturous yet intoxicating way. All you could do was pant and moan every time he slid back in, your folds covering his dick in your arousal. “So fucking tight,” he moaned breathily, his chest rubbing against yours with each thrust. You could hear nothing besides your own heart beating and your panting as well as Gojo’s, the world not existing outside of the tent you and him currently resided in. Soon, the both of you craved more, and by the way you squirmed, he could tell. The resounding chuckle against your ear made you whine. “More?” “M-More- harder-”, you echoed desperately. “Such a needy bitch,” he groaned despite his own want for more, thrusting faster. Your moans grew a bit louder as he put more force into his movements, one of his hands moving down to grip your leg. He lifted it up, your knee at his hip level. The slight change in position made you gasp, your back arching and your head going back. Your moans of his name were broken, much like your praises of how good it felt as your boyfriend grinded inside of you. “Yeah? Is it good, love? Hm? Does my slut like Daddy’s cock?”, he panted, still fighting with his instincts while he thrusted at the steady pace. Your toes curled, nails starting to dig into his shoulder blades. The sting of your nails only heightened his pleasure, his hips jerking as he groaned loudly. He took your sloppy nod as an answer although he wasn’t looking to get one. “That’s right- fuck, harder. Scratch harder,” he moaned, starting to fuck you deeper.

You couldn’t ignore the request if you wanted to, the deeper angle making your already potent pleasure skyrocket. You tucked your face in the crook of his neck, moaning loudly and panting as he continued to thrust into you. “F-ugh-ah! Daddy!” “Louder, baby, scream for me- I wanna hear you get even louder,” he growled as you yelped at a particularly hard thrust. You dragged your nails up his back, a hand tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck. “Such a good girl, taking Daddy in so well, aren’t you?” “Y-Yes! Yes, Da-ah!-Dadd-y!” You could barely form words any longer, too enraptured by the feeling of his length pistoning in and out of your pussy taking away any ability to think about anything else. “You like this thick dick stretching out your greedy pussy, don’t you? So needy for me, you can barely talk-,” he groaned, lifting your leg higher. “You sound so fucking pathetic for me, moaning and whimpering my name while you lay here and take it.”

“Fa-Fast-”, you gasped out, and he was already ahead of you, picking up the pace. He finally got to reign in his primal nature, pulling back to watch you moan and yelp under him.The sight made his cock twitch inside of you, watching as you didn’t know where to go or what to hold onto. “So fucking adorable, you don’t even know what to do with yourself, do,” thrust, “you?”, thrust. Small yelps escaped your mouth after each one, and he couldn’t help but to grab your chin, kissing you passionately while he continued to rock his hips back and forth. He swallowed down all your sounds, moaning against your lips while your scratches got rougher and rougher. He suddenly changed his angle then, and when you nearly screamed, he growled, the sound making a shiver go down your spine at the roughness of it. “There it is,” he breathed, focusing his efforts on hitting your g-spot. “Satoru! Fu-ugh!-Fuck!” The tip of his length hit your bundle of nerves without mercy, leaving you a moaning mess under him. He reveled in it. “This is my pussy, isn’t it? I’m the only one who can make you feel like this,” he declared both for you and himself. “You’re mine, bitch- all fucking mine.” He bit his lip, glad your eyes were closed as his fangs extended slightly. He was fighting a war within himself, knowing if he bit you now, the timing would be all wrong. Making them shrink again, he distracted himself with another position change. He grabbed your hips, pulling you up and sitting. He kept the same fast pace, bouncing you up and down on his length. The way your tits bounced prompted him to grab one, sticking a nipple in his mouth as your grip around his neck got tighter. You weakly tried to match his rhythm, bouncing on top of him while his hips drove up into you. When he pulled back from sucking on your sensitive nipples, you tucked your face in his neck, biting down hard. His loud moan made your hips falter, your body trembling as it tried to cope with all of the pleasure you were experiencing.

He felt your trembling get increasingly worse, your quivering moans even reflecting how close you were getting. His hands stayed locked onto your hips, his own orgasm getting closer and closer the more he moved you up and down. “F-Fuck, this little cunt is squeezing my cock so well- harder, baby, clench down harder for Daddy-” Moaning against his neck, you clenched down harder, thighs tensing even more as he moved his hands to your ass, squeezing it hard. “My whore is close, isn’t she? I can feel it- your little cunt quivering for release,” he panted, the sound of you bouncing up and down only adding to both of your states of arousal. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”, he asked, your moans getting higher, and higher. “You’ll make Daddy proud and cum on his dick, won’t you?” In the midst of your rise you barely got out a nod, nearly screaming against his neck. You pulled back, feeling like your breath had been stolen away from you. He was knocking the air out of you with each pull down of your hips. “G-ah!-God, y-yes! Yes, ple-ase! Gonn-ah cum!”, you yelped and he groaned loudly. “F-Fuck, cum,” he moaned against your ear, “Cum, baby, be my good girl and cum all over my fucking cock-” Your vision went blurry before you could even register your orgasm crashing down on you, screaming his name and other garbled curses. He grabbed your chin to kiss you, both to quiet you and to stop himself from biting your neck. He moaned into your mouth, feeling you clench down impossibly hard on his dick, your hips jerking erratically. He kept thrusting into you, his own hips starting to falter from how close he was. “Fu-ck, you’re gonna make Daddy cum- God, you’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, his own toes curling. “P-Pill-”, you hiccuped, and he instantly knew what you meant, letting himself let go inside of you. The sensation left you reeling, his cum filling you up and hitting your already wrecked g-spot. It only prolonged your orgasm, your boyfriend kissing you passionately as you both rode it out. “Fuck, I love you so much,” he breathed, “Love you so fucking much, baby-” “L-Love you m-more, Toru-”, you whimpered.

The both of you rode out your intense pleasure slowly, Gojo taking the time to kiss at your hot skin, hands rubbing your body gently while he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. “You did so well, my love. You’re absolutely stunning. Love you so much,” he murmured, carefully lifting you so he could pull out of your spent pussy. A soft wince left your mouth but you otherwise relaxed, your eyes fluttering closed as the both of you laid down on top of the askew sleeping bags. Instead he just used the blanket he brought, pulling you close and covering the two of you up to take a well deserved nap. He cupped your face, moving your hair out of your face. Your eyes opened a bit and he smiled softly. “Sleep,” he chuckled, “I know you’re tuckered out.” You cuddled closer, laying your head under his chin and putting an arm over him. “Love you, baby,” he murmured. “Mm, love you too,” you said quietly, dozing off quickly as he played in your hair. He didn’t fall asleep until you did, both of you tangled up under the soft blanket.

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hope you guys like this one -leyley <3

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