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chocosvt · 2 months

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HER | part one.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.5k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, coke, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s!

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

potentially triggering scenes within the fic are NOT MARKED in advance

the content is already quite mature, so pls heed the warnings!

bolded and italicized text implies characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts

everyone's patience and understanding has been endlessly appreciated! you have no idea ;_; i give you all shining stars 🌟

⇢ part two | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MARCH 19TH.

“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”

No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.

The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.

“Uh, Wonwoo?”

“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.

“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”

“Whose been breathing down your neck?”

At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.

“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”

Her.

No, not her, you.

But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.

And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.

“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”

“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed a very short disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”

“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”

He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.

“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”

“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”

“Minutely, they are being considered.”

“Liar.”

It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.

In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”

“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”

“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.

In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.

“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “

Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.

“This is such a fucking waste.”

And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.

“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.

“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”

His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.

“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”

“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”

“Stop.”

“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”

A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.

“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”

“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”

“You’ve cornered me?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.”

“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”

“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”

“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”

“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”

“With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”

“Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”

Wonwoo had one very distinct memory of you: creative writing with Mr. T. It had been an elective class he took amongst all his compulsory maths, and at the time it was a much appreciated break when Wonwoo grew apathetically bored from looking at matrices and confidence intervals and equations that engulfed the length of his notebook. Professor T was late one day in the fall.

And that’s when Wonwoo remembered you walking in.

There was a sort of sharpness about your presence that pulled everyone’s spines straight. People tended to angle themselves away from you, though they did it subtly, feigning an adjustment in their seat or a plunge into their bookbag for something that wasn’t even there. Wonwoo lacked the words to describe you. To be honest, he most likely could if he put that infinitely expanding lexicon of his to work, but even then, he feared that everything would fall flat.

Some scruffy looking guy had made the mistake of sitting in your seat—someone who probably skipped most lectures and only happened to find himself near Gildan Hall purely by chance.

It was the seat squat in the middle of the small auditorium.

He remembered the hand propped on your hip as you sashayed up to him—you always sashayed places. Wonwoo found it funny, like there were paparazzi stuffed behind potted plants and vending machines waiting to spring out with their blinding flares, just to capture you picking up a half-empty bag of flavourless popcorn.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.”

“Hm?”

“Excuse me? Yes, hello. You—can you get up please?”

“Up...? Why?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m sorry… what’s this about?”

“Are you a first-year or something? Never bothered going to class until now? All the moshing and beer pong and ending up in some random basement of a friend of a friend of a friend is done so you’re deciding to actually get your money’s worth? Well, let me tell you this—I’ve been showing up to class punctually, and this is my seat. I always sit here. It’s my unofficially-assigned-assigned seat, which seems to be a known fact to everyone in this room except for you. Everyone has one. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sit in other people’s seats. I don't care who you are. You could be my own mother. You could be my best friend, even. President of the universe. That doesn't make it okay, 'cause it’s a respect thing. It's one of those assumed societal rules and you just fucking kicked dirt all over it.”

Whoever he was, he never came back to another lecture.

Since then, Wonwoo had dually made it his mission to never cross paths with you, look at you, or even so much as huff one single carbon-dioxide filled breath in your general direction, just in case that was some degree of unbeknownst personal law he might violate.

Seokmin had royally screwed it up for him.

What could you possibly want to write a book about, anyway?

—MARCH 26TH.

Wonwoo didn’t know how he was expected to find you in this gigantic mall. As he brushed through the streamlines of people, bumping their shoulders and mumbling the driest, most insincere apologies, he couldn’t stop looking at his phone. Seokmin had given him your number with the instruction that he could find you, here, on a busy Saturday afternoon. So far, Wonwoo had sent you four texts, none prompting a response or the grey-dotted bubble, even. Fuck, why did he agree to this? He couldn’t stop thinking it.

Why did he agree to help you, whom he was beginning to not even like, or want to be aquatinted with, write a book, when he’d been struggling to fill the same page of his own story for months?

Squeezing the phone tighter in his fingers, Wonwoo’s broad shoulder then smacked into someone else while he was busy steeping in his misfortune. It earned him a wildly disgusted look.

“Maybe watch where you’re going," the stranger grumbled, some man with an engrained scowl and big, bewildered eyes.

But Wonwoo ignored him.

He didn’t fucking care, and he was sick of wandering through this mall. It made him feel overstimulated, like his clothes were sticking to his skin differently, like the back of his head was swelling, and like all the smells in his nose were somehow making him warmer.

The stranger just stared at Wonwoo as he walked away.

Ding!

A text, but not from you—Seokmin, instead. Apparently, you were in some clothing store on the second floor. Wonwoo stepped onto the escalator, pressing himself into the barrier to make room for the especially speedy people who couldn’t simply stand and wait. He felt a random touch on the back of his head. Scrunching up the glasses on his nose and turning around, Wonwoo stared at the downward escalator, locking eyes with a pretty dark-haired girl he’d never seen before. She wiggled her fingers at him with a flirtatious smile, the scent of her perfume still lingering. Fresh roses, he thought.

He blinked at her once, twice, then turned back around.

Never in a million years.

It was funny, though.

Once Wonwoo stopped outside the clothing store you were supposedly inside, he felt the myriad of distractions and scents and noises dampen behind him. The irritability he couldn’t shake was slowly transforming into nerves. He’d never met you before, unless half-glances controlled by fear from across the small, basement auditorium that hosted creative writing counted.

Focusing on one breath, and then another, followed by a deep, self-soothing inhale, Wonwoo attempted to convince himself that he was in control, not the emotions quivering at his fingertips.

He cracked his neck and walked in.

After a minute or two of confused isle-pacing, Wonwoo rounded a corner, his eyes immediately fixating on a girl who was picking through a neatly assorted dress rack, her head tilted elegantly and her lipstick glimmering under the sterileness of the lights—you.

He gulped. Just suck it up.

She can’t be that bad. You can’t be that bad.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Wonwoo. I know we have a mutual friend in Seokmin. Lee Seokmin. He’s in one of your seminar classes or something, and, uh…. anyway. I believe I’m supposed to help you with a book you’re interested in writing… that’s what I was told, at the very least. And… I know we’ve never met but… um… I guess…” he trailed off upon noting your lack of acknowledgement.

Suddenly, he was taking a step back, letting you progress further along the clothing rack, your fingers hopping between each hanger and your eyes scanning their corresponding fabrics.

Wonwoo jerked on the inside with panic. He hated the situation already, though he somehow found the resounding courage, or perhaps, humility, to address you again, even if he’d rather die.

“So, I’m not sure if you—”

“Can you move, please? Over here or something? I want this dress.”

He kept his mouth shut in order to avoid spilling out any obtuse nonsense, instead watching with a nervous, analyzing gaze as you removed the hanger and shook out the purple, wine-coloured fabric, its sparkles rippling when you stroked your hand along it.

“Woah. This is too pretty.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, unsure if you were speaking to him directly. You already had a bundle of dresses tossed over your arm. Why would you meet up with him when you were clearly busy?

“Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Me?” He found himself echoing.

“No, the mannequin wearing that hideous plaid mini skirt. Of course I’m talking to you. Should I get you a q-tip or something?”

“No... I don't need a q-tip. It’s Wonwoo.”

“Wonwoo?” You exercised the name slowly on your tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, just so you’re aware, it’s 11:35. You were supposed to meet me outside the boutique at 11:30. I can see you’re not very punctual, so that’s noted…” for a moment, you stood back, and the searing line of your gaze judgmentally raked him from top to bottom. “Anyway… you’ll have to assist me with some things now, thanks to your big delay. I got all bored waiting for you, so I decided to do a little self-indulgent shopping."

It could have been wiser to continue biting his tongue, but even Wonwoo, who had practically vowed to avoid you for all eternity due to his fear, felt compelled to challenge your unorthodox logic.

“Big delay? I don’t mean to be rude, but I did take the bus to get here, and their timing is never right. I feel like five minutes is a reasonable time to wait. Not that I’m saying you’re impatient.”

“Well, here’s the thing…” your back turned to him as you took a few slow steps down the clothing rack, probing between the different, pricy materials for anything exuberant you might have missed. “That is what you said, isn’t it? That I’m impatient? I mean—jeez—why bother dancing around it when you can just say it?”

He watched you face him again, except he was keeping perfectly silent, clutching his hand into an anxious, balled fist.

“Well, I suspect you lack urgency, making you apathetic, so therefore you have no sense of initiative. I’m sure you’re already aware, anyway. I can be slow, too, with certain things. Like, when I’m icing a cake. Or painting my nails. But I don’t walk slow, ever. That’s for unmotivated, pointless people who will probably go nowhere in life.”

“… Pardon?”

“Hold this, please.”

Suddenly, you draped the wine-coloured dress over Wonwoo’s shoulder. And he left it there for a second, still gobsmacked, chest shuddering from the pressure of his pumping heart, and wondered how you were even a real person. Once you began walking elsewhere in the store, Wonwoo questioned a very understandable escape toward the exit, though, for some reason, he snapped from his stupor and quickly paced after you, now folding the dress more straightly over his arm. He realized he was too afraid to surrender.

“I’m supposed to help you write a book,” he stated, feeling his lungs dig deep for air, “Seokmin said you needed help.”

“Okay, I’m tired of holding these two. Here—” you again blanketed the dresses into his arms, “—please keep this olive one in good shape, no crinkles. I have yet to find this colour anywhere else.”

Swinging back around, you began heading toward the change rooms, your uncomfortably tall looking heels clicking with each step. Wonwoo stuttered, and he couldn’t stop doing it—just, absolutely baffled by you and your consuming sense of worth. He didn’t know what to say, he could only follow, producing bits and pieces of sentences that you were either ignoring or genuinely hadn’t heard in comparison to the monologues in your own head.

“At what point will we discuss why I’m here?”

Finally, he spat out something coherent.

You paused, and for a fleeting moment, flicked your very intense eyes up and down in an examination of Wonwoo, who felt like he was being intrusively picked apart under a microscope.

He swallowed tautly, “I’m just wondering… that’s all.”

You pressed your wallet against the top of his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the white leather stool placed just outside the fitting rooms. He sat, too, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans—even worse, the dresses you’d dumped on him.

“Let’s talk after I try these on, ‘kay?”

There was something different about your voice. It fell lower, sweeter, and he shivered with the thought that you had quite possibly just hypnotized him. He looked up at you, nodding his head.

“Good. Everyone calls me Her, by the way.”

“I know.”

He held his breath as you reached out to take a dress, the wine-coloured one, which was more like a dark, nightly amethyst now that Wonwoo was observing the fabric up close. So, what the hell was he supposed to do? Just sit there, twiddling his thumbs and shaking his knee while you busied yourself with fitting into all those wildly sumptuous dresses? There was a plethora of other things he’d rather be doing—too many to name, in fact. But he wasn’t going to bother slithering away now, chiefly because you petrified him too much and he wasn’t in the mood to be further guilt-tripped by Seokmin.

Throwing his head back, he blew out a tired huff and looked at the ceiling. Why the fuck was he doing this? He just couldn’t stop thinking it. What on earth could he possibly gain from being terrorized by your weird authority.

“Hey, I’ve been there, for sure.”

Wonwoo noticed an older man waltzing past him, probably in his early thirties or so, who’d spoken in a sympathetic tone. He seemed very polished and clean-cut, made apparent by his sleek suit, and as a university student who was routinely on the verge of going broke after most rents, Wonwoo knew money when he saw it.

“Pardon?”

The man stopped and smiled.

“Waiting for your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. I’m just—”

He was interrupted by the squeak of the change room door.

“Be honest. How does this look?”

You had stepped out to examine your silhouette in the large, full-body mirrors against the wall, taking advantage of the heavier lighting to scrutinize every divot and ruffle that textured the amethyst dress. Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to say in the moment, and the man he was explaining himself to had wandered off into another aisle to answer a phone call. He watched your fingers pick and pull at the material so it could be readjusted in certain places, your bottom lip pursed as you angled your hips and tensed a leg to make a pose.

There were at least three other dresses strewn in his lap, and you were most definitely going to make him sit there and judge each one. Now, he could be honest. The dress was glittery yet sophisticated, something like a gloaming, purple-stained sky and its first emergent stars encapsulated into fabric, though he wasn’t completely sold on it. But he also wanted to leave the mall as quick as time would allow, so rather than being verbose, he shaved it down.

“It’s pretty, not great. I don’t really know.”

“Hmm…” you mumbled, keeping your eyes fixated on the mirror, “not great? What’s not great about it? The frilly parts?”

“Yeah, the frilly parts.”

God, he wanted to go home so bad. Warm tea would be nice right now. There were crinkle-cut fries in his freezer.

“Ugh, but I love the colour. I’m getting conflicted. Maybe I’ll toss it aside and think about it again later. Yeah, I’ll do that... okay, let me get the white one next. It’s a little short but I can make it work.”

Wonwoo carefully pulled out the white outfit from the bottom of the pile and handed it off to you. The skirt was notably cropped.

Again, you strode back into the change room and softly clicked the door shut behind you. Wonwoo pulled out his phone almost immediately, navigating to his texts with Seokmin. His thumbs blasted against the screen, tapping out literary warfare that expanded into a decent sized paragraph Seokmin would most likely respond to with an apologetic smiley face. It might take a day or two for Wonwoo to cool off, but he always forgave him. Mr. Sunshine.

When he heard the door rattle, Wonwoo quickly hid his phone back in his pants pocket; however, he severely regretted that decision because holy fuck—that vinyl white skirt was indeed short and tight and the winding, crossed straps of the top were just maintaining your cleavage. He needed something to help avert his eyes because Wonwoo felt them itch with the urge to stare at your body despite how uncomfortable he was. The floor tiles—count the floor tiles, or count the lights—something, anything to distract his brain.

“Okay, this is like—if I bend over, I’m flashing someone.”

He prayed you wouldn’t ask him his thoughts.

“But like—okay, I can make this work, right? This has potential. If I stand really straight, and proper, and, just… pull this down a bit here—okay, fuck, that was too much. Don’t look for a second… don’t look…. don’t look… m’kay, fixed it.”

Wonwoo wanted to cradle his head in his hands. And, right when he swore that the situation couldn’t sink much lower, the wealthy, black-suit man returned from his phone call. He paused the second he saw you in the mirror, watching intensely as you fiddled with the vinyl and attempted to adjust the x-shaped top a little higher over your cleavage. Except he wasn’t exactly modest about his gaze. It was drinking you in like some sort of insatiable alcohol.

“This is tough,” you huffed, pressing your hands against your chest, “the top is super sexy. I love how open the back is. But it’s such little fabric considering the price. It sucks that I look so hot in it.”

Horrendously, Wonwoo noticed a jewel bracelet slip off your wrist onto the tiled floor. Even more horrendously, he watched in the tensest position possible as you began to bend over and grab it.

No. No, no, no, no way.

The last two dresses spilled in a silk and cotton heap off his lap, nearly tripping him during his rush toward you. He managed to cover your backside in the most heart-hammering nick of time, his hands accidentally brushing in static sparks against yours to help you pull the tight fabric back down your hips. Knowing the man was still watching in the mirror, Wonwoo clasped onto your arm and dragged you back toward the fitting room, his cheeks turned to rubies.

“Fuck, you need to be more careful,” he rasped, “the skirt is too short for you to bending over like that, alright?”

“I’m not leaving a gifted two-hundred-dollar bracelet on the fucking ground. Should I have just kicked it into the change room?”

“Gosh…” Wonwoo rubbed along his neck with tire and lowered his voice. “Bending over in a skirt that short, especially when there’s a fucking weirdo watching you, is not the best procedure.”

“So, it’s my fault he’s a creep?”

“Okay—that wasn’t what I—um—”

“Do you even like this outfit?” You deadpanned.

Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief, “I’m not answering that.”

“This is useless." Your eyes agitatedly rolled. “I’m changing.”

“Great, whatever. Do that.”

He gently pushed you further into the change room and closed the door with a smooth, loud shutter. His heart was still racing.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend wear that either.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Wonwoo didn’t care that his tone was snappish and clearly tired as he collapsed back onto the stool, making a point to ignore the perverted bastard until he left.

“Wonwoo!” You called his name after a few minutes of silence from the fitting room, “please bring me the green one!”

He wanted to utterly vanish, have the building collapse and crush him in a pile of dust plumes and rubble. Sliding the dress through the small gap in the changeroom door, Wonwoo found himself pausing.

“Why don’t I just hand all these to you?”

“Because, I’m using the hangers in here for my clothes.”

“Why can’t you just pu—”

“Thank you!”

Impatiently, you nabbed the dress and shut the door.

However, that dress was the last one you tried on, and Wonwoo couldn’t have been any more relieved. Talking to you seemed like it might give him heartburn or a hemorrhage.

He thought the shiny colour of olive green suited you best.

The dress was silken and long, slightly form-fitting, with a slit cut far up the right thigh and thin spaghetti straps at the shoulders.

You picked the first three dresses to take home, and left the last shimmery one on the rack.

“We’re leaving now?” Wonwoo asked, cracking his fingers.

“Yes, after I pay. Don’t seem so eager.”

“With all due respect, this place isn't really my scene.”

“Your attitude isn't really my scene.” You swiftly corrected him.

He stood next to you at the counter, observing as you zipped open your small black wallet to pull out a credit card. If you were shopping at a store like this, you must be making bank. But Wonwoo was somewhat nosey, and when you set the card on the countertop, he glanced at its embossed name. It definitely wasn’t your name.

Kim Mingyu.

It was your boyfriend’s.

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm ]: Goddammit Seokmin answer me

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm]: I’ve sent you at least ten texts

[ Wonwoo | 1:16 pm ]: Truly how do you do anything with this girl? I feel like she’s somewhat psychotic and you just fucking had to flash your sad mopey eyes at me in that café so I would break and help her write her book. I’m sitting here with dresses in my lap, pretty much acting as her unpaid personal assistant. Why the fuck is she asking me about dresses, anyway? Did you help her orchestrate this bullshit? I’m actually pissed at you. I want an entire paid lunch.

He wasn’t all that surprised you made him carry the matte silver shopping bag (with these twine handles that he absolutely hated because of how they suffocated around his fingers), and by a certain point, Wonwoo just didn’t give a damn any more. What little social battery he’d maintained since leaving his apartment had officially depleted, for he could feel it weighing in the plaza air around him like an imperceptible mist. Unfortunately, you weren’t lying about being a fast walker. He’d never seen someone stalk with such vigor.

It was nearly an endurance test to keep at your swaying hip, and the few times he fell behind, you would pause and beckon for him.

But Wonwoo discovered that even you needed to stop, to eat and drink like a normal human rather than the disguised cyborg he fleetingly speculated you were. Your touch was so abrupt—a hand had curled around his bicep and suddenly Wonwoo found himself being jerked into a café on the bottom floor of the mall. Of course, you had to pick the most expensive place to buy food in the entire fucking vicinity, and since Wonwoo was penny pinching at the moment, he opted to stand back and let you order.

But then he saw you flick open your wallet, waving Mingyu’s sleek yet flashy credit card between your fingers with blatant enticement.

“I can pay for you.”

He shook his head, muttering a careless, “no thanks.”

“Don't BS me. What do you want to eat?”

Wonwoo couldn’t stop staring at the credit card.

“What’s the limit on that thing?”

“Enough.”

“You haven’t burned through it already?”

“These openly snide comments you’re making aren’t appreciated, you know. Now, please give me an answer before I break off the temples to your glasses so I can use them to stir my drink.”

“… What?” Wonwoo mumbled, completely lost.

“Pick something!”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll just get a coffee, then.”

He took a step forward to examine the menu boards that the employees were wildly scuttling around underneath, browsing down their chalk-written cold brews until he picked one at random.

That was all Wonwoo asked for.

You bought a lemonade and some sandwich he didn’t catch the name of, toasted on panini bread. It felt amazing to sit down. Wonwoo let the silver bag slide completely off his arm and hit the floor, to which he could sense your gaze stinging over him in disapproval. He should have gotten a sandwich himself, but Wonwoo still wasn’t sure how he felt about using the money on your boyfriend’s credit card.

Wonwoo relaxed in his chair, angling a glance down at his phone that he kept below the table, checking for any Seokmin texts.

None. He was supposed to be Wonwoo’s stupid life preserver in this situation with you, and so far, he’d been left for dead. Taking a lengthy sip from his drink was the only way he could stomach it.

“You should put your phone on the table. Screen down.”

“For what reason?” Wonwoo responded in a dull tone, quickly checking his social media with impatient swipes of his thumb.

“So we can have a conversation.”

At that, he almost gagged, slapping down the coffee cup he’d just picked up.

“Now?” Wonwoo laughed, his deep voice reverberating louder than he intended around the café, “you want to talk now?”

“Uh, yes,” you answered, picking up one half of your sandwich and readying it before your mouth, “why is that shocking?”

“Because—you—ah, whatever.”

“You seem crabby. Is that your normal shtick or are you just hangry? Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

He was in a worse mood than usual, but that could be blamed entirely on the mall and how exhausted it made him feel—everything about its environment sucked out his soul. It was most likely the reason he was even daring to act so impatient. You took another bite as you waited for him to answer, and the delicious crackling sound of the toasted bread managed to fissure something inside him.

“Your eyes tell all. Here’s the other half.” You offered.

Finally, he’d experienced his first flares of contentment that day, though he wasn’t expecting it to be from a panini sandwich with what he could taste to be lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, and different types of melted cheese.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll at least give us time to finish eating.”

[ Seokmin | 2:30pm ]: I can do one paid lunch :)

[ Seokmin | 2:30 pm ]: Her’s not psychotic she’s just uhh

[ Seokmin | 2:31 pm ]: She probs did it to mess with you

[ Wonwoo | 2:37 pm ]: She thinks being 5 mins late warrants putting me through one of the worst experiences in my life.

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Awwww

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Who doesn’t like a little shopping??

[ Wonwoo | 2:39 pm ]: It wasn’t shopping it was torture. You owe me so much more than a fucking lunch.

—MARCH 29TH.

Unfortunately, Wonwoo never got the opportunity to discuss your book that Saturday. In the middle of eating, your phone buzzed with a brief call that had interrupted your peculiarly passionate rant on the different cup sizes at the movie theatre (Wonwoo had listened without saying anything, mostly because he dreaded the circumstances that may come from peeping a word when you were so fixated on explaining that ‘the medium is too much but the small is too little and they’re both obnoxiously priced’).

He then watched cluelessly as you launched up from the table, collecting every little belonging between your fingers, babbling about some wax appointment that had escaped you.

It was just that simple—you were gone.

In the beginning moments of your absence, Wonwoo had sat there without much inclination of what to do next.

He’d worried it was another test, and that he was supposed to dutifully follow you to said wax appointment and continue bending to your every endeavour with no retaliation throughout the day. He had also found the silence across from him unsettling, in a way.

Nonetheless, if you weren’t there, then Wonwoo figured he didn’t need to be there either. So he left, taking the fifty-six back to his apartment, and you hadn’t contacted him since.

Wonwoo actually knew his landlord quite well.

Her building was comprised of four apartments, which sat above her pottery shop on the ground floor. She wasn’t a very bothersome landlord and it was fairly easy to connect with her whenever something broke or caused problems.

When he first moved in three years ago, Wonwoo had ardently adored living there, constantly studying the shelves of shiny glazed vases in addition to the beautiful water colour paintings that were created by his landlord or her students. It had been an inspiration supernova in terms of his personal literature, and he was able to start writing his book. Though, at the time, Wonwoo hadn’t been living alone in his apartment, and it was an inescapable fact that the only reason he began writing his book was with the hope of eventually presenting it to his old girlfriend-slash-roommate.

Now, it was just him.

And as Wonwoo pushed up from his grave of rumpled bedsheets, feeling lethargic and empty, he tried concerningly hard to pinch those thoughts from his mind. It was nearly lunch. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have allowed himself to rot that long in bed, but the other half of himself, the self-sabotaging kind, just couldn’t be bothered to fucking care. Wonwoo reached for his glasses that lay half-opened on the nightstand, raking them onto his face while brushing the hair from his eyes. The first thing he properly saw was his tall, skinny, orange bottle of venlafaxine. No. He was ignoring it.

Wonwoo had been ignoring it for the past few months.

Whenever he got particularly sick of staring at the bottle, he’d shove it in his drawer, making sure to bury it deep under old, amply-scribbled notepads and inkless pens that he’d worn to the bone. At last getting up from the bed, Wonwoo experienced his entire body sway and he caught the room spinning at the distant edges of his peripheral. But he walked through it without a care in the world, utterly too used to the feeling of imminent nausea even without his medication. He decided on a shower, then dressing himself, one Poptart, a swig of water from the kitchen tap, and almost walked out the apartment door with the minty toothbrush still in his mouth.

After walking three blocks down from his apartment, Wonwoo stepped across the dead, spiky grass and into the lacklustre parking lot behind the bowling alley that always smelled like stale pizza.

He knew the vanilla Camry well enough to identify it—stalled smack and centre amongst the emptiness—the licence plate being chiselled into his head like his old locker combination from high school (16-12-24, because Wonwoo for some reason liked fixating on prehistoric details that were glaringly useless in his present).

Early two-thousands R&B was blasting from inside the outdated-looking car, though it was thankfully turned down once Wonwoo threw the door open and shimmied inside.

The odor permeated Wonwoo’s lungs in a heartbeat.

“I thought you were getting this dry-cleaned,” he sighed to his friend, Vernon, who was busy rifling through a backpack.

“Uh, didn’t happen. Didn’t wanna pay all that. M’gonna find someone else to do it that’s not taxin’ my ass. Air fresheners are all dried n’shit so you’re gonna have to deal. My bad, Glasses.”

Glasses. That nickname had always made Wonwoo huff a little half-chuckle, and almost instinctively, he pushed the glasses a bit higher back up his nose. He was introduced to Vernon at a New Year’s Eve party he was forced to attend back in December, though it had been difficult to speak with him because he was blitzed out of his fucking mind—not to mention the choking pain of ignoring the girl who had been sliding her hands along the divots of his shoulders and chest from behind, kissing at his neck.

But Vernon was branded in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal in his face, and was blessed with concupiscent, honey-burnish eyes magnetized every woman in the vicinity straight to him.

Somehow, Vernon had become Wonwoo’s plug in the mix.

“Now, what are you gettin’, Glasses? The usual quarter ounce, right?” Vernon’s tongue poked between his blistered lips as he dug a heavily-inked hand further into the backpack seated in his lap.

“Yeah, quarter ounce.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Found it. This one.” Vernon exchanged the plastic-bagged ounces of weed with Wonwoo’s cash. “Gimme, gimme. I know it’s all here, but let me check… “ he flaked out the tinted bills with a satisfied head nod. “Prettier than a princess. You’re golden.”

“Did you just say princess?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said… what?”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s not princess?”

“It’s picture, isn’t it? Prettier than a picture.”

“Really? Oh. That’s not how I remember—why the fuck are we even talkin’ about this? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Now, that’s gonna last you if you’re cute,” he said, throwing his notorious bag into the seat behind him, then tapping at his busted radio with a thick strip of tape across it, the next song rasping through the speakers, “don’t go crazy on it with your meds and shit. Do you still got enough papers?”

Wonwoo scoffed dryly at Vernon’s assumption while he hid the plastic bag within an inside pouch on his navy-blue jacket. A second later and his phone buzzed with a text message.

“Fuck the meds, honestly,” Wonwoo grunted, shifting his hips up in the seat to remove the phone from his back pocket.

Vernon itched his dark eyebrow. “Alright. Just askin’.”

Wonwoo opted to say nothing as he checked the text message without much expectation, and he was thankful that Vernon was the type to drop a subject easily. Instead his friend transitioned into a different conversation, something about another tattoo that he’d been debating, but in the kindest way possible, Wonwoo wasn’t listening to a goddamn word. You had texted him. Finally. For the first time. After three days of radio silence. And Wonwoo didn’t know why he’d suddenly exploded into such a fidgety, heart-pounding mess. You wanted to meet up again in order to discuss the book’s details.

“Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ?”

“No,” Wonwoo laughed, clasping his right hand into an anxious fist, “um, I dunno. Just—Seokmin’s got me doing this thing with a friend of his. She’s trying to write a book and he kinda threw me into helping her. We’re supposed to meet up and talk about it.”

“Oh,” Vernon answered, leaning his elbow against the window and sweeping a hand through his black tresses, “do I know the chick?”

“Maybe?”

“She got any social media? An Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

“Ou, let me see.”

Wonwoo wasn’t following you. Then again, he was hardly following anyone. His Instagram had remained completely empty since his girlfriend left him, which had prompted Wonwoo to archive every single picture and delete all the ones that contained her, even the ones that captured mere traces of her in beaded bracelets and hair ties and white socks left on the carpet.

Wonwoo used Seokmin’s account to find you. Honestly, he hadn’t ever looked at your Instagram before. Without gleaning a single photo, Wonwoo thrust his phone at Vernon.

“Oh, yeah, I do know this chick,” Vernon chuckled, thumbing through your profile with a growing smirk, “Her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm, yeah. Know her. Tried to fuck her. Didn’t work at all.”

Snapping his head to look at Vernon, Wonwoo gaped, “what?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Vernon adjusted himself in his seat, pulling up his knee to rest a tattoo-coated arm across it, “—ran into the chick at a party that some rich dude at your university threw. Sweet-talked her for a bit until I realized she had a stupid boyfriend. She told me a million different ways to kill myself. Yeah, she’s somethin’, for sure.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ha—a little. She didn’t tell me to kill myself, just scolded me for about ten minutes. God, she was wired as fuck though. Her boyfriend—fuckin’, Mingyu, or whatever—he gets her coke. I’ve seen her take a line like it’s pixie dust, man. This was like, over a year ago, though. Dunno if she’s still that loopy. I don’t care. She’s pretty hot.”

Vernon then flashed him a picture from your account, a full body picture of you sprawled across sparkling white sand in a bikini, meanwhile Wonwoo could only stare at it with the blankest possible expression as his brain splattered with computing Vernon’s story.

“Is she still with him?” Vernon asked.

Wonwoo cleared his throat and sat with his spine rigid against the leather, nearly forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

“With who?”

“Lady Liberty. Mingyu.”

“Oh… yeah. They’re dating, still.”

“No fuckin’ way,” his friend lamented while he continuously plunged further into your pictures, thumb pressed to his chin, eyes glimmering, “you coulda flipped this book thing on its head and actually got some fuckin’ head, especially with that deep ass voice you got there. I know it’s gotta feel good. I mean, look at her lips—”

“You’re being gross as fuck,” Wonwoo groaned, swiping his phone back and stuffing it away, “get a girlfriend yourself, man.”

“I’m tryin’ to clean up my act a bit before I do that.”

“That’s definitely a work in progress, I’m assuming.”

“Asshole,” Vernon’s voice was gritty as he coughed into a fist, slipping his knee back under the steering wheel and proceeding to crank his stereo until the music was practically suffocating Wonwoo, “now get the fuck out. You’re not my only deal today. Sorry, Glasses.”

“Later.”

Wonwoo pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cold afternoon breeze. He sucked in a long, relieving breath. At times the fresh air disgusted him, especially when he cozied into one of his mental ruts and everything in the world seemed so grey it was soul-crushing, but Vernon’s car smelled like straight fucking cannabis.

Fresh air was heavenly.

“Don’t forget to text your girl!” Vernon laughed just before Wonwoo slammed the door shut to swallow up the melodic lyrics.

He wanted to make a snap comment before the boy drove off to his next endeavour, but he didn’t care enough to think of one.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: hey wonwoo, it’s her. I think we should finally settle a date to talk about this book thing. let me attach a pic of my schedule and you can pick any open slots

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: 145_348.JPG

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: seokmin isn’t going to be our communicator anymore, so u can stop complaining to him about it

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: Okay, thanks.

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm]: I’ll take a look soon.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:45 pm ]: I’m excited to see you again

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: no likewise?!

[ Wonwoo | 1:50 pm ]: Likewise.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: ugh. thx

—APRIL 1ST.

It was around six in the evening and Wonwoo was seated in the SRX building, the sky rolling with lambent, hazy-toned pastures of peach in the windows behind him. He had arrived about an hour ago, taking the staircase up to the third floor. It was much quieter there, making it easier for Wonwoo to endlessly stare with glazed, void eyes at his laptop screen and the cursed document he couldn’t finish. After tapping his fingernails in a bored, repetitious pattern against the shiny white table, he felt the urge to delete each and every paragraph as if he hadn’t poured months of earnest love into them.

You would be meeting him soon.

He could still remember looking at your schedule, pinching into the screen and examining all the different colour-coded blocks: dinner parties, SSA meetings, gym sessions, errands—how the fuck you managed to juggle those things and more left him marvelled yet terrified. You were pretty on point regarding your arrival time, to which Wonwoo could immediately identify you before even seeing your face due to the heel clicking and the sounds of tapping jewelry on your bag.

Emerging onto the floor with a very intense scowl and a notably crushing grip on your drink, you were to say the least, angry. Wonwoo gnawed slightly on his tongue as you sat down.

Your purse clunked like a cinderblock onto the table.

He watched you inhale a slow, shaky breath, raising your hand with the expansion of your chest in order to calm down.

“I’m going to kill myself.”

Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, subtly trying to establish more distance between you. He flicked a glance at his laptop.

“Damn. Why is that?”

“Because of stupid, incompetent people.”

“Yeah?”

“I just—I don’t get it!” You laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly jovial sound and more than anything it seemed like you were going to start smashing glass. “I don’t get how people are unable to understand that we don’t do walk-ins unless one of the stylists are free—” you dug a hand into your purse, pulling out a straw, “—which in the salon’s case, is almost never! I tell them we can’t in my very sweet, established customer service voice: ‘I’m sorry, but the only way to receive a chair is to book online.'”

Wonwoo tilted his head, grinning a little.

“Blah, blah. I tell them the entire story in the kindest way I can, even though I want to grab them by their fucking neck and drag them over the counter to show them our website.” You slipped out your laptop next, accidentally dragging out a lanyard along with it that you agitatedly shoved back into the purse. “And then, they get all uptight and pissy when we can’t wriggle them in! Sorry, our makeup artists are busy! Working with people who made scheduled fucking appointments! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

You scraped the drink toward you, slamming the straw straight through the plastic film lid with such force that several people ended up turning their heads. After taking a long sip, you gulped and glared until they probably realized it was you and pretended not to care.

For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t know what to say, so he’d folded his arms instead. Considering that Wonwoo worked the late shift stocking shelves at the pharmacy department, your predicament sounded like an entirely new world to him.

“Ugh, I’m sorry to bring all this negativity with me,” you apologized, still exasperated, “I don’t need this fucking tea—I need straight vodka. I’m seriously frazzled.”

“Seriously frazzled?” Wonwoo repeated, finding your choice of words funny as he resumed leaning forward, arms still crossed.

“Very, seriously frazzled.”

“I’m sorry about your day.”

Again, you sighed deeply while removing your long, warm jacket to drape over the chair’s spine—it was a rather elegant reveal of the strapless pearl dress underneath, tinted by the evening light, peach-pink as it rained from the ceiling length windows and framed your body like you were some sort of resurrected angel. Tension at last started escaping your shoulders. Wonwoo quickly realized that he'd been staring, and his fingers curled into a nervous fist.

“You’re actually such a good listener.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Um, thank you.”

“I like that you don’t interrupt me.”

Settling his elbows on the table and ruffling the back of his messy black locks, Wonwoo felt himself panic a little on the inside.

“Well,” he heaved in, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I know," you chirped, posturing yourself confidently, “anyway, the book. We need to talk about it.”

“Table’s yours.”

Wonwoo’s knuckles pressed softly into his cheek while he waited for you to prepare your laptop. His own document was glowing at him, and he swore the emptiness of the page made the screen brighter (in the absolute worst, most mocking way).

“Okay, I’ve got my ideas and such pulled up.”

He expected you to continue and introduce the concept, but you had suddenly stopped, and Wonwoo thought you appeared almost smitten and somewhat timorous. It was strange, because from what he’d known and gauged so far, you were nothing akin to that.

“Well, promise that you won’t think it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s why I want you to promise!”

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses and sighed, “I will need to be honest at some points you know, depending on what kind of help you want from me. Not that I’m going to be a straight-up dick.”

You scoured at him from over your laptop.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll promise if it makes you feel better.”

“Just—shut up." You wiggled your hand at him dismissively and proceeded to tug the laptop closer. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Once you spent a moment affirming the document to yourself, you looked up at him and smiled. “I’m going to write a book for Mingyu. Our fifth anniversary is coming up in the winter—it’s actually on Christmas Eve—the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. I just want to write him a little memoire thingy that tells our story. I want it to walk through the events of our lives, and how I remember them. First encounter, first date, first kiss, stuff like that. I’ve already collected some good memories to include. I have… somewhat of an outline? But my problem is the writing. I can spew nonsense from my mouth at a million miles an hour, but when I try to actually write? It’s crickets.”

You sat back, a hand poised thoughtfully at your cheek while one leg folded over the other. Wonwoo knew you were granting him the space to speak and at least offer a slice of his thoughts, yet, in that moment, he found himself to be drowning. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything of the delusional like; however, hearing you explain the exact premise of a story that he had been successfully writing until a certain breakup—it had shaken him, and Wonwoo felt like the universe was smearing salt fresh into his unsewn wounds.

“So…” your head cocked to the side. “Can I at least an ‘okay’ or a head nod or some sign of life? Or are you just too disgusted?”

What could he say? What was he supposed to say?

Wonwoo was genuinely clueless on how to help you write a story that he’d been utterly failing at writing himself. And, sure, maybe Wonwoo should just give up completely. His ex-girlfriend had ripped out his heart without a single indication that it would happen, and then exited his life in the blink of an eye, disappearing so fucking abruptly that Wonwoo could have said she was a shadow that he imagined in pure lunacy. But he hadn’t dropped the story because there was this very stubborn, unwilling part of his being that could not move on from her—her, who had been his love, and breath, and bones.

He’d decided to finish the story as a manner of easing into closure. If that closure never came, then so be it.

“Are you seriously fucking ignoring me right now?”

His silence had promptly disturbed your peace, and now you were glaring at him with the beginning licks of fire and hell in your eyes.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“What?” You pronounced sharply. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said while closing his laptop and sliding it back into his shoulder-sling bag, “I just—I’m not the right person to help you. I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Seokmin told me you could write fucking anything. He made it out like you were some literature God with a golden quill. And—great, you’re just packing up fucking everything. Are you serious? Am I even allowed more of an explanation or are you gonna leave it at that? Wonwoo, you couldn’t have told me this at a worse time.”

“I didn’t plan for it to be like that.” He could hardly push the syllables up his diaphragm. “It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t lift a finger to stop him from leaving, though the wavelength of your incinerating stare was felt like a hot, melting scratch down his neck. This was terrible, he was terrible—Wonwoo already knew that about himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut himself away in his room and sink straight through the sheets until he was swallowed. His anxiety was webbing around him. It was pulling him down into the soil and earth like he belonged there.

He truly hated this part of himself.

More than anything, he truly hated when other people saw it.

Especially people like you.

—APRIL 8TH.

Wonwoo didn’t think you would ever speak to him again, in person or over text message. In retrospect, he was fine with it. You were rather overwhelming and especially tiring for someone like Wonwoo who would be perfectly fine never seeing another human in his lifetime. Not to mention he was freed from helping you with your book, which he learned was a technical love letter to your boyfriend in addition to a romance he wanted a nonexistent part in. Going down that path once was already excruciating enough, and given his anxiety attack that saw him locked in a cold washroom stall last week, it was best you just forget about him. He assumed you already had, anyway.

After he stocked the last red bottle of sinus medicine onto the shelf, Wonwoo used his boxcutter to break down the cardboard package and fold it flat with the others he’d opened. It was time for his break, and then he would only have one more hour until the pharmacy section closed for the night. Once it hit ten o’clock, the store was automatically still and hardly anyone came in—minus the few student couples whom Wonwoo had to point in the direction of pregnancy tests or plan b. But it was a Tuesday night. He was at the bare minimum appeased he didn’t have to console a sobbing, snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old girl imploring for a First Response.

When he collapsed down at his favourite seat in the breakroom, Wonwoo pulled out his phone. He had sent Seokmin a text yesterday evening about going studying at the SRX building for their upcoming math midterm, though Seokmin had yet to respond and Wonwoo couldn’t evade wondering if you were pulling some strings behind the curtain.

He opened his bottle of juice and spent the remainder of his fifteen listening to music and jittering his knee.

Wonwoo took his earbuds with him back onto the floor, sneaking the wires under his shirt to pull out his collar. There were only a few boxes left on his cart that required stocking, and whatever didn’t fit would have to be scanned into storage. That shouldn't take long. Wonwoo could almost taste the crisp atmosphere of the night air and feel the gentle chilliness soon to ghost against his face.

However, halfway into shelving the cough drops there had been a polite tap on his shoulder, and Wonwoo wanted to wither up and lose his head right there on the tiles like a sundried rose.

He didn’t know who to expect when he turned around, pulling out a single earbud while the other continued to blast his music.

“Oh, shit—I didn’t know you worked here.”

Fuck. He wanted to kill himself.

“Yeah, started a couple months ago, actually.”

Mingyu.

It’s not that Wonwoo didn’t like speaking with him, because they had definitely exchanged cordial conversations in the past, particularly when they both took that Probability Poker elective last semester and Wonwoo learned that Mingyu was a pretty decent bluffer. Unfortunately, Mingyu’s belief that he was a great bluffer was actually the one indication that he was indeed bluffing. It showed in his overly confident eyes before a twitch of the lips or a subtly shifted foot, meanwhile Wonwoo was able to sit there the entire time like he was an Easter Island statue incarnate.

Put simply, Wonwoo had always preferred to avoid Mingyu because he was your boyfriend, and per routine, he attempted to slip around most people that were associated with you.

“Cool.” Mingyu smiled and the flashes of his pointed teeth caught the light. “Stuff’s got switched around in here again.”

“New mods came out last week,” Wonwoo answered, placing the last cough drop box onto the shelf and facing it straight.

“Well, don’t know what the fuck that means,” his tone was brassy as he laughed, “I just came to ask where the plan b is now.”

“Two aisles down, check the endcap.”

“Appreciate it, thanks—oh, condoms?”

“Next aisle.”

“Got it.”

“Just come get me when you’re done,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his boxcutter and running the blade along the taped seam of the cardboard to satisfyingly slice it open, “I’m the only one in pharmacy right now, so I have to ring you up.”

As soon as Mingyu disappeared around the corner, Wonwoo tossed the flattened cardboard onto his cart with the loudest, most life-draining sigh that could be harboured. He wasn’t the kind of person to cultivate those racing, panicky thoughts that consumed his brain like a merciless hurricane, rather it was typically one single thought that was an eternal black space to swallow him. But Wonwoo had to admit that seeing Mingyu had triggered something of the latter, and now he was feeling sick with the fact you possibly told Mingyu about his episode at the SRX building last week. To Wonwoo it had been the shackles of his anxiety, though it probably came across as a very ill-mannered, abrupt rejection from your perspective.

Mingyu didn’t take long picking out his items. It was clearly a run of the mill routine for him at this point—a mere grab and go.

At the register, Wonwoo mentally questioned why Mingyu had grabbed such a plethora of condoms. He didn’t mean to be vulgar in his thinking, but how often were you getting fucking railed?

Either that, or Mingyu preferred being well stocked.

Vernon would be bruising his knuckles on his steering wheel right now, considering how devotedly he attempted to seduce you.

As payment, Mingyu pulled out that godforsaken credit card that you had borrowed during the dress shopping. Wonwoo felt nauseous just looking at the damn thing. He swiped all of the items into a small plastic bag which he then handed to Mingyu with a notable impatience, wanting to whisk the boy out as quick as possible.

“G’night, man. Thanks for the help.”

“Night,” he answered in a deep, tired sigh, watching Mingyu’s head of thick and bouncy black hair disappear toward the aglow exit.

Well, clearly you weren’t wasting anytime thinking about him despite the dramatics pertaining to the situation last week, not even in the most marginal fraction. Mingyu must rail it out of you every night—not that Wonwoo would be surprised to learn such a thing considering the tall boy’s physique and your openly lascivious nature.

Well, good luck to you both, he supposed.

At least it was closing time.

Wonwoo had always suspected there was something ever so slightly off kilter about his body, especially in the way it reacted to certain situations and emotions. He knew it probably wasn’t the most mundane, ordinary act—locking himself in his aunt’s washroom the day of his sixteenth birthday, sliding down onto the cold, hard tiles, feeling his heart jolt, punch, and thump again his chest like a battering ram. There had been a pattern of rubber ducks on her eggshell blue shower curtain, and Wonwoo remembered counting them row by row, over and over, until his breath managed to steady.

Twenty-four ducks. He could still recall the number.

A doctor’s visit about three weeks later had granted him the diagnosis and a scribbled venlafaxine prescription. Wonwoo was already collecting his sweater off the tissue sheet bed, ready to leave.

In the beginning, he was strict about his medication. He organized them into pill cartridges and set alarms and always ate them with cooked, warm meals. Understandably, his habits dwindled every now and again, however, Wonwoo was quite pious to the routine for a good couple years. But then he met his most recent girlfriend in university. She was shy and reserved. All about the books.

Cute as buttons.

He fell in love.

And it was all such a rush of rose petals and sweet symphonies that Wonwoo became distracted from his healthy habits.

Of course, everything crashed and burned once she abandoned him. He capitulated in an instant, and the sight of the orange bottle made him paler than winter moonlight. It’s not like he wanted to suffer, or despise the way his body put him through a neural hell beyond his own control. The fact of the matter was that Wonwoo just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take those stupid pills.

It was a mountain. Every. Single. Time.

And for the third time that week, Wonwoo found himself awake at an ungodly hour, rifling through the black lunchbox he kept in his closet with his glasses about to slip off the fine point of his nose.

He pulled out the baggie filled with the quarter-ounce, his silver grinder, and his rolling papers. Moving to his desk, Wonwoo clicked on the small overhead lamp to illuminate his space, in which he tapped some of the weed into his grinder and began twisting the lid until he was satisfied. He liked preparing joints to smoke on the roof. It wasn’t particularly hard to access, anyway. Right outside his bedroom window was a balcony with a short ladder attached to the brick, and once Wonwoo had discovered it, he made a habit of climbing up to spark his joints so that their pungent aroma could be carried away by the fresh winds usually stirred up at gloaming.

Honestly, it was the only thing he enjoyed.

Just before he slipped out the window, Wonwoo grabbed a pair of black jeans he’d worn earlier in the week, discovering the lighter he’d accidentally left in the back pocket.

The ladder shuddered slightly when Wonwoo gripped it, though if he were being candour, he didn’t care whatsoever if all the bolts suddenly loosened and he were to splatter against the sidewalk like an uncooked pancake. In fact, the fall probably wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe a few broken bones and scrapes, some blood staining the street akin to little patterns of rain, bruises that signatured violets into his skin, but Wonwoo would still be painfully, vividly alive, enough to see the stars if the glasses didn’t snap off his face.

It was a colder night, so Wonwoo made sure to tuck on his beanie and huddle into his thicker-sized coat. He sat with one leg dangling over the building’s edge, feeling the wind whiplash against his back and crawl in these chilly, indecipherable whispers from his shoulders to his neck, almost tickling him, like it had missed him.

An orange flicker popped to life from the butane of his lighter, which he used to lightly singe the joint perched at his lips. Wonwoo then tilted his head back, blowing the cloud and its loose, airy curls straight into the sky’s deepest purples.

He loved being alone.

Even when his ex-girlfriend had moved in with him all those months ago, there was an unyielding part of him that hadn’t been ready to forfeit all his space and privacy.

But, over time, his love surmounted the sacrifice.

He would wake up to her sleeping face, and with thoughtful nudges, clear the hairs off her cheeks. He would spend an hour working on his homework or writing his story while waiting for her to stir so messily in the sheets that it became graceful. He would tease her with his cold hands as she boiled up tea in the kitchen, pinching at her hips with the utmost softness and giggling huskily into her neck when she would twist in the arms that bracketed her body against his chest. He would trap her between the counter, sunshine striking the room aglow in these nearly blinding seas of light, mouthing at her throat and tugging at her shorts and hitching his fingers so deep into her heat because all Wonwoo wanted to do was make her feel good.

Opening his eyes again, Wonwoo saw the stars rather than her face. The high was disseminating past his lungs and mingling with the pain that festered in his heart, concocting something that hurt so wonderfully, in all the right places, in all the right spots.

He was a fucking mess.

It wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t care enough to fix himself.

—APRIL 15TH.

Why did Wonwoo keep coming back to that café? The number of times he’d sat down with conviction that today would be fruitful—today, the eloquence would flow from his fingertips like perfectly pitched music notes and the symphony would read as beautiful and mellifluous as it sounded in his mind. Today, he was going to write.

Except, he accomplished nothing of the sort.

Repeatedly tapping his index finger against the space bar, he waited for the right adjective or phrase to leap out—to grasp him in a headlock even—whatever it took, Wonwoo was willing to sit there all afternoon until one fucking word conjured in the infinite blankness that was his imagination. He reached for his drink, only to take a sip of dry air that smelled like his earlier cocoa. Wonwoo realized the cup was empty. Had he wasted this much time already?

It pricked similarly to a bee sting. His passions felt impossible. A sigh upheaved from his chest and fingers curled into his hair, musing up the already disarrayed strands and slowly warping himself to look more and more like a mad scientist. Wonwoo removed his glasses and slumped back in the chair, rubbing at the reddish prints left on his nose. Writing had soaked itself in agony and he was going to remain in the storm of it until the bitter, ungratifying end.

‘Till death do us part.

And then, something struck.

Though it wasn’t what Wonwoo had hoped for.

Literally—it was your hand hitting the glass of the café window, which had jerked Wonwoo out from his self-pitying.

He scrambled to fix his glasses back on, your face clarifying in an instant. You smiled at him with your glossed lips, and he didn’t like the nuance of your countenance one bit. Watching you enter the café was jarring and uncomfortable and his fist immediately clenched, his index nail picking at the ruined cuticle of his thumb. Two weeks ago—that was the last time you had spoken. At the SRX building.

“Hey!” You sounded friendly. “Can I sit here?”

“Well, uh—”

“Great, thank you.”

You pulled out the chair across from him, then set your bag delicately on the windowsill. Wonwoo watched with nervous, fluttering eyes as you smoothed out your cropped skirt before sitting down, ensuring it was tucked under yourself appropriately.

“How are you?”

Gulp.

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s really good. I’m glad.” Your nails drummed once against the table. “I actually didn’t plan on coming here, but I saw you as I was crossing the street, and I thought, ‘I should stop by and check in on him’ because, y’know, we haven’t been talking.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Slap your hand against windows to get people’s attention.”

You swept something off the table with your palm, and this sunshine-like laugh turned your entire face to sweetness, but it wasn’t entirely earnest, and Wonwoo bit into his lip because you fucking terrified him. He caught your sparkling eye and wanted to melt.

“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, you’re good.”

“What are you working on?”

“A paper.”

Obviously, he was going to lie. Whether or not you could pick up on his lie was beyond Wonwoo’s control at that point. He didn’t know what you wanted, or why you were interrupting the flow of your very organized scheduling system to seemingly toy with him.

You didn’t respond to his paper comment. There was a thick silence between you despite the distant clattering of dishes, bubbling coffee machines, and conversations that coalesced into one big buzz.

Wonwoo bit the bullet.

“Something you want from me, yeah?”

“Not… exactly… I mean, after you left me at the SRX building, I wanted to get very angry about the whole situation. My day was terrible, and you responding to my idea with that sickly look on your face didn’t help. But I thought about it. You said no. I can’t ask anything more of you, y’know? I have to respect what you said.”

“Oh.” Wonwoo unclenched his fist, stretched out his long legs a bit more. “Yeah, sure. I get it. Thanks for understanding.”

“I just didn’t think my idea was that bad.”

“Well… no. It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.”

A twitch to your lip suggested you didn’t believe him. Wanting to clear the air a bit, Wonwoo stopped slouching. He sat straighter and lowered the lid of his laptop, inviting the space between you.

His mouth opened, and then closed.

Fuck, just breathe you idiot—he cursed at himself.

You did that little head tilt thing, half-smiling at him, looking radiant underneath the café sunlight and so oddly patient with his tied-tongue that Wonwoo was miraculously able to find his words.

“There is nothing wrong with your idea. I made it seem like there was. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to help you write a romance story, for personal reasons that would be useless explaining. But you seem very confident in everything you do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Hm, well, thank you for believing in me. Romance can be a touchy subject—I didn’t think of that, and I get it… I guess I felt more insecure about your reaction because writing is the one thing I can’t ace. I do need help with my story, even if I don’t want it. Well, it’s just the truth, isn’t it? There are some things I can’t do!”

You chuckled at yourself, and Wonwoo thought it to be actually endearing. All your hard edges softened in that moment.

“So, I haven’t made any progress in my story, which sucks because I’m operating by deadline—” reaching into your bag, you unveiled a small, compact mirror, using it to remove something invisible from your eyelash, “—do you have any writer friends that would help me?”

Wonwoo scratched his nose.

“Uh, with the book?”

“Yes.”

“None.”

“What?” The mirror snapped shut as you gagged at him. “How do you have no writer friends? Isn’t that your major? Literature? Do you even have friends that aren’t Seokmin?”

“I’m a math major for fucks sake.”

“You’re fucking joking, Wonwoo. Please, tell me it’s a joke.”

He leaned back, folding his arms and propping an ankle onto his knee. You were still gaping at him, and he wanted to smirk.

“What’s wrong with math?”

“Nothing. Math is… math,” you gritted, shoving the mirror back into your expensive-looking, gold-buckled bag, “but why math? Why straight math? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”

“Man, Seokmin really didn’t tell you fucking anything, did he?” Wonwoo chuckled. Or, maybe you had only heard the things you wanted to hear, which was what Wonwoo assumed.

“Like I have space in my brain to remember the multiverse of information that constantly comes out of his mouth.”

“So what is there space for then?”

“You're toeing a dangerous line.”

“Well, I like math and writing.”

"And what kind of papers would you be required to work on as a math major? Did you stumble across some quintessential theorem that nobody else really cares about except for you and all the other pocket-protector wearers out there? Or is this a Good Will Hunting scenario? Even better—are you waiting for someone to walk by behind you and see all that really complicated mumbo-jumbo on your screen and think to themselves, 'woah, this guy is really smart. He's working on a paper with numbers, and I only work on papers with words. Where did I go wrong in my life?' so you can develop some sort of alternative complex that writing just isn't giving you?"

Wonwoo cocked his head at you, perplexed.

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” He felt a laugh in his chest, but he pushed it down. Wonwoo had never met anyone like you before. “You made up everything you just said.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I go on tangents. It’s just something I do.”

“Damn. I can tell.” Wonwoo rubbed at the corner of his eye and slipped the ankle off his knee, further spreading his legs. “You like hearing the sound of your own voice, yeah?”

He always hated when people bothered him at the café, especially when he was trying to write. Today, it was different.

“Well, that’s true.” You beamed at him so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. “The most beautiful sound in the world, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Thought so. Ugh, I just can’t believe you have no writer friends to hook me up with.” He watched you slouch forward, slapping your arms across the table. “I’ll have to go wait outside Gildan Hall and start ambushing all the smart-looking literature majors.”

Wonwoo found himself examining your perfect nail polish.

“Good luck with that.”

“Can you at least try to sound more sympathetic?”

“You don’t seem like a person who appreciates sympathy.”

“Pft. According to who? I like being comforted when the time is right, and you’re not being very comforting.” You groaned into the table.

“You like being comforted?” He scoffed.

Your head popped up, and you were pouting. “At certain times, yes. Most times, no. It’s a complicated system. No one’s really cared enough to learn it except for Mingyu, and that was by force, and I think even he hates it. But I’m not asking for the moon. Just a reasonably sized chunk of it. I have to be worth something, right?”

“What’s life without someone catering to your every whim at the drop of a hat, huh?” He couldn’t help but mutter with sarcasm.

“Yes, exactly! See—you read my mind.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue.

“Ugh, now where’s my stupid phone?”

It was in your purse. Immediately, your eyes lit up.

“Jesus Christ. I’m gonna be late to my electrolysis!”

Like a burst of lightning, you shot up from your seat and quickly fixed the cream-white purse back over your shoulder. It reminded him of that time at the mall. One second you were engrained into a tangent, and the next you were scrambling about, attempting to recover the lost time in your meticulous schedule.

“If you think of anyone, please text me!”

Wonwoo nodded his head.

Now, there was a vacant seat before him, left slightly tugged from the table due to your hectic departure. For a moment, he just sighed, feeling the breath emerge from somewhere so deep in his chest that it ached. That was the thing about you—in a confusing turmoil, you managed to fill him up when he felt empty, but then empty him once he felt full.

He didn’t know what kind of person you were.

But there was an odd thrill to it that Wonwoo couldn’t articulate.

—APRIL 18TH.

Sat with Seokmin at the boy’s dining room table, Wonwoo popped a purple grape into his mouth while flipping a pencil between his fingers. The two had been staring plainly at their last problem from the math homework, but the question was horribly long, and his handwriting had morphed from legible penmanship to the most slurred hieroglyphics. Wonwoo wanted to dump a ramen packet into some boiling water and call it a night. He’d devoured a whole stem of grapes. His head was pounding and his stomach growled for a meal.

“Oh! You see—this is what gets me every time!” Seokmin exclaimed, leaned over his scattered papers, shoulders hunched with strain, “I mess up one multiplication in a matrix, and it screws me all up! Now I have to go over—uh! My fucking pencil just snapped.”

“Good,” Wonwoo mumbled, pressing a hand along the groove of his stiff neck, cracking it, “take it as a sign to give up.”

“We’re so close.”

Scooting the chair back to stretch his legs, Wonwoo then snatched his phone off the table. It was nearly ten at night.

“I’m hungry, and I don’t care anymore.”

Seokmin sighed, “are you going to eat now?”

“Yeah. Any ramen left?”

“It’s in the box sitting on top of the fridge. Soup broth is in the cupboard beside the microwave. I think there’s some eggs, too.”

Wonwoo easily grabbed the noodle packet off the fridge. He asked his friend if he wanted a bowl as well, and Seokmin agreed, abandoning their math homework after his defeating pencil-snapping incident. While they waited for the water to start bubbling over the stovetop, Seokmin had joined Wonwoo in the kitchen, though he leaned against the counter, holding his phone six inches or so from his face. Wonwoo had never seen anyone text that fast.

Gosh—he didn’t even need to ask who it was.

Noticing a few smudges on his glasses, Wonwoo lowered them down to the hem of shirt, beginning to massage the marks away.

“Our math final is the twenty-eighth, right?” Seokmin asked.

“Should be, yeah.”

“Thanks. If it’s on the twenty-eighth then I can definitely go.”

Wonwoo slid the glasses back onto his nose.

“Go to what?

Taptaptaptap—Seokmin’s fingers were practically electric.

“Uh, this thing that Her is having… at her parents’ house… like… a big dinner party… I’m helping her plan it… just need to make sure… I’m free those days… there! Okay, all settled.”

At last, Seokmin had clicked off his phone and slid the device back into the pocket on his sweatpants. Wonwoo folded his arms, staring at his friend with a deeply furrowed yet confused brow.

He sucked in a helpless breath.

“I don’t get you, Seokmin.”

“What—why?”

A few hot droplets of water had leapt from the pot, slightly scalding Wonwoo’s arm. He promptly ripped open the ramen packet and submerged the noodle brick, poking at it with chopsticks.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, “are you obsessed with her?”

Seokmin laughed, sounding astounded.

“No, I’m not obsessed. I’m just helping. We’re friends.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Setting the chopsticks beside the stove, Wonwoo turned around again, habitually crossing his arms low along the chest.

“I guess I don’t understand what you get out of that relationship.” He admitted. “Why can’t she do shit herself?”

“Ha!—That’s an interesting question.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s not that.” Seokmin lifted himself onto the kitchen counter, his head thumping back against the wooden cupboard. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. And—I meant it’s interesting to see your interpretation of it. Like, my friendship with Her.”

Wonwoo nodded. He wasn’t going to coax anything out of his friend that he wasn’t already willing to say. In fact, Wonwoo had only begun talking to Seokmin back in the early, rainy days of September, since they ended up in the same discrete mathematics course and happened to choose seats right next to each other. Their bond had formed fairly quick, but they never really conversed about topics more intimate than school work and their own interests.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, don’t apologize. I mean, I totally get why you’re curious.”

Seokmin glanced down at his knees, scratched his chin.

“Uh—well, what did you say, anyway? Why can’t her do shit herself? I mean, her life is super busy. Her mom’s a writer and editor for that popular fashion and beauty magazine you always see at all those glamour stores—Stunning Monthly—something like that. Her’s dad is this business tycoon guy. He works with my dad, actually. I’ve known Her since high school. Our families are close, so naturally we’ve spent a lot of time together. Her family picked up all their stuff and moved into Hillcrest on account of her dad needing to relocate for work.”

Wonwoo remained silent at the revelation, even though he was urged by curiosity to badger Seokmin with questions.

“But, uh—without all my non-essential rambling—the relationship with her parents is tumultuous. Who doesn't have a shaky relationship with their parents, though? A few lucky souls, probably. But they've set things up for her quite well, in my opinion. Her mom got her a job at the Milestone—that fancy beauty place down Bank Street? She has a makeup chair from time to time and works reception. She’s definitely gonna graduate Cum Laude with some big fancy scholarship. Not to mention the little power couple thing she’s got going on with Mingyu. She just tends to be…” Seokmin winced, massaging his shoulder, “she’s just a bit unpredictable. It would be way too easy for things to start falling all over the place. She’s a busy girl so I figure it’s nice to help her out. Keep things organized.”

Wonwoo bobbed his head, thinking.

“I guess I’m curious about the book thing. I mean, if everything is so perfectly laid out for her, and she’s so busy all the time…. why write a book? That takes months, extreme dedication, planning out the ass… it’s loving everything you’ve written and then hating it so atrociously… I don’t know,” he sighed, shrugging with confusion, “if I were her, writing a book would be the last thing on my mind.”

Folding his arms, Seokmin leaned back against the cupboards and agreed. “I know. But sometimes she just lurches onto random things out of nowhere. One year she practically turned her entire living room into a freakin’ art studio and I slipped on an open tube of paint on the floor—nearly popped out my tail bone. To be fair, her passion projects never last long. She never has the time, as you said… I know you’re not helping her anymore. She’ll probably drop it without help.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin answered, smiling, “just like that.”

For some reason, Wonwoo gritted his teeth. He would hate for you to discard the feat so readily, just because he couldn’t pitch in as initially planned. Yes, writing was not always a fruitful cherry blossom tree and sometimes chalking down one sentence was equivalent to a month of effort and squeezing out all the creative fibres in one’s brain, but there was so much worth and occulted beauty to it at the same time. It was the art of expression.

Wonwoo thought it was quite cruel to deprive oneself of the ability to express and articulate things as they coursed through the fragile skin and the warm veins, and chiefly, the heart.

“Anyway, maybe I didn’t really answer your question,” Seokmin laughed, “but, y’know, don’t worry too much about turning down the book. You’re right. She’s got more important things to focus on, as I was telling her over and over, and—oh! Fuck, the ramen’s bubbling!”

Wonwoo quickly twisted around as the water began spilling over the edge and sizzling like fried meat. He lifted the pot off the piping hot, orange element, to which Seokmin joined him, twisting the stove dial to a much lower heat. Blowing at the white froth, Wonwoo waited a precautionary minute before returning the pot.

Once dinner was ready, they gathered back at the dining table, entwining the noodles with their chopsticks and hardly allowing a second for the ramen to cool before they were shovelling in burning mouthful after mouthful. The bite in Wonwoo’s stomach was gradually appeased. He soon felt warm, and full, and less tempered.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?” His friend glanced up from his phone.

“So…” Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, his fist clenched. “I guess what—from what I understand—if I don’t help Her, or if she doesn’t find someone who can, then the book just won’t happen ”

At his observation, Seokmin nodded, seeming unbothered.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

“That’s sad.”

“Hey, you two just aren’t destined for each other,” he replied, slurping his noodles, “you were right back at the café.”

Picking up the white and blue patterned bowl, Wonwoo prepared to drink the broth, feeling the delicious heat fan back against his face. Once he finished eating and helping Seokmin with the dishes, he planned to catch a late-night bus back to his apartment above the quaint pottery shop. He didn’t know if he would sleep or not.

Maybe, however, that would give him time to rethink some choices, even if he shouldn’t trust the musings his brain happened to curate past nine at night. Especially any musings concerning you.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: Sorry to message you this late.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: I’ll keep it brief: I’ve given your book idea some thought, and if the offer still stands, I’d like to help you write it. Though, I understand if you want someone else’s help.

[ Wonwoo | 11:50 pm ]: Goodnight.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: AHHHHHHHHHHH

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: good morninggg

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: no that’s so perfect

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: okay. OMG. there’s just so much we have to sort out. I’m trying not to overwhelm myself lol

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: thank u for giving it more thought. I’m excited to plan everything and see u again ofc :)

[ Wonwoo | 12:55 pm ]: Likewise.

—APRIL 24TH.

Since last November, Wonwoo hadn’t invited many guests to his apartment—not even his older brother, who had never stepped foot into the building after Wonwoo originally signed the lease. Seokmin visited once or twice, but everything was curt, and while there had been one time that Vernon slept overnight on the couch, it was hardly notable.

Knowing that you were going to be at his apartment in a few hours was a very daunting thought. Consequently, Wonwoo had done something he hadn’t properly completed in months: clean.

It wasn’t like he just threw out the garbage and wiped down the kitchen counter either. He legitimately cleaned, picking over his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, not allowing one coffee cup or coaster to seem even vaguely incongruous. He fluffed out the couch pillows and vacuumed the floors. He went through his entire room, tidying up piles of clothes on the floor and aligning every book on his shelf. For the first time in months, Wonwoo threw open his heavy curtains, pure sunlight engulfing the space in such a bright glare that his eyes stung and he hardly recognized his own bedroom. Most importantly, he remembered to hide the pill bottle in his nightstand.

After all the anxiety-driven cleaning was done, Wonwoo collapsed onto the couch and stared plainly at the ceiling, the reality of what he just accomplished beginning to sink into his pores.

What the fuck?

He doubted you would care even microscopically if his apartment wasn’t perfectly swept and polished and artistic like a photo from an interior design catalogue. But at the same time, it would have been impossible for him to leave it alone. The burst of productivity undoubtedly left Wonwoo rather hot and sweaty, so he opted to take a shower before you arrived. Standing beneath the cool water and taking slow, languid breaths helped ease his nerves.

And, for the first time in what he imaged to be—months, Wonwoo dried himself off with this feeling that everything was okay.

Not good. Definitely not great. But okay.

While he buttoned up a pair of blue jeans, Wonwoo heard his phone ding from his desk. Reaching over, he tapped the screen.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:05 pm ]: hi, I’m almost there

His chest fucking lurched.

Roughly jerking open his drawer, Wonwoo pulled out the first shirt he saw, tugging the white long-sleeve over his head before he wiggled his feet into a fresh pair of socks. Once Wonwoo found his glasses, he sat on the edge of his bed with his phone.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Okay.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Would you like me to come down?

God—he felt like his stomach was going to collapse.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:08 pm ]: no that’s okay :)

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:09 pm ]: it’s really pretty down here

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm]: sorry I was looking at some of the pottery / painting stuff. it’s the staircase down the hall, right?

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm ]: unit 102?

[ Wonwoo | 12:12 pm ]: Yes.

He reminded himself to breathe. Calm and slow and lifting the pressure that dug so bluntly into his lungs. The webs began to burn away. It had been a narrow escape, but it was successful.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:13 pm ]: heyy, I’m outside

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wonwoo walked to the front door. His fingers brushed the knob in a flash of doubt, though his mind had already committed and now the door was pulled open and you were there, just as you said.

“Well, hello.”

He nodded at you, and then gestured for you to enter.

“Where should I take off my shoes?”

“There’s good,” Wonwoo answered, pointing to a textured mat in the corner that you proceeded to leave your simplistic heels on.

How absurd was this? Never in his life would Wonwoo imagine you at his apartment of all places—the one girl whom he adamantly tried to avoid because you were his gleaming opposite, and everything that you were, certain and in control, scared him. You were gazing around with your hands politely clasped together, ignited in the fulgurant sunlight, a small smile on your mouth.

“Wow, you’re very clean.”

Wonwoo stepped after you, maintaining a shy distance.

“It doesn’t normally look this neat,” he admitted, watching you readjust the strap of your tote bag, “I did clean for you.”

You turned to face him, and your laughter filled the space with a refreshing, long lost tone that made everything brighter. His fist clenched up anxiously and he knew his cheeks were pinkening.

“Um, cleaned or power-washed?”

He merely stared at you. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?

“Jeez, don’t look so afraid. I’m joking. And I obviously appreciate the effort.” You spun back around, continuing to walk past the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “It’s a lovely place, and it’s definitely got your personal touch. Oh—this is a cute mug.”

He breathed out, unfurling his hand and stretching his fingers until the air in his knuckles popped. You began wandering in the natural direction of the bedroom, and so Wonwoo followed, his eyes drifting up the jeans that hugged your legs and your sashaying hips, to back of your delicious-smelling hair. What was that scent, anyway?

Manuka honey?

But it was just a trivial glance, really.

Nothing meaningful.

“Is this your room?” You asked, stopping at the doorframe.

“It is.”

Biting your lip, you peaked inside and started to grin.

“Do you care if I go in?”

“No.”

He tried not to crumble right there on the floor. Wonwoo’s room was his sanctuary, a fortress, something that barred out everyone but himself and granted him the freedom to do whatever he pleased (whether it was self-detrimental or not). The thought of others in his room was a gash in that perfect sanctuary, in which he could see the walls bleed out all their comfort and familiarity. His ex was the last person to be in his room, typically sprawled across the bed with a good novel in her hand.

It was a sour, sour reminder.

“Oh, and there’s the bookshelf,” you pointed out, “how fitting.” That penetrating gaze of yours roamed his desk and his bed and all his knickknacks in between. “Hey, why’s there a balcony outside?” You then asked, settling your hands onto the window frame and leaning out, the wind fluttering minimally through the layered curtains.

“Just a remodelling error,” Wonwoo explained, “it was supposed to be removed, I think. Never happened.”

Allured by curiosity, you leaned further out, examining the ladder that led up to the building’s roof. He looked at you again, specifically the arch in your back and the way your arms were planted so firm at the windowsill. He looked at the sunlight rippling on your cheek and your lips that appeared to sparkle, like you had kissed glitter.

“You definitely go up there, right?”

“Yeah.”

Half-shutting the window as to keep the breeze flowing, you chuckled. “I figured… so, I guess we should stop dawdling and get to the meat and potatoes. Is here a good spot? Or do you want to go back to the living room?”

“We’re in my room anyways,” Wonwoo commented, pulling out his desk chair and promptly sitting down, “so, why not.”

“Cool. Let me get my laptop.”

You slipped the tote bag off your arm and sat on the edge of his freshly made bed, being careful not to rumple the sheets.

“Okay!” Your hands echoed a series of soft claps. “I’m all ready now. I’ll try my best not to ramble—oh, and please, please don’t interrupt me until I’m done. I’m going to be very pissed if I lose my train of thought and I’d like this meeting to remain pleasant.”

Wonwoo nodded. “I know.”

You flashed him a brief smile.

“So, as you know, Mingyu and I’s fifth year anniversary is coming up in December. My gift to him is this so far nonexistent book. We’ve been through a lot as a couple, and as individuals, and I want the book to fully capture this journey we’ve been on and how much I… appreciate him. Also, I’m going to introduce a second, special element—” a hand plunged into your tote bag and suddenly a video camera was revealed, “—I want to record some of our brain sessions, and, like, our voyage of figuring this shit out. I like mementos. I hope that’s okay.”

“… Do I answer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then, yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Secondlyyy—” you lilted while scrolling a little ways down the notepad on your laptop, the video camera stuffed back into your flower-and-honeybee-patterned tote, “—there are a few places we’ll need to visit—not the actual places that Mingyu and I went to since we grew up nowhere near here—but places that more so have a strong resemblance to the ones in my memory. I feel like it will help me with visual aspects of the writing. I’m a very visual person. Y’know, setting up the scene and technical things like that. I like touching and feeling and seeing and breathing everything in. I want all my senses on fire, basically. Like… the way your lips feel after eating insanely hot noodles.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Wonwoo didn’t really care. He just agreed.

“Lastly, I want to make a schedule for us. So, I’m kindly asking you to set up a schedule of your own—work shifts, doctor’s appointments, tests—the like, so I can incorporate them into my own hectic life and make us one colourful, super writing schedule.”

And then, with a big, winded sigh, you shut your laptop.

“That’s it. Done. Thoughts?”

Honestly, the entire premise didn’t sound all that terrible. He had braced himself for the worst, but you were unsurprisingly organized and had pinpointed all your desires quite clearly. Of course, he knew it was going to be sheer hell—flames up to his knees and desert sun beating on his skin like a hot skillet frying butter. You were structured and dedicated and Wonwoo was none of those things.

No doubt, Wonwoo would have to learn to deal with you.

You would either be his trigger or his pulse.

But, even worse, you would have to learn to deal with him.

“I’m just following your lead on this,” Wonwoo announced, lacklustre of much interest, resting his hands against his stomach while he rotated back and forth in the swivel chair, “whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. How soon do you want the schedule thing?”

“Like, as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Do you really have no questions?”

Wonwoo scratched the side of his head.

“Uh, have you got anything written down yet?”

“Yes,” you propped open your laptop again, “an intro.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t question me. It was already difficult enough to write it, and I agonized over it for hours.” You pouted, slumping slightly.

He shifted up straighter in the desk chair.

“I’m sorry. I was just wondering. It’s good you started.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you. “Do I get to read it?”

Your feet crossed and twirled together. He didn’t think you had any nervous ticks, but that was something easy to pick up on.

“Um, not yet. Not until we officially start.”

“Okay.” He answered with a gentle voice, noticing your swaying feet still again and a bit of rigidity dissipate from your body.

Well, he didn’t really know what to do at this point. Wonwoo suspected you were constrained by more tasks for today and your time with him was limited. It’s not that you were sitting in an awkward, stifling silence, but he would rather occupy himself with something rather than nothing, because nothing left his heart to race.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Glancing up from the laptop, you shook your head. “I ate before I came here.”

“Are you going to be leaving soon?”

At that, your face crinkled with laughter. “Sick of me already?”

Wonwoo crossed his arms. “No. Just asking.”

“Well, I have a wax appointment soon. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so.” Finally, you looked up, and your eyes clicked with his in a way that made the fine hairs along his neck prickle coolly. “Does that answer your question?” A subtle grin pulled at your soft lips.

“It does, yes.”

“You don’t like having people in your room, do you?”

He huffed at the observation and delved a hand through his black hair, feeling the dampness slide against his fingers. “Not particularly.”

“You should have just said that.” Rising off his bed, you closed the laptop and shoved it back into the tote bag.

Wonwoo’s entire chest jerked. It felt like a ten-story drop.

“Are you leaving?”

“Mm, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.”

Why did his throat close up just then? Why did his vocal cords abruptly feel so coarse and tight? Why was his heart hammering? He didn’t mean to project the wrong impression. He didn’t hate you in his room. It just felt misplaced, and new. Like picking up a puzzle piece from the box and attempting to jam it into a different puzzle.

“It’s fine. Seriously. I should be early, anyway.”

Wonwoo stood up, realizing he needed to breathe. “Um… would you like me to walk you down?”

You stopped on your way out, faced him with a pretty smile.

“That’s okay.”

But then you did something rather strange; your hand sank into his firm upper arm and suddenly you were leaning into him, so carelessly close that he could feel the fanning, light warmth of your breath against his neck. Wonwoo’s head started to spin, and he thought a cloud had enveloped the room because his vision fuzzed.

“Sorry,” you took a step back, removing your hand, “you just smell really good. Like an ocean or something. It reminds me of this beach in Puta Cana. But your hair’s all damp and fluffy so that’s probably why. That was weird. I’m sorry.” Again, you laughed.

Why the fuck did you do that? He was almost angry. But not at you. At himself. For reacting in such a giddy, stupid way. Your touch and breath had burned him and there was this sharp, cutting flare inside Wonwoo that didn’t want to let you leave.

“All good…” he mumbled, sounding groggy and slow.

“I’ll see myself out then. Bye!”

And with a final chirp, you left, the front door closing in the distance while he could only stand there, shuddering and strangely hot and beyond confused. Wonwoo moved to swing the heavy curtains shut, the entire room succumbing into its usual shadiness. He sat on the edge of his very neat bed, removed his glasses, and buckled over while rubbing his veiny, pale hands through his hair.

The feeling was so lost and suppressed to his memory.

Wonwoo didn’t even know what it was.

He was relieved you were gone, but he also wished that you were still there, leaning out his open window with the wind and sunshine in your face. It was a sight so sweet and equally intimate.

Who are you?

What are you doing in his meaningless life?

—APRIL 28TH.

Wonwoo had finished his math final with half an hour to generously spare, and now, he was sitting, bored, sketching his pencil against the last page of the thick packet. The professor wouldn’t care.

Hopefully.

On one hand, Wonwoo knew he should really just stand up and hand the damn thing in, but on the other hand, he hated—no, abhorred being the first person to return a test, especially an exam at that. Wonwoo was pretty smart. He knew that about himself and he never bothered to maintain the guise he wasn’t. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t pretentious. If he had to wait until the final fucking minute to hand the packet in, solely to avoid being the first student up, then so be it.

Besides, there wasn’t anything too pressing that required his immediate attention—minus the pertinent schedule he was supposed to make and have sent to you approximately three days ago. You had called him last night, to which the phone crackled with a loud, static bark of his name as you admonished him for his lateness.

“I told you three days ago I wanted the schedule! Three days! I can’t believe this. What’s so hard about making a schedule? Beep boop, you press some buttons on your laptop and it’s done. It would take ten minutes tops! Ugh, I’m so done with you, Wonwoo. In fact, don’t call me back—don’t even text me until you have the schedule!”

And then the line had collapsed, leaving Wonwoo to stare rather expressionlessly at his phone screen, the boy huffing out a breath of tendrilled smoke while he relaxed on the apartment roof. That had been his first experience sat on the receiving end of your seasoned quips, and it left him with this very profound emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and the shell of his body was nothing but a wooden nesting doll. It had been such a long time since he genuinely cared about disappointing someone. Wonwoo had grown far too complacent with the feeling of disappointing himself.

That would never motivate him to do anything.

But you were different. In the sense that Wonwoo mostly remained proactive out of fear you might bite his head off.

From somewhere near the back of the room, Wonwoo heard chair legs scraping, and he eagerly flexed his fingers while observing a girl with the slickest ponytail he’d ever seen march past him to the professor’s desk. She set her packet down. He thanked her. She left.

Jesus Christ. Finally.

“All finished, Wonwoo?” His professor mumbled in a tone that hardly escaped his own lips, glancing up at the boy expectantly.

Pushing up his glasses, Wonwoo nodded.

“I suppose it’s harder for you to sit there and wait than it is to write the actual exam, isn’t it?” The professor noted with an almost undetectable smirk as he slid the test packet inside a tan-coloured folder, to which Wonwoo turned January cold.

“I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugged, pretending to feel unbothered when in reality his skin was slithering like a snake pit at the thought of being even marginally perceived. “Maybe.”

“You have a good summer, alright?”

“Thanks. You too.”

Wonwoo swept a quick glance over the classroom right before he left, noticing that Seokmin was sat beside the wall, one hand tangled tight into his black, ruffled tresses as his pencil scribbled all over the paper like he was writing pure nonsense. He probably was.

And Wonwoo meant that in a nice-this isn’t really your sweet spot, but you’ll manage nonetheless-way. After leaving the classroom, Wonwoo thought he might go home and plunge head first into his oasis of bedsheets and flat, foam pillows that he loved so much, and permit himself to decay until it was physically impossible to lie down any longer. But he decided against it at the last minute, turning up at the café instead with his shoulder-strung book bag and the timely urge for a scone. He then sat down at his favourite table.

Pulled out his laptop.

Opened the document he was at incessant war with.

The last scene he’d written was breakfast.

“Uh, okay. Orange juice… or orange juice?”

“Did you say orange juice?”

“I did.”

“So… chocolate milk?”

“Ha! Funny... is there any sort of correlation between being a complete nerd and making such well-woven jokes?”

“Not sure. But I’ll get back to you when I find out… thanks. Your tea is sitting on the island, by the way.”

“Thank you, Won. Oh—you even put it in my Woodstock mug!”

“Yes, why are you so surprised that I remember?”

“Because it’s always hidden at the back of our cupboard, behind ten other mugs that we certainly don’t need and all our plates. I mean, I guess it’s my fault. Half of them are from my mom.”

“It’s sweet.”

“It takes up too much space. But I can’t tell her no.”

“That, you’ve got to work on.”

“The Christmas thing isn’t happening anymore, if that helps. I think the thought of having to cram all my family into our living room for a night was what motivated me the most. My mom said she’ll send us poinsettias instead. I think that’s way easier.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Believe it or not, I can assert myself. Sometimes.”

“No, no. I do believe you. I’m proud. Okay—bottoms up.”

“How’s the combination of venlafaxine and orange juice?”

“I don’t know. Juicy?”

“Better juicy than anxious?”

“You could say that.”

Right, back when Wonwoo actually had the willpower to make himself breakfast rather than slapping a mixed berry Poptart into the toaster or worse, nothing at all. Back when he could wake up before noon without feeling nauseous enough to curl into a ball and drape the sheets over his aching head. Back when he actually took his medicine. Her face beaming at him from across their table had always been like a glass of sunlight and citrus. She had been his own vitamin.

Wonwoo knew he wasn’t going to write. He was just going to stare and mope and ensnare himself in the pinwheel of memories that blew over him whenever he had the gall to reread his past literature.

The Woodstock mug. She’d taken that with her.

He decided it was strange and sometimes irritating how love, broken or not, could suture itself into even the most mundane things. Orange juice was just that—juice—the carton he used to pick up and impetuously drop into his grocery cart every so often. Now, it wasn’t juice at all, but slow mornings, steaming tea kettles, and reading together on the couch with legs all tangled up until lunch time.

Now, Wonwoo couldn’t drink it at all.

Breaking the lemon raspberry scone in half, Wonwoo dropped a flaky piece into his mouth before it got too cold, and then proceeded to close the document. There was no way in hell he would write, and while he loved drowning in his own misery in order to snuff any glimpse of productivity more than the average individual, he thought it might be worthwhile to finally start that schedule.

[ Wonwoo | 8:20 pm ]: schedule.pdf

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: thanks

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: don’t piss me off again

—APRIL 30TH.

For an April morning, it was surprisingly bright. The sun was out in full and glistering warmth by the time Wonwoo stepped onto the sidewalk and began pacing down to the park, practically needing to squint the entire way. He almost hated it. Early mornings were not his friend, nor were the blades of light cutting across his glasses. But today was his first writing session with you and Wonwoo knew it was more than crucial that he was the furthest thing from tardy—it would be akin to willingly setting his hands inside a burning fire if not.

You agreed to meet at the park since it was roughly equal distance between Wonwoo’s apartment and some breakfast place you wanted to stop at. He thought it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to shoot him a text asking if he wanted anything, though Wonwoo declined nonetheless. It was damn near impossible for him to eat a bite of food until lunch time, hence his expression softening in confusion when he at last climbed into the passenger seat of your sleek silver car and was greeted by you passing him a cold tea.

“Am I… holding this for you?” He wondered, sitting still.

You shook your head. “No. It’s yours.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Yes, I realize that. I can read, thank you.”

Wonwoo wasn’t going to argue. He simply shut his mouth, clicked on his seatbelt, and set the tea into the cup holder. He then began looking around at your car’s interior. Everything was exceptionally clean and smelled sugary, like iced gingerbread.

The thing was, Wonwoo still wasn’t very sure how to talk to you, and most often there was the stiffest frog in his throat whenever he sat around you in silence for too long. Your thumbs were tapping against your phone at light speed. It reminded him of how Seokmin was texting you back at the boy’s apartment when they were studying for finals. Wonwoo couldn’t help but wonder if Seokmin was naturally more inclined to respond to you out of friendship or fear. Maybe even a pinch of both if that was possible. Another quiet minute passed by.

“Okay, fuck, sorry,” you suddenly spluttered at random, quickly slotting your phone into the GPS holder, “just some shit with my mom. Um, okay. Yeah. We can get going.”

“All good," Wonwoo answered.

“You know where we’re off to?”

“Vaguely. The track by Caldwell High School.”

He watched you flit him a smile. “That’s the place. I’ll explain more once we get there. And, by the way, I am expecting you to drink that tea. It’s not anything crazy. It’s oolong. Only a bit of caffeine.”

“I drink coffee, you know.”

“Yes, and it probably makes you jittery and insufferable.”

Wonwoo preferred not to comment.

The car ride wasn’t too long. Actually, Wonwoo did love a good car ride. He remembered the long trips he used to take with his family to the water park when he was a child, the sensation of the breeze blowing into his face and how different shades of green would scatter in through the windows as the sun hit the tree leaves like emeralds. There was something so limerent and sadly distant about the memory that Wonwoo felt his chest hurt. Even if he were to take that same road, and smell the same breeze, and see his skin glow with the same hues of the forest, he doubted it would feel the same.

His mouth had gone awfully dry. Wonwoo then reached for the cold tea sitting in the cup holder and took a sip, suddenly very appreciative that you had thought to get him something, anyway.

And while he couldn’t be too certain, Wonwoo wanted to think that maybe this would be a good memory, too.

After the half-hour long car ride, Wonwoo made sure to stretch when he stepped out into the empty parking lot. It was cloudier now, a bit more of a breeze to help counteract the warmth that remained in the air. You came around to join him, twisting out a cramp in your leg while adjusting the purse over your shoulder.

The walk to the track field wasn’t long, no more than a few minutes, and Wonwoo obediently trailed at your side until he witnessed the bleachers slowly coming into view. It resurfaced memories from his own high school days in PE, which Wonwoo had actually been quite successful at despite his distaste for sports and their atmosphere in general. He remembered liking kickball the best.

You sighed in a wistful tone while staring across the marked asphalt and fresh April grass. “All high school tracks look the same, don’t they?” Then, you carefully set your purse onto the bleachers.

Wonwoo rolled his shoulders, taking a more observant look around. It wasn’t strikingly different from the track at his high school.

“Sure. I guess.”

“I mean, there are some differences. We had ditches by our track. Come to think of it, I honestly believe they put them there for kids to hurl in from heat stroke or over-exertion… that’s what I did, anyway. It was right before I had to do triple jump. I hated it because you had to really build up speed. I didn’t want to run. So, even if I hadn’t thrown up from heat stroke, I probably would’ve made myself throw up some other way. Straight to the nurse. She gave me a popsicle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’d rather throw up than hop, like, three times?”

“I said it was the running part I didn’t like.”

Wonwoo couldn’t imagine purposefully making himself upchuck in order to get out of something. If his anxiety was terrible enough, then he wouldn’t even have to worry about it, really.

That was its own mechanism of disaster.

“Running is eighty-percent of Activity Days," Wonwoo said.

You clicked your tongue at him. “Exactly. And I’d do anything to never run. I tried to sit in one time with the seventh graders. They were in their art block and they were doing painting under the trees; birdhouses or something. But their teacher kicked me out. And she didn’t even let me take the fucking birdhouse that I was painting.”

“The nerve,” Wonwoo answered, scratching his temple.

He proceeded to take a seat on the metal bench, rubbing his hands together. He still didn’t know how Mingyu fit into everything.

“So… what’s your plan, here?”

You sat next to him, folding one leg over your thigh and proceeding to reveal a journal that you had stuffed inside your expensive bag. The tips of your fingers skimmed through a few fluttering pages, until you stopped on one in particular that was ink-abused with cursive scribbles. Wonwoo assumed you did most of your planning on a laptop, hence his surprise to learn that you actually used a journal. He had a journal himself, though it hadn’t been touched in months. It mostly contained small poetic excerpts.

Next, you pulled out a pen.

“This is how I first ran into Mingyu. At my school’s track field. He was new and good at all the activities. I swear, his name spread like wildfire. Anyways, I haven’t figured out all the bits and bobs. I want to really soak in the feeling of—oh!” Suddenly, you grasped the journal back onto your lap, the pen hitting the paper in a cursive ribbon that Wonwoo could hardly read. “I just thought of a great line. His eyes, I wanted to soak in them, like an oasis.”

You stabbed the paper again to make a period.

“Not bad,” Wonwoo commented.

“Okay, here it is!” A black case was pulled from your purse, and once you unzipped it, Wonwoo realized it was the video camera that you had initially shown him at his apartment. “Okay, I want you to film some stuff. The field, obviously. I need it from different perspectives. It will help me with setting the scene later on.”

“Why do I have to film it?”

“Because, Seokmin told me you’re quite handy with film equipment stuff, and I don’t want to drop it. So just do it, please?”

Accepting the video camera from your hand, Wonwoo sighed in agreement. Flipping open the side-screen of the camera, Wonwoo began clicking some buttons and adjusting the focus. Luckily, he was familiar with the particular camcorder thanks to a film education course he’d taken outside of school.

While you busied yourself at the bleachers with starting up your laptop, Wonwoo began collecting footage, slowly panning the camera across the vast length of the gravel track and the grassy soccer fields situated beyond. He kept a concentrated eye on the side-screen to ensure the lighting wouldn’t change too drastically. A wind had picked up from over the forest, and he could see how the clouds were consequently being pushed along like herded sheep in the sky.

Once he brushed back the floppy, black hair that kept tickling his face, Wonwoo lowered the camera and turned to you.

“So, where else should I film?”

You were typing something, and didn’t bother looking up.

“Go across the field. Film from the other side.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to go all the way over there?”

“Yes. Walk, crawl. Skip, hop. I don’t care. Just do it, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed out, feeling tired and yearning to go home, “I hate how seriously you’re taking this, y’know that?”

Your fingers continued blitzing against the keyboard.

“Nobody likes a complainer.”

Ironic, he thought, but obviously kept to himself.

There wasn’t a point in expecting any sympathy from you—that, he already knew—which engendered Wonwoo’s long, trudging walk from one side of the track to the other, the wind irritably blowing his grown-out locks over his glasses every time he attempted sweeping them back. Hoisting the camera back up, Wonwoo adjusted the side-screen and began his same ritual of steadily panning the camera along the landscape.

You appeared in the view, still sat on the bleachers, though nothing about your face or figure was too discernible. It felt like you were a background character in a painting, just a little glob of acrylic.

“All done?”

Finally, you had glanced up at him with a smile.

Wonwoo nodded. “Unless you need anything else filmed?”

“No, that should be enough. The track is most important.”

“Right.”

He tried giving back the camera.

“Actually, do you mind keeping it?”

“Um, okay. But how will you look at the footage?

“Dropbox. We’ll share one. Upload the clips there.”

Wonwoo plopped himself back down on the bench, fitting the camcorder into its black case. He pulled the zipper along the seam.

“How much longer do we need to be here?”

“Not that much. Just let me finish this paragraph.”

There was a dull pain throbbing at the front of his skull, edging down to his temples—across his nose bridge where his glasses pressed in more tightly than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath, trying to escape the feeling, the nausea, the chills that were beginning to seep up his neck as the wind blew turbulently against him. It would be embarrassing if this happened here, right in front of you. The hard lump had suddenly lurched forward in Wonwoo’s throat but he leaned his head down last minute and swallowed it despite the roughness. No, everything was okay.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wonwoo opened his eyes, staring down at the trembling hands buried in his lap. Subtly, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan over them. He assumed his face was reflecting a sheer, sickly opacity.

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sure. Now look me in the eyes and say that.”

Again, Wonwoo swallowed, but he managed nonetheless.

“Nothing’s wrong. I get headaches sometimes. That’s all.”

“… Oh. Well, I’m basically done here. I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk a lap around the track with me, but maybe we should just go home. I mean, how bad is it? Your headache?”

Yes, yes. Home. Wonwoo wanted to go home. He had only been away from his apartment for a solid two hours, and yet all his mind and body’s energy had completely drained. He felt dried out, withered, fragile as tempered glass. Going home sounded cosmic.

“It’s getting better. I wouldn’t mind walking with you.”

“Oh! Cool. If it gets really bad, just tell me.” You then spent a minute collecting your belongings back into the cream purse.

Wonwoo immediately looked the other way, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair, mouthing a string of guttural curse words directed at his discombobulated head. Because what the hell was he doing? All his relief and peace had just suckled itself down an invisible drain. Why on earth did he agree? Why?

“I think this will help me, too," you said, having left the shiny bleachers behind, instead kicking the pebbles at your feet, “if we walk the entire track, then it’s like we did the four-hundred meter.”

“You’re supposed to run the four-hundred meter.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I’m surprised you hate running. I mean, you walk so fucking quickly sometimes.”

He heard you snort, clearly amused by his observation.

“It’s because I’ve mastered the art of sashaying. To have a perfect sashay, you can’t walk too slow, but you also can’t walk too fast. It’s like a strut. You need to have confidence while you do it. It lets people know that you’re serious and professional. I’m not dragging my feet, but I’m also not in a rush. It’s the perfect pace.”

Wonwoo sniffled and scrunched the glasses up his nose, continuing alongside you at a pace that was rather aimless.

“I didn’t realize there was a science behind sashaying.”

“Now you know,” you declared.

Wonwoo’s upper lip quirked slightly, and a small grin appeared on his face, which was starting to dapple with colour.

“I don’t sashay, do I?”

At that, you laughed, “no, you amble.”

“Yeah, I’m an ambler… which basically means I’m an unmotivated, pointless person who will probably go nowhere in life.”

For a moment, you stopped walking, and you merely furrowed your brow at him while your forehead creased with thought. Wonwoo stopped as well. He raked back his fluttering, windswept hair and smirked, flashing his teeth. The behaviour was uncharacteristically snide and a bit of a dig at your bluntness, but he couldn’t help it.

“Don’t remember, huh?”

“No… but it sounds familiar.”

“You told me that, the day I met you—that people who walk slowly are unmotivated and pointless. Their life is a waste, basically.”

He noticed your eyes shift up toward the right, as though you were pulling the memory forward from the intricate files of your brain. And then you started to smile, and it made Wonwoo smile, too.

“Oh, I do believe I said that.” You started walking again, and he followed. “Ha! Wow, you’re right. I said that. I’m so funny. I mean, I was right. You only walk slow when you have nowhere to be.”

“I did have somewhere to be. I was going to meet you.”

“Well, then you just didn’t care.” He felt your elbow press shallowly into his rib. “See what I mean? Unmotivated and pointless. And, honestly, I would have taken your apathy as more of an insult if it wasn’t for the fact that you seem to treat most things like that.”

“So, I’m just supposed to accept that you’re calling me a loser? How do people normally react when you say things like that?”

“Things like what? They’re just my observations about the world. You are a person in this world. I was making an observation about you. Albeit, it came across strongly. But I don’t know. No one ever cared about being gentle or sugar-coating with me. Gives you tough skin, y’know? Metaphorically, of course! I always moisturize.”

Wonwoo scoffed, smiling at your nonchalance. “The way you word things is honestly fascinating.”

“Psh. How do you even remember that?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem that hard to remember. It was a pretty memorable, somewhat awful experience, to be fair.”

“Awful?” You retaliated in unprecedented disbelief, pushing into his arm until he allowed his tall frame to stumble. “Try again.”

“Interesting?” Wonwoo substituted, his heart thumping.

Your eyes were narrowed at him, glimmering with a sharpness that made his fingers clench into anxious fists.

“… That’s a little better.”

He exhaled a soft breath of relief.

As you began nearing the full circle, Wonwoo realized his head had eased from its horrible aching and the chills dampening down his neck were gone. Everything didn’t feel as awful compared to before. He was still tired, and his energy was sputtering in tiny, dying sparks, but at least his desire to crawl under the earth and degrade to his bare bones had subsided into something less morose.

“I heard you were having a get together next week,” Wonwoo decided to ask, rounding the last bend in the track.

“Oh, the dinner party?”

“Yeah. Seokmin’s helping you plan it, right?”

“He is. Which I appreciate. My mom is usually the one in charge of everything, and she loathes it. But, I mean, when we try to help her, she just ends up fretting even more—says we’re basically getting in the way and ruining it. I don’t know. She’s such a snappy perfectionist. Seokmin can have fun dealing with that.”

Wonwoo almost made a thoughtless comment in response to your story—he’s probably had eons of practice with you—though the pieces connected just in time and his mouth sealed shut.

“Your dad can’t help either?” He questioned instead.

“Ha! No way. My dad helping is a recipe for fucking disaster if I’ve ever seen it. He’s painfully bad at decorating, can hardly be trusted to cook or invite anyone from the guest list. The most my mom allows him to do is set the table.” You then scoffed, shooting a pebble forward with the tip of your shoe. “I swear, he knows exactly how to push my mom’s buttons. The faster he does it, the quicker she kicks him out and he’s absolved of all chores. What a cheat, huh?”

“Hm, yeah… is Mingyu going?”

“Of course.” You smiled. “He always goes.”

At that point, you had circled back to the bleachers. Adjusting the bag strewn over your shoulder, you heaved out a longing sigh.

“Well, that’s four-hundred meters in the books.”

“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”

You cackled, “not even close. I think I was right to avoid it.”

—MAY 3RD.

Wonwoo slid his pharmacy badge through the time-machine until he heard the beep. After an eight-hour shift, he was hungry and tired, but Wonwoo also knew the second that he got home, his urge to eat and desire to sleep would be gone. Instead, he would spend his midnight staring up at the ceiling, thinking. About anything and everything, and nothing at all. When the first cracks of dawn light would spill in from under his curtain, then he would close his eyes.

It was all very typical.

He stood outside the store, phone in hand, waiting for Vernon to pick him up because Wonwoo hadn’t felt like walking home despite the softness of the nighttime wind and the alabaster moon’s shining ambiance. The mirage was pretty and he enjoyed it, but his feet were too sore to inch him another step. Luckily, Vernon didn’t take long.

Luckily, he was the only one of Wonwoo’s few friends with a sleep schedule just as horridly fucked up as his. It was eleven at night, but on a weekday? The dead, empty street testified for him.

“Heyy, Glasses,” Vernon sang in his throaty voice as Wonwoo climbed into the passenger seat, “you look like a prostitute standin’ there, waitin’ for me to come get your ass. But a sophisticated one.”

The interior didn’t smell heavily of weed, he noted. Thank fucking god, Vernon had finally paid someone to dry clean it. Either that, or he took the initiative into his own hands.

“I highly doubt you have ever seen a prostitute in your entire life. And the fact you think they’d be standing outside a pharmacy at one of the quietest parts on this block attests to that.”

“God, I hate when you get all technical n’ shit. Such a stiff.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, well. You’re always tired. N’ for the record, I have seen a prostitute, outside Room 319. It was a week before Christmas; she had this huge coat on, walkin’ up to people in her pink heels and this crazy eyeshadow that made her eyes pop. I bet she’s a nice girl.”

“Mhm. I bet she was.”

“Oh, you’re a cunt, yeah? You don’t believe me.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll take you one day. Room 319’s got a table with your name on it. They’ve got this one shot, the Stabilizer— it’ll put you down like a fuckin’ sick dog but it gets you the best drunk of your life. Maybe we’ll even run into Pink Heels lady. She’s our Halley’s Comet.”

“Halley’s Comet only comes once every seventy-five years. “

“You know what the fuck I meant.”

“Not interested.”

Vernon blinked at him for a moment in the dull light, and then he sighed, forfeiting. He placed the tip of the key in the ignition, but he quickly removed it as though he remembered something.

“Wait, I’ve gotta ask—how’s it going with Her?”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Wonwoo reached for the seatbelt and pulled it slowly across his chest, debating how intelligent of an idea it would be to entertain Vernon’s curiosity. But he could also understand the allure. You were like this enigmatic myth that people craved to know about, even if it frightened them.

Wonwoo’s head collapsed back against the seat.

“It’s going well.”

Vernon spat out a boisterous laugh, a hand slapping down on his knee. “Jesus Christ. You’re so dry, man. That’s it?”

“I mean, it’s true. We’ve started the book. Or, she has.”

“Okay, and?” Vernon attempted to engage him further.

“And, what?”

“What’s she like, obviously? Is she actually a fuckin’ psychopath? Is she normal? Can she walk on her hands? I dunno!”

Wonwoo rubbed underneath his glasses. He didn’t really want to talk about you when you weren’t there. It felt like a Bloody Mary situation, where you’d magically conjure in the backseat to sinch your cold hands around his neck and wrangle him limp and lifeless. But then there were Vernon’s shimmeringly prying eyes that just wouldn’t stop burning Wonwoo no matter how hard he bit his tongue.

“I have nothing to say. She’s cool.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God.” Vernon slacked back into his seat, clutching at his steering wheel. “You just don’t wanna talk about it… oh! Shit. I just remembered. She’s having a dinner party tonight, isn’t she? In Hill Crest. Or as I like to call it, Rich People Neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, that’s where her parents live… how do you know that?”

“Shit!” Vernon immediately shuffled up in his seat and delivered a hard smack into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “We should drive down and check it out! Right fuckin’ now!” He was lit up with excitement, even though Wonwoo considered it a terrible idea.

“No. Absolutely not. And answer my question.”

“Was sittin’ behind Seokmin at Solar Pop, he talks really loud, happened to overhear some things—doesn’t matter. I think we should go! C’mon, allow some spontaneity into your life! Why not?”

“What the fuck do you mean, why? It’s a family party. With some close friends, which—in case you haven’t noticed—neither of us are. You can’t fucking crash a family dinner party. Who does that? Not to mention the fact that it's eleven at night. They're probably washing up. Sending people home. By the time we get there, it's lights out."

“Aren’t you her friend?”

“No. I’m just someone who’s doing her a favour.”

“Favours are from friends.”

“We’re. Not. Friends.”

“Okay—fuck, Glasses. Fine. We won’t crash the stupid dinner party. But don’t you wanna go for a drive or something? I’m tellin’ you, the houses are insane. Last time I went down there, it was for a big fuckin’ party some dude at your university threw. I think I ran this by you already, when I talked about tryin’ to chat up Her. I stopped by with my old friend—y’know, Dots, the guy that died from the overdose and everything. That party was crazy. It was in a mansion.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo had just finished massaging the throbs at his warm temples, “we are not going to Hill Crest.”

His friend swung his head in disapproval, making a tsking sound with his teeth. “Such a fuckin’ stiff.” He started the car. “It’s the fact I know you have jack shit to do tonight, or tomorrow.”

“I’m not gonna do some stalker drive-by on her house.”

“You don’t wanna do Room 319. You don’t wanna judge a bunch of richies sittin’ up in their ivory towers. I mean, it’s not like we’re eggin’ them or spray painting fuckin’ curse words on their eight-door garages. What do you wanna do?”

Wonwoo rolled down the window and leaned his face toward the moonlight, to which he could feel the wind brush up against his skin in feathery strokes, as though it were caressing him. He knew that Vernon meant in a general sense rather than in the heat of the moment. But in a general sense, Wonwoo would rather not be anywhere at all. He would rather do nothing, or even exist.

“Can you just take me home? Please?”

Vernon exhaled a defeated gust of breath and began to angle his tires away from the curb, the pharmacy lights pulled behind them.

“Yeah, ‘course. Mr. Boring.”

—01:49

Wonwoo hadn’t been able to fall asleep since Vernon dropped him off a couple hours ago. He’d anticipated that. Usually, Wonwoo wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t toss or turn, or pace circles around his bedroom, or count down from one-hundred, because even if he did, none of it would work. His mind would still be wide awake.

Hence Wonwoo’s decision to grab his phone. Staring at a lurid screen definitely wasn’t going to help, though he wasn’t trying to sleep, anyway. That conversation with Vernon was repeating in his head like a chattering bird, pushing him, pushing him, pushing him to find your Instagram and dig into your pictures because now Wonwoo was thinking of your dinner party and how vehemently you seemed to hate it. He saw that you had posted something quite recently, around the same time Wonwoo had left the pharmacy.

For a moment, his thumb hovered over the post.

He didn’t want to press it because he didn’t care.

Or, maybe he did.

There were multiple pictures in the set, and Wonwoo flicked through all of them. Some were of food, close-ups of your jewelry—you even included a picture with Seokmin. But then Wonwoo had settled on the last photo and something in his stomach convulsed.

He recognized the dress like a flash of light—the sapphire one with the glimmering detail that you had modelled for him at the expensive boutique in the mall. Of course, that arm hanging cheekily low around your hip belonged to your boyfriend, Mingyu. He had a champagne glass pressed to his lips, fitted in his black suit with his hair neatly combed and styled into place. The smugness in his face was stifling. Wonwoo rolled onto his stomach, his eyes refusing to drift from the picture for even an instant. He just kept staring.

Staring and thinking. Staring and thinking.

One minute spent staring at your smile.

The next minute at the low placement of Mingyu’s hand.

Another minute staring at your sparkling dress.

The next minute at Mingyu’s brutally cocky expression.

He would switch back and forth.

But Wonwoo didn’t really care. He was just bored.

And alone with his thoughts.

—END OF PART PART ONE.

NOTE! while i truly cherish & adore all comments, pls refrain from remarks such as "pls post part x" "i need part x" "when are you posting part x" while i do understand the sentiment, i find these comments very dismissive & kinda disrespectful! i don't prefer to post series fics and so i don't receive these often, but pls note that if you comment this i will delete the comment!

the fic itself is completely done, so all i have to do is get the parts ready for posting. however, bc this is the first part, i don't have a set posting schedule just yet. i think it will depend on roughly how long those who read the fic take to finish it! but i will be sure to make a post about it or include the schedule in part two once i figure it out!

again, thank u so much your ur patience :3

much luv!! 💕

#seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen x reader #wonwoo x reader #svt x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #wonwoo fanfic #svt fanfic #jeon wonwoo #svt scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen smut

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 11 months

Note

Hii can you do this with pietro maximoff 🤭 when u are riding him slowly so he just grabs ur hips and starts fucking up into u >>>>

yup something definitely throbbed while I read this😔 lemme give you my thots💌

PIETRO THOTS

18+ female reader, mndi

right so imagine this..

— he's laid flat on the bed, and you're straddling his crotch, his dick wedged inside as you slowly move over him. his hands on your waist, fingertips squeezing into your skin - holding onto you like he's restraining himself

— you're probs tired, knees hurting and cramping. softly whining as you circle your hips, winding and grinding around his cock - you want more, but again, you're tired, limbs seizing up. you're both desperate as it isn't enough, feeling as if you're being edged and teased

— pietro will be panting, his chest rising and falling quickly bc the way you tease over his head has got him all turned around, little bounces and winds over the top of his cock ?? drives him wild BUT HE NEEDS MORE💔

— he misses the feeling of his full cock pumping inside you, so he'd take actions into his own hands. he'd pull you forward so your chest is pressed to his and wrap an arm around your waist (basically one arm tightly hugging your lower back) he'd hold you there with his other arm wrapped around the top half of your back (think im overcomplicating it. he's hugging you to him basically lol) your face buried in the crook of his neck, tits sandwiched to his chest, that kinda thing (hot)

— he'd bend his knees which nudges you upwards, and he would just go to town. fucking up into you, his balls repetitively smacking your ass

— you'd both sound SO much different than before !! your choked sobs and cries into his skin with pietro's grunts and groans beside your ear

— as he gets closer, his hands would change place - now holding your arms behind your back (like when someone’s arrested) kinda man handling you, gripping you tightly and tugging you to meet his incessantly ruthless thrusts. fucking you deep and hard, drilling up into you

— he'd either cum inside or pull out and pump his cock and spill on your ass/ lower back

— when you both come down, he'd give you the sloppiest, dirtiest, slowest, messiest, filthiest, most carnal and primal, disgusting, lust-filled snog EVER. HIS HANDS AROUND YOUR JAW, TONGUES, THE LOT!!!!!!!!!!!!😔

— cock warming anyone?? would kiss down your throat and along your shoulder, stroking lovingly down your back, maybe playing with your hair bc its cute

— fuck me would you get some good aftercare🫶

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

#ask #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff smut #pietro smut #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro x reader

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saetoshis · 5 months

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꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ WHY SO STUBBORN? | shinazugawa sanemi

⋆୨୧˚ SUMMARY: being stubborn against sanemi doesn't always work!

⋆୨୧˚ MATURE CONTENT WARNINGS:

fem!reader, dom!sanemi, teasing, light degradation, bit of cunnilingus, pet name [baby - once], nipple play, creampie

he knows what he’s doing is working, and that’s what bothers you the most about it.

his nose nestles against your panties eagerly, then hesitantly, all for the satisfaction of your thighs squirming around his head in jagged rhythms. he finds every twitch and every shiver of your cadence to be beyond exciting, especially when he knows you're trying to resist it.

"don't act like you don't like this," sanemi murmurs with his face pressed against your now-wet panties. his voice carries a gruffness and ambition underneath its tone, while yours is shackled and constricted.

"you- hah, can't act like you can just snap your fingers whenever you want," you murmur between ragged breaths, voice strained from how hard you're trying not to show a weak spot - too much power would go to his egotistic head. "i'm not a toy..."

"no, you're not," sanemi grunts out the words between fervent licks and drags of his nose along your clit. he readjusts to kneel, gripping your hips in each hand and pulling your body down to meet flush with his. his broad torso curls over you, calloused hands dragging up towards your shoulders as he whispers, "unless you wanted to be treated like one."

"cut it out," you mumble weakly between panted heaves, and he knows you're just one step closer to snapping. your thighs shudder in place, fingers quivering against the sheets as he presses slow, dreadfully warm kisses along your neckline. your voice comes out almost as a whisper, "you know what you're doing..."

"that's right," sanemi leers with a sly smile, letting his tongue drag lines and circles along your skin. you can feel the tiniest, slowest ruts of his pants against you and it feels like you're about to burst completely. each tedious second passes and knocks at your strength like cracks in a stone wall. his voice drops low right against your ear, "tryin' so hard to keep it up, aren't you? what, you don't wanna feel good? c'mon, just give up... lemme help you, yeah?"

you shake your head, unable to speak, tension building up in your bloodstream like a balloon ready to pop.

"tch, gonna be stubborn, huh?" sanemi gives you an unruly, almost irritated expression. with his demeanor now, you can tell - he's got a lot of tension to release with you. he slinks your shirt up a bit, fingertips dragging against your stomach and up to your chest. he lets out a smug sneer as his thumbs catch your nipples, flicking and circling them enough to where you're shuddering and holding in gasps. "c'mon... you know you want it."

sanemi keeps one thumb attending to your nipple, the other adjusting his clothed cock to lay heavy against your clit as he slowly ruts back and forth. it's unbearable - your chest rises and falls in jagged manners, hips rocking instinctively with sanemi's. "c-can't..."

"can't what, huh? can't... take it anymore?" sanemi jeers, curling down over you to press dizzying kisses against your lips. his movements never stop, all with the intention to send you reeling over the edge. "you don't even have to say it, m'kay? just gimme a nod..."

you hesitate, eyes shut tightly before your head bobs in a desperate nod - it feels like you can finally breathe as you release all the tension in your body and refuse to fight the sensations.

“so good, aren’t you?” sanemi murmurs in a low rasp as he pulls and pushes away all of the fabrics separating his cock from your bare hips. with a fist around his shaft, he runs along the slick mess coating your folds with a sneer, “is this what you wanted? yeah, i know it is.”

only a whine falls from your lips at the moment he presses his heavy cock up into the hilt of your cunt, ragged breaths exchanged between the two of you in place of words. quiet, muttered ‘fuck’s leave your mouth as you let the jolting feeling of him sunken inside of you settle on your nerves.

“wanted me that bad, huh?” sanemi leers, breaths raspy and hot against your cheek as he lets his hips move in rhythmic, slow drags. he lets out little grunts each time he pushes, finding each enclosing tense of your cunt around him absolutely divine. “fuck, that’s it… just like that, yeah?”

you nod fervently, unable to make a coherent statement with the way your brain is boggling inside your head. each forward rut of his hips gets a bit faster, a bit rougher, a bit needier - all until he’s gripping your waist to hold you stable as he fucks into you with wet smacks. all you can mutter is a breathy, “f-fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“ohh, i know…” sanemi’s voice comes out in a rough chuckle, his eyes peering over your body and how it responds so enticingly to him. your thighs shudder, fingers quiver, eyebrows furrow with each jolting grind. his abs shudder and flex intensely with each heavy, wet rut and he feels like he’s about to explode. “i got you, lemme see that clit…”

sanemi’s tongue sticks out ever so slightly as he focuses his thumb on your swollen nerves, letting it match in time with his rough movements. each circle of his digit makes you shudder, thighs squeezing around his hips desperately. “g-god… gonna make me cu-“

a voice cracking whine leaves your lips as your head lolls back, eyes following suit as you shudder and pant shallowly. sanemi is enticed, watching every movement and noise you make with lusting eyes and an unforgiving throb in his cock. “that’s it, give it to me. cum, cum, cum…”

sanemi’s jeers egg you on until your head spins and your whole frame jolts and shudders with ecstasy around his cock. the lewd sounds of his ruts get wetter, heavier, faster. sanemi’s abs glisten with flecks of your mess, and he groans between heavy pants at the sight of it. “so nasty, aren’t you? yeah? you liked that, i know…”

you mumble incoherently, feeling twitches in your thighs as he grips them tight and fucks into you like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. his grunts get raspy and hitched in his chest, his muscles starting to jolt in desperation. sanemi’s hair falls messily as he leans over and leverages even more strength to fuck you with. “god, you’re so tight- fuck, baby, i’m gonna cum so hard- hah…”

you mutter slews of ‘yes, yes, yes’ as you shudder and furrow your eyebrows, bodies radiating heat with each panted exhale. you can practically feel the twinge in his cock with each desperate slap of his hips against yours, and with a few rough grunts and hitched moans, he bottoms out and cusses under his breath. heat spreads throughout you as you feel ropes of white spilling between your walls, and you heave out with a dizzied sigh, “so good…”

“yeah it was,” sanemi leers between slowing exhales, curling over you to cradle your face and press juxtaposingly gentle kisses along your lips. you can hear each other’s racing heartbeats with each connection of your mouths, and it feels like heaven. sanemi lets out a little soft chuckle as he pulls away to admire the flushed expression on your face, “see? not so bad to give in, huh? stubbornness would’ve gotten you nowhere.”

“yeah, yeah,” you laugh out softly, refusing to indulge his ego too much. “whatever you say.”

SAETOSHIS 2024. please do not copy/repost.

#ofc the first person i write when i come back is sanemi >_< hes my all time fave of kny at this point ehehe #besides tengen...#he will always be top fave for me ^_^#also idk if this is even good guys dont judge me LMFAOJ i been away a while fr #sanemi x reader #sanemi x you #sanemi shinazugawa #kny x reader #kny x you #kny smut #sanemi smut #cw degradation

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r3starttt · 1 month

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DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP | PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK | TAGLIST

Dealer! Abby who's got her hands round your neck and stomach, her hips against your ass, rubbing herself like she's the one in need. The ligh in the bathroom almost too Intense for your current state to deal with, the music too loud, making everythinf buzz- and her words, too hurtful for you to even focus on how wet she's got you with it. But she knows- she's aware she's got you ridiculously wet. "Think you can do better than me?" Her lips pressing a kiss right on your earlobe, her breath hitting your skin. "No- Abs, please," all because you accepted some random girl's joint instead of looking for her- who you knew was about to fuck some other girl too. "Shut the fuck up." Thing is, she caught you first.

While your hands keep yourself in balance against the sink, her fingers pull towards your chest, underneath your shirt which she takes with her hand, exposing a bra she very much knew. "Gotta be fucking kidding me" She mocked you. "You're a fucking whore, mhm?" every move accompanied by a wet kiss on your neck- lips sucking and nibbling at your skin with no shame, her reddish eyes looking at you through the reflection. you just blabber in denial, feeling her other hand tightening around your neck, the callouses of her fingers harsh against your skin. "No? you're not a whore?" The vibrations of her laugh hit your skin, almost at the rhythm of the music outside. "Then why're you wearing this, just a coincidence?" she voices almost like a long grown. "Abs-" it wasn't in fact, any coincidence, but she was too mad and annoyed by your stupid voice right now and your drunk-high blabbering to care about any word coming out your mouth that wasn't whimpers. "Shut the fuck up." Her fingers graced over the cups of your bra, tracing its pattern, skimming the lacey material before pulling the cups under your breasts.The reflection in the mirror humiliating. some baby hairs cascading on the sides of your face, quivering brows and a stupid smile half biting- sucking at your bottom lip and your breasts now fully exposed, your nipples begging to be touched. It was giving you a headache.

Her nails wrapped your perky nipples, pulling and pinching until she saw your reflection- that stupid look on your face- as she played with you, the hand on your throat left, going down yoru ass to cup and grip at the flesh, her index finger pulling you from the belt loop. “Think she could’ve made you cum?” she kept the palm of her hand steady against your hip, slowly moving back to your lower stomach, down your zipper until her palm cupped your cunt over the pair of jeans you were wearing, the fabric suddenly too thin yet too thick. You shook your head relentlessly, blabbering quiet no’s over and over again until she’d had enough fun with you.

“Haven't even started fucking you right, you're already drenched" her fingers slid right above your clothed cunt, underneath your jeans. Her fingers rubbing the smallest and slowest circles over your clit. Her other hand left your nipples, all swollen and sensitive- she rather forcing you to look at your reflection, hugging your neck tight enough for you to follow her unspoken command. “You're fucking wet, all cause I'm being mean to you? yeah?" you nod your head, letting her run her thick fingers down the slit of your cunt, aching for her to just pull your panties aside, touch your twitching entrance properly. “Want me to fuck you? want me to use you?" Abby’s eyes were red-ish, half leaded and looking at you pitied, cruel. Your nails hit the cold of the sink, the notion sending and awkward shiver to your whole body. “Please,” she laughs at how pathetic you are, all from just her fingers which she didn’t took long to push into you, they slid with ease, like you were made for her. It was embarrassing for you, but her? the whole scene before her feeding her ego, no one could ever make you this stupid. “see? sucking my fingers right in like the whore you are" you grind back onto her fingers, your walls clenching around them. you could feel your cheeks burning at the sound of your slick folds, the neediness of your hole to be filled. “You're gonna be fucking loud, and say my name when you cum. Let that bitch know who’s fucking you , yeah?”

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drabblesandimagines · 6 months

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Dove (part nine)

Leon Kennedy x female reader (bodyguard trope, slowest, slow burn I swear, a few swears in this one) Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight.

The click of the lock – unsure how your ears even picked up on it at all with the ghost of the alarm still screeching around your skull – makes your stomach churn as Leon heads out into the garage, off to face the unknown.

What if it’s one of those… those Lickers, stalking around the house, waiting to wrap him up in one those awful tongues, fling his body from side to side?

Fuck, your chest feels impossibly tight, like there isn’t even space in there to take a deep enough breath. You squeeze your eyes shut, sitting upright on the sofa, forcing yourself to count - in, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold out… If those things are out there, you try and placate – your breathing steadier than it was but heart still pounding furiously - Leon can handle it. He’d said so himself that he had a lot of experience so that must count for something, otherwise he'd more cautious and less cocky when he’d strode out the door.

He is coming back – you repeat it in your head like a prayer, maybe if you say it enough times it’ll make it true.

You two had been about to kiss. He needs to come back.

Leon heads straight to the trunk of the SUV to rummage through the duffel bag that he’d stored there the previous day. You’d been polite enough not to remark on why it had been accompanying him to the bathroom and out on his perimeter checks, but it could only go on so long without being commented upon. It seemed a good compromise to leave it locked in the trunk, whilst still having enough on his person to get by. He helps himself to a couple more rounds, two flash grenades and two straight up grenades, though he sincerely hopes he won’t be dealing any of those out so close to the house. Attaching everything to his utility belt, he takes a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. His heartrate is elevated, adrenaline pulsing through his veins from a combination of the alarm, what might be waiting for him behind the garage doors… ..and the fact that he was a millisecond away from kissing you.

Need to address that later.

He won’t have the chance to if he doesn’t get his head on straight, though. He checks his ammo one last time, clicks the safety off and undoes the padlock on the garage door, lifting it up so fast it bounces off its hinges as he tucks himself to the side, preparing for an ambush.

Nothing but a strong gust of wind.

He walks forward, slowly, gun raised, and sidesteps out, keeping his back pressed against the outer wall. It’s a fraction different being in a rural setting, surrounded by fields than it is to be in the depths of an underground facility, not worrying about being so exposed. No-one else here to have his back, so this’ll have to do.

He edges around slowly, trying to keep his ears peeled for any movement above the wind – a heavy footstep, maybe a tile slipping from the roof – but there’s nothing but the rustle of the trees as the wind wooshes through. He keeps his eyes flickering between the horizon, the sky and the ground for any evidence that there was someone or something close enough that would trigger the motion detectors, but nothing is to be found.

Leon circles the perimeter two more times before retreating back into the garage and viewing the footage, trying to pinpoint the exact alarm that was triggered, though it doesn’t seem to be obvious. There’s nothing at all to be seen as he thoroughly watches each of the feeds, checking that there wasn’t some dark flash in the corner of one of something or someone retreating out of shot, but it all comes up blank.

Maybe the alarm was divine intervention, he muses, pulling the garage door back down and securing the padlock. He really shouldn’t be kissing the witness, should he?

His phone rings – Hunnigan. Of course, she’ll be keen for an update.

“Hi. Look, I haven’t forgotten,” he starts, hoping to deflect from a lecture. “Dove’s just got up, so-“

“Great.” Though she doesn’t sound sincere. “Patch me through to your laptop, we can have a video call and I can ask her myself.”

“Oh. Er…” He hesitates, trying to drum up an excuse. “Surely you’ve got a lot of other pressing matters on your plate than this. I’ll ask her now and then I’ll email through the intel, if there’s any.”

“Leon,” her tone is stern, “may I remind you that I’m the handler of this case and it is my right to speak to Dove if I want.” There’s a pause and Leon realizes a moment too late that that was his moment to placate her. “Are you hiding something from me?”

“No, of course not!” He sighs, frustration creeping into his voice. He knows it’s not professional, that he needs to keep his emotions in check, but it’s all starting to bubble over with the accusation. He can’t just waltz back in the living room, declare the perimeter is clear, shrug off the near-kiss and shove you on a video call with Hunnigan – it’d be emotional whiplash.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not hiding anything from you, you know me better than that. I just… I haven’t had chance to give Dove the last update yet, and I don’t want her to know about the CCTV hack.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think she needs to know.” “You don’t thi…? Agent Kennedy,” he knows he’s in trouble now – he can picture her rubbing her temples as she thinks how to handle this. “You’re aware I was the one who chose you for this assignment, and I can quite easily choose another agent and reassign you if you refuse to co-operate with myself and HQ.” “I am co-operating! And you know what, Hunnigan? You should trust me. I’ve never given you any reason to doubt that.” He huffs back. “I’ve been where Dove is, okay? She’s still shaken up, she’s fragile. I’ll tell her what she absolutely needs to know, but I don’t want to tell her things that will just pointlessly scare her.” “Oh, come on, you don’t want to scare her? You’ve been in that house barely 36 hours together and you sound like an overprotective boyfriend.” “I don’t.” He near enough growls at the accusation.

“You do – you’ve never made me chase you so much to get information from previous witnesses. Why do you care about her so much?”

“No, hold up - those fucks were not witnesses. All they cared about was avoiding Umbrella’s wrath, not wanting to fall victim to the fucking monstrosities they helped create. Dove was just trying to do her job, to try and keep the public safe – like we are – and look where it got her. She’s injured, in pain, locked up in the middle of nowhere, worried about being suspected of being involved, we just had the security alarm go off and-“

“Wait. Alarm?” He’s used to her typing whilst he’s on the phone, but this time it sounds a little more frantic. “What alarm?”

He exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I’ve just checked. Nothing to suggest anyone or anything’s been close. Must’ve been the wind – pretty gusty here today.”

“No, it’s just…” She trails off and Leon can hear her attack the backspace key. “We have it set so FSOs are alerted when an alarm system at any of the safe houses trigger. When did this happen?”

“About 30, maybe 40 minutes ago? I’ve done the perimeter four times, it’s clear. I’ll review the footage when I’m back inside.”

The typing ceases. “There’s nothing in any of the logs.”

“That a problem?”

“It’s set up to trigger a notification so we can get in touch with whoever we have out on security detail and check in. I should’ve got something.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs as if she could see, “maybe it’s glitched.”

“Maybe…” She trails off, scanning the information on the screen once more. “Okay, fine – a compromise. Go and speak to Dove, quickly tell her what you want to tell her and then video call me on the laptop so I can ask about the servers.”

“And you won’t tell her about the CCTV?”

Hunnigan sighs. “No, I won’t tell her about the CCTV. 10 minutes, understood, Agent Kennedy?”

He takes another deep breath, he’s mad at himself, irritated with the situation and the fact he’s on thin ice after that outburst, that’s for sure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The garage door unlocks and you jump to your feet, bracing yourself. There’s no denying the relief when you see Leon step back in, physically unharmed. You want to run over, to embrace him, but you stay glued to the spot.

“All clear, Dove. False alarm.” He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile but he can’t quite commit, quickly turning to lock the door behind him.

“Really?” You don’t mean to sound quite so skeptical.

“Mm-hm. I think the wind must’ve just hit the sensor a certain way.” He turns back, but doesn’t make to step forward. “Sorry I was gone a while – wanted to be thorough, you know? And then Hunnigan called just as I was going to come back in.”

“Oh, with updates?” You don’t know what you’d like to hear.

“Kinda.” He hesitates for a moment before moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down – I’ll grab some water, okay?”

He clocks the panicked look on your face, even more so than it was when he’d left the room. Good going, Kennedy. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“Okay. Sure.” You mumble, sitting back down heavily on the couch and picking a spot on the coffee table to stare at as you hear him busy himself in the kitchen. He appears a few moments later, a glass of water in each hand and his laptop tucked under his arm. He places one glass down carefully in front of you and moves to sit on the other couch.

The distance feels too great for a man you swore was a millisecond away from kissing you not even an hour ago. Are there CCTV cameras in the house? Maybe Hunnigan had seen what was about to happen before the alarm had gone off and Leon’s getting reassigned. If he can’t know your real name, he really shouldn’t be kissing you either, should he?

“So, first of all,” your attention snaps back to agent. He’s opened his laptop up, placed it on the coffee table, and sat right on the very edge of the other sofa that it doesn’t look like it could be comfortable, “the President wanted the surveillance department back up and running as soon as possible. A lot of manpower has been dispersed to assist.”

“That makes sense - national security and that.” You wonder if they’re in the same office, sat in your colleagues’ chairs. Did they just… steam clean the carpets to get out the blood? Rip them out entirely and lay down rugs to cover the concrete floor?

They should burn the whole building down to the ground.

“In a way, but they are still working on tracking down the perpetrators of the attack. It also means that Hunnigan’s not been able to send a team to your place as yet.”

“So, I’m still a potential suspect?”

“Not to me.” He replies, firmly. “But I’m afraid it’s still something that needs done. In the meanwhile, er, she wants to know if you remember anything about the servers, specifically how they operated.”

You shake your head. “Not anything technical.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, just they’re struggling to regain access and, well…” He looks at you, sympathetically.

“I’m the only one left to ask.”

“Mm.” Leon looks down at the laptop then, a few taps and clicks as he seems to set something up. “Hunnigan would like to talk with you – pretty urgently – so I said we’d call after I’ve given you the updates. You ready?”

Leon spins round the laptop before you even had chance to respond, an outward call already ringing, the camera on and showing your rather surprised expression in a box to the right of the screen. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he hung up with Hunnigan – he’d wasted a few precious minutes putting the grenades and ammo back in the duffel bag in the SUV.

“Dove,” Hunnigan’s voice comes through the speakers first before her video appears on the screen. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. Thank you.” You shuffle in your seat as Leon gets up and circles round to the back of the sofa you’re sat on, crouching down to check the angle. “How are you?”

“Good - thank you for asking.” There’s an awkward pause, you can see her purse her lips before she pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose before continuing. “Agent Kennedy, you are not required for this call.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He can’t help himself still, apparently. “I’ll go just shower, then, if I’m not required.”

“Good idea,” Hunnigan bites back. “Go cool off.”

You shift slightly in your seat, not sure how to deal with the tension between the two. What had been said in that call? In the little box to the right hand of the screen, you can see Leon raise a hand, almost as if he was going to reach out to squeeze your shoulder. Instead he drops his hand into a fist, bounces it off the back of the couch twice and strides out of shot towards the bathroom.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Dove - the servers.” Hunnigan’s tone has changed – lighter, now she’s talking to you, and she’s typing along with every word. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Erm… Just everything that I told Leon for his report already, I think. All the active cases are stored on there – it distributes them randomly to operatives every morning via the terminals. I already have some pre-allocated when I log in – it must do them at some point in the night.”

“And the end of the day?”

You shake your head. “Nothing particularly different at the end of the day that we need to do. It saves periodically on the server as you update cases. Nothing’s saved on the terminals themselves – it would be a security risk.”

“And did they ever talk about the security embedded into the server itself?”

You hear the shower switch on from the bathroom, wonder if Leon will be using the same shampoo and conditioner… “Dove?” “Er, no. Not that I can recall being told.”

“I mentioned there was a breach on the database when we first met.”

“Yeah.” You swallow around the lump in your throat, wondering what she’s about to reveal. “Did they extract all the information, then?”

“They got nothing.” She sounds disappointed.

“But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s a lot of information, personal information too. You wouldn’t want that getting out into the wrong hands.”

“Mm, not entirely. The server wiped itself in result of the attempt.”

That doesn’t sound right. “Wiped itself?”

“Apparently”, she sounds skeptical. “it’s protocol.”

“No. I mean…” You shuffle in your seat, trying to think ahead of each word before you say it. “I honestly don’t know what it was meant to do in that scenario, but it doesn’t seem right that they’d set it up to wipe without any sort of recovery method, or a separate back-up in the event of a hack or a breach.”

“We’re of the same opinion, then.” She nods, a satisfied smile on her lips. “But I’m curious as to why you’re so sure.”

“Because some of the surveillance has been going on for months, occasionally even a year before enough intel is gathered to be escalated.” Sometimes you’d had to scroll through pages and pages of notes to get yourself up to speed before you even started analyzing the most recent intel.

“What do you mean by escalated?”

“Well, the surveillance team doesn’t act on anything – we’re just collating it as evidence for action then to be taken if deemed appropriate.”

“Do you decide that?”

“I don’t have the final say in it, but I write advisories.”

“How so?”

“Erm, like, this one was flagged up erroneously so it should be closed. This one is of interest, but not enough to act on, ongoing surveillance required. And then any more than that, I flag for review for the senior analysts.”

The shower shuts off.

“And they worked in the same building.”

Worked.

“Yes.” You press past the thought. “I don’t see why they would risk losing everything without some sort of failsafe – it would set the whole operation back to day zero.”

“Indeed, as that’s where we are now. They don’t even know where to start.” Hunnigan sighs and leans forward, rubbing temples with one hand.

“If you’re cleared of suspicion of the attack and breach, how do you feel about leading the division?”

“If?” You can’t help but bristle at that, the fact that she’d put the two things in the one sentence. Were you meant to be flattered at the offer?

“Yes – if.”

“I told you, this isn’t anything to do with me. I… I passed all my security checks at interview, we get vetted monthly without fail! If there had any doubt about my loyalties I would’ve been off the team and in custody immediately.”

“No need to get defensive, Dove. You have to understand where I’m coming from.”

“No, I don’t understand.” Tears burn at your eyes, though you’re determined not to let them fall. “I don’t understand how you think I could possibly have anything to do with what happened, that somehow I acquired those… those Lickers and let them, let them…” Your breath catches in your throat, the memories overwhelming you.

The bathroom door opens, but you don’t turn, eyes fixed on the screen. “Surely you have to agree it’s suspicious that you, out of all of those people, were the only one to survive, and yet with so little injury too.”

“Hunni-“

“I don’t know!” You retort, cutting across Leon’s warning to the agent. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. I don’t know why they didn’t bite my head off, rip me apart limb from limb, but… but I wish they had.”

“Dove,” Leon’s voice is soft, now directed towards you rather than the laptop screen, “you don’t mean that.”

“Noted.” Hunnigan’s tone is icy. “Thank you for your time.”

There’s a beep and the call disconnects.

You get to your feet, keep your head down, trying to make a beeline for the bedroom – it’s the only place you can go – but Leon steps in front of you, holding his hands up in front of him, as if he’s afraid to touch you, smelling sweet from the strawberry bodywash.

“Hey, look at me.”

“I’m tired, Leon.” You are, truly – suddenly and inexplicably feeling exhausted. Pathetic.

“Please.”

You look up then, defeated – you’re going to have to look up eventually - but there’s no tears in your eyes. His hair is damp and he’d dressed in a hurry, patches of his white t-shirt going translucent. “What?”

“I know it’s difficult right now – and I’m not just saying that, trust me, I’ve had that feeling when you’re the only one left and you don’t know why – but please don’t say things like that.”

You stare at him, but you don’t know what he wants you to say. “Sorry.”

“No, Dove,” he sounds exasperated, “I don’t me-“

“I really am tired.”

And he believes you. He wants to wrap you in his arms, pull you close to his chest, whisper promises in your ear, press kisses to your crown – anything to bring a spark back into your eyes than the look of defeat.

What had Hunnigan said?

“No, of course. You’re recovering.” He steps aside, leaves a clear path to your bedroom. “Go have a nap or just a rest – whatever you need. I’ll make us lunch when you’re up.”

You nod, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door behind you with a click and near enough collapse into the bed, mindful of your arm, muffling sobs into the pillow.

“Why do you care about her so much?”

The words ring around Leon’s head as he lays on the sofa, one arm tucked behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. It’s been over an hour and a half since you retreated into the bedroom, an hour or so since he last heard a muffled sob behind the door. He’d had to stop himself dialing Hunnigan’s number to find out what happened – tensions were too high. Why does he care so much? You’re beautiful, sure – always been a sucker for a pretty girl and that’s got him in trouble in the past – but it’s more than that, far more.

Maybe… maybe he cares so much because he’s never really had the chance to care for someone like this. He’s not had any sort of real relationship since before Raccoon City, one night stands here and there, but nothing of any domestic substance. You’re not entirely reliant on him, but it’s those things you’d do for a partner when they’re having a rough time. He could’ve been obtuse and unhelpful, watched you struggle in a foreign environment, but that’s never been his style – the wide-eyed, rookie cop who just wanted to help was still in there.

But what was he thinking earlier, nearly kissing you? You’re vulnerable, a prisoner almost, under his watch. He shouldn’t be doing that. It’s too much of a pressured environment, emotions and tempers are high – as the blow-out with Hunnigan had made abundantly clear.

He rolls to his side, cursing the world. Why couldn’t he have met you anywhere else?

You wake up, disorientated at first as to why it’s so dark. You’d retreated back into bed just before midday, surely Leon would’ve woken you for your medication at least. You sit up, allowing your eyes to adjust before hauling yourself out from under the warm covers and tentatively open the door, unsure of what the hour may be.

The living room is empty, an abandoned pillow and blanket on the sofa – Leon must be out on a perimeter check – but the garage door is ever so slightly ajar.

Leon’s never done that, even when he went out to search for a chair he’d got through the same routine and locked it up tight behind him. Maybe he’s grabbing something from the SUV and with you being in bed hadn’t felt it necessary to follow his usual routine?

“Leon?” You call out, cautiously.

There’s no response.

You walk slowly over to the door, trying to steady the building panic in your stomach, and peek through.

The garage light is on. The SUV is still in place, the garage door shuttered down and Leon is on his side, his back facing towards you, almost in a crescent shape so you can’t see his head, and the garage floor is smeared in blood. His blood.

You retreat like a coward – you should go forward, check for a pulse, see if you can do anything to help, but the panic is overwhelming. You make it only a good four or five steps when there’s that horrible, unhuman sound at the same time as something wet wraps around your ankle and yanks you down hard.

A tongue.

It’s one of those things’ tongues.

You scream, try and grab purchase on the carpet, your nails ripping up fibres but it’s not enough. You kick back wildly with your other leg, all terror and no substance, but the tongue begins to retract, yanking you along with it, the carpet burning against your knees as it drags you back into the garage.

You turn to look over your shoulder, tears burning your eyes, as the monstrosity waits on the hood of the SUV, dragging you to rest besides Leon’s lifeless body.

Lifeless and headless.

You scream.

There’s a bang – not of a gunshot, but of a door hitting the wall - and you’re up right in bed, heart pounding furiously against your ribcage, hard, shallow breaths but there’s no oxygen reaching the bottom of your lungs.

“Dove?”

The scream had come from your room and Leon can’t remember getting from the sofa to the door he’d moved that fast, throwing it open with such ferocity that it had banged against the wall, the handle leaving a hole in the plasterboard. He had his gun raised, cursing himself already for leaving you alone, only to find the room empty of intruders and you sat up in the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks, staring blankly into the space and breathing so hard it was as if you’d been sprinting.

He holsters his gun – safety clicked back on – and is by your side, crouched down, hand on your covered legs in moments.

“Dove?” He asks, softly.

You look at him, eyes wide in alarm, panting, before you grab his hand, squeezing his fingers in the hopes of reassurance, not quite believing you’re awake. “You’re… You’re okay.”

“Me?” He raises an eyebrow.

You nod. “You were… They were… I…” You swallow back down a sob.

“Hey, it’s all right. It must’ve been a bad dream.”

“It had got you, you were… You were dead.”

You squeeze his fingers again before letting go, trying to steady your breaths. “It felt so real.”

“I know.” He wasn’t a stranger to having such dreams, despite how many years had gone by. “But it wasn’t. I’m fine, see? Not a scratch or bruise on me.”

You nod again, shakily.

He gets to his feet. “Let me get you some water, hm?”

You wrap your fingers around his wrist then. It’s not a strong grip, he could pull out of it easily, but it’s enough to still him.

“Can you stay?” You’re not looking at him, eyes fixed on a random spot of the duvet.

“I’ll only be gone a moment, just to the kitchen and back.”

Your grip tightens a little around his wrist. “Please.”

“Okay.” How could he ever say no?

You shuffle along in the bed then, making space wordlessly.

“Are you sure?”

There’s only a slight tug on his wrist before he clambers carefully onto the bed – boots and all – lying back against one of the pillows and you shuffle to lean into his side, leaving a little space. He wraps his left arm around you without thought, pulls you in closer so your head is laying on his chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He begins to rub his palm on your lower back in soothing circles – mindful not to go higher with the bruising. He can feel the rate at which your heart is pounding.

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

“Can we just…?” You squeeze your eyes closed tight. “Can we just stay like this in silence for a bit? Please.”

“Of course – anything you need.”

You keep your eyes closed, trying to focus on touch to calm your heartbeat - relishing the warmth of his chest on your cheek, his palm on your back and the sound of his steady heartbeat. It doesn’t take long for you to relax again in his embrace, another wave of exhaustion rolling over you from the shock.

“Dove?” He asks gently, cautiously when you’re on the precipice of sleep.

You don’t reply, the effort too great.

“What are we gonna do, huh?” He whispers, giving you a light squeeze.

You feel him press a long kiss to your crown.

He’s just extinguished a cigarette, but he already needs another as his associate makes a beeline across the office, a shit-eating grin on his face. Fucker shouldn’t look so happy. He bangs the packet on the table to retrieve another, lighting it and taking a deep drag as a single printed page is laid before him. He looks down – a list of addresses divided into columns that mean absolutely nothing. “What’s this shit?”

“Addresses.” His companion answers, tapping the paper enthusiastically with his every word. “But, more importantly, a list of DSO assets. As you’ll see, there are quite a few of them, all dotted around the States.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, waiting for him to continue. “And I happen to know some of these are designated safe houses - equipped with state-of-the-art alarm and surveillance systems.”

“Right. Do you have a point?”

“Getting there. Alarm systems are all connected to the central hub, so yours truly worked his magic and set all active alarms on the system to trigger at the same time.”

“And why should I care?”

“You should care because only one alarm triggered, suggesting there’s only one in use.” His companion dips his hand in his pocket, pulling out another sheet of paper and a pen. He places it down besides the list of addresses to reveal a grainy CCTV still of a figure and proceeds to pull the cap off the pen off with his teeth, spitting it out on the table and circles an address.

“And that means…?” “That means…” He draws a circle around the grainy image of you laying at the bottom a stairwell, “I know where she is.”

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: Issue #2

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Your streak of bad luck continues as you find that the universe is not done putting you in harm's way. Luckily, you have grouchy Spider-man to save you.

Word count: 3,500 words.

Content: Slowest of the burn, near death experiences, the emotional whiplash of Miguel O'Hara being a rude bastard and a total softie.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

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According to an article that ran in the New York Times: one out of every 40 New Yorkers will have a run in with a Superhero in the time they live here.

That might not sound like much, but considering that nearly 8.5 million people live in this city, it adds up to a lot of people. In fact, most in your friends circle have their own anecdotal story to tell.

I ran into Tony Stark at the Brandy Library and he asked me for my phone number. Bit of a sleaze but he bought our whole table a round of drinks.

Captain America landed on my Fiat on Manhattan Bridge. He dented the roof, but he was very polite about it.

Daredevil was hanging out at the fire escape ladder above the Meatball shop. Gave me tips on what to order.

It's nothing short of a miracle that having lived in this city for as many years as you have that this is the first time you've had a Supes encounter.

It'll be a great story to tell at parties. You fell out of the Chrysler building and were rescued mid-air. It blows all the other stories out of the water. Though, you'll probably leave out the part where he wished he'd left you to die.

You stare blindly at your computer screen. There are endless rows of cells on your excel sheet no matter how far you scroll. Uninterrupted numbers and reference codes for insurance claims that are waiting for your attention. But the numbers and letters all blend into an indecipherable sludge soup. All you can focus on is: 'I should've let you fall.'

Heat prickles your cheek, as you replay his words in your head.

What the hell.

That was entirely unnecessary.

You didn't deserve that.

Over the course of the last 24 hours, you've played the scene on an endless loop in your head, until the memory is worn and scratched like a used up VHS tape.

Did you do something wrong? You must've. Who has ever heard of a Superhero treating a civilian in this manner? You’re just a hapless innocent bystander who fell out of a building due to a supervillain battle they started. To blame it on you and then call it a mistake. Isn't that something a supervillain would do?

Gritting your teeth, you feel yourself seething of the memory of the windows next to you breaking and shattering out of nowhere as a bird-person villain with mechanical wings tumbled past you. Next thing you knew you were tumbling out the window.

And then he saved you.

Did he mean to save someone else? Is that why he was so annoyed? But, you didn't see any other people falling from the building on your way down.

You replay the memory. Again.

The looming silhouette of his towering frame over yours as he sneered down at you.

He looked at you like he knew you. Like you had offended him with your mere existence. But you don't understand how. You've never met him before. Never met anyone who looked even remotely like him. You would've remembered a man with red eyes, they're not exactly common. Plus, you don't think you've ever met someone quite so tall. Your neck hurt with the angle you had to crane just to look at his face.

What could you possibly have done in your lifetime to piss off a Superhero you've never met before?

For that matter what Superhero is he anyway? You think back at the dark navy suit clinging onto every inch of skin, embellished by that bright angry red in the emblem of a spider.

Spider-man...

Except Spider-man is known to be a swell guy with a great sense of humor. Not a rude asshole.

Aren't his colors inverted too? You pull up the browser on your screen and google "spiderman outfit". There's over 800 million hits. In all of them Spiderman's suit is primarily red with blue embellishment.

Whoever the guy is, you don't think he's your friendly neighborhood Spiderman that every New Yorker knows and loves.

With a hapless sigh, you click aimlessly on your screen, trying to look busy at work for the next twenty minutes until you can go on your lunch break. You go through the motions of your soul sucking tasks. Tagging each insurance claim into one of the following categories: approved/rejected/further missing information required.

Peering over your cubicle wall to the wall of windows, you spy the section that has been zoned off since yesterday. The broken window you were knocked out of has already been replaced, but there's still shattered glass and debris nearby.

Your stomach drops, the phantom sensation of the ground beneath you giving way. For a brief second you swear you can feel the weightlessness of soaring through the skies without anything catching your fall.

You stand up from your desk, solid ground meeting the soles of your feet to remind you where you are.

The office.

There's a monotone drone of workers all around you grumbling and sighing just as unhappily. The quiet tip-tapping of keyboards of the working masses.

Is this the life you managed to escape death for?

Is this it?

It's kind of sad isn't it? You nearly died and lived to tell the tale, only to return to a life so unremarkable your brain didn't deign it necessary to provide you with any highlights (cause there are none).

The most exciting thing that has happened to you the whole of this year was being insulted by a grumpy superhero. The most you've wanted to live was during that span of ten seconds when you were falling out of a building to your death.

You glance at your clock, still 15 minutes before noon. You log out of your desktop anyway.

You barely make it across the street from your office. The light is green as you cross Lexington Avenue when the screeching noise of tires tears down the street and rips through your eardrums.

A yellow taxi hurtles towards you at full speed. Through the car window separating you, the cab driver is staring up at you with wide-eyed horror. In that fraction of a second before the hard metal is going to collide and shatter every bone in your body, you only have one thought: Oh god, this is going to hurt.

Life doesn't flash before your eyes. All you see is the familiar blur of shiny blue and red.

Go figure that's the only moment extraordinary enough for your brain to think it's worth replaying before you die.

There's a blunt and forceful shove to the side of your ribs. Softer than you would've imagined a two tonne vehicle slamming into you would be. It doesn't hurt. It reminds you of that time you played football with your cousin and he body slammed you to the lawn. You've heard about this phenomena, the brain will try to protect itself by going unconscious if the pain is too extreme.

But there's no bright light, when you open your eyes all you see is the familiar shiny blue fabric.

A firm weight wraps around your shoulders, and you recognize this, the feeling of being held as you're pulled into their solid chest. There's not enough time for you to look up, you're slammed onto the ground, the solid warmth wrapped around you, absorbing the fall.

The pressure wrapped around you shifts then lifts away entirely. When you open your eyes for a second time, there’s no one there holding you.

There's no one else there with you. Just the standstill traffic of cars and pedestrians gawking at you.

A concerned woman runs over to you, bending down to help you up on your feet. "Are you okay? That car came out of nowhere."

Your legs feel unsteady, wobbling as you put weight on it to stand up.

“I’m fine, I think,” you respond, and look down on yourself. There are no scrapes, just a bit of dust on your work-attire from traffic.

"You're so lucky, Spiderman was there to save you."

You blink up at the woman in dazed confusion and it takes your brain a few seconds to process what she's telling you.

Spider-man...

In your mind's eye the flashes of blue and a vivid red invades your vision. It wasn't just your life flashing you by. Not just a figment of your imagination.

He was here. He saved you. (Probably not) Spider-man saved you (again).

A wave of gratitude washes over you. You take back every unflattering thought you had about the man not five minutes ago. Rude? Would a rude man save you, not once but twice in one day? No, of course not, you probably just misunderstood him, or misheard. After all, if he truly regretted saving you, he wouldn't have done it a second time... right?

When you get back at your desk, there's a post-it tacked to your computer screen, with an angry scrawl of a handwriting.

'Look BOTH ways before crossing!!!!!'

You stare at the note, and the way the word "both" is capitalized and aggressively underlined.

Rude.

The universe is out to kill you. You're sure of it.

They say that death comes in threes after all. So no one can blame you for being a little bit on the edge after you've gone two for two within the time span of 24 hours.

You stay away from windows in tall buildings. You look both ways, twice, before crossing the street. You try to go straight home from work the minute you clock out from work, turning down any and all initiations with friends to go out after out of precaution. It's just not worth the risk.

And for a while it seems to work. For a while, there are no more incidents. A week goes by and your nerves start to settle and you are lulled into a temporary sense of security before it all goes to shits.

A ceramic flower pot on a windowsill tumbling off the sixth floor of a brown house by Chelsea that would have dropped on your head and split your skull if someone hadn't bumped into you from behind that you weren’t able to catch sight of.

A piece of scaffolding that comes loose and falls from a construction site in West Village as you happened to walk past, and would have been crushed under if you weren’t tackled away at the last second by someone who fled the scene before you could thank them.

A hot dog cart runs amok, hurtling downhill towards you between 184th and 190th street in Manhattan when the cart suddenly out of nowhere, against the very laws of physics like it’s being pulled by an invisible force and changes direction mere inches in front of you, hurtling through the air and crashing into the windows of a bodega instead.

Each and every incident leaves you with an ever growing sense of paranoia that this cannot be explained away by being merely pure bad luck. There are cosmic forces at force that clearly want you dead.

On Thursday, there are leftover cupcakes from a client conference. Mary, the secretary in your team, boxes up four of them for you and tells you to take them with you, because, "you've had a rough week, toots."

It’s not a flattering assessment of you, but when you see your own reflection in the mirrors of the office toilets, you can’t help but think it’s an accurate one. You look rough. Eyes bloodshot with deep furrowed lines underneath. Your face is gaunter than you remember seeing it too.

You take the cupcakes.

It's the first good thing that has happened to you all week, and as small of a comfort it is, you take it as a win.

You eye the box from your desk the rest of the day, squirreled away in your tiny cubicle. You are determined not to eat one while at work. Because you'll be damned if Matt from accounting catches a whiff of your cupcakes and asks you to share one with him. You want to properly savor them in the comfort of your home at the end of the day.

But as often is the case when you have something to look forward to, the seconds, minutes and hours tick away with a reluctant drag as if time itself knew you wanted the day to end faster and decided it'd be fun to flip yet another cosmic middle finger in your direction.

When it's finally time to end work, you get off your chair so forcefully it knocks it to the floor. You are practically jogging through the lanes of cubicles to get to the elevator, and nearly smack the security guard on the other side with how hard you swing open the front door.

It's pouring outside, which, of course it is. You take off your jacket and cover your cupcake box with it, because you're not going to let the universe ruin the one good thing you've got going for you this week, as you run towards the station.

The moment you step into the damp and sticky station any remaining sense of joy in you evaporates. There's a hoard of tourists swarming the subway paying no attention to their surroundings. Tourists wearing their caps and backpacks and wheelies knocking over a 'Caution Wet Floor ' sign as they gather in a throng in front of the subway map, blocking the way as you hear the train approach.

It's not that big of a deal. A train comes every two to five minutes, and if you miss this one, you'll just get on the next one. It's not the end of the world. Logically, you know that. Emotionally and spiritually however, the world around you has just taken a little bit too much from you for you to concede to this minor little loss.

You are going to make this goddamned train.

Taking a determined step forward, you shoulder and push your way through the throng of people to fight your way to the front of the track.

You push a little too hard. Your feet skid across the slippery tiles, leg buckling from your own weight and you lose control, tumbling forward.

In your peripheral view there's a blinding light approaching. There's wind beating the sides of your face, and you can hear the screeching metal of the train right next to you. Your foot drops into empty space and you are falling into the tracks.

Oh god why...

Why?

You just want to live.

The cupcake box flies out of your grip, splattered somewhere across the front pane of the train. There's a hard tug on your shirt as an invisible force you cannot see yanks you back, hard.

Your head whips back and for a fraction of a second, there are crimson eyes staring back down at you, you blink and then it's gone.

You land on your ass with a bruising force to your tailbone with a bone-breaking thud. The subway whizzes by with a demonic roar past you, inches from where you're sprawled on your ass on the dirty tiles of the subway station.

In front of your feet, there's a long streak of white frosting trailing down from your feet to the tracks of what looks like a crime scene.

Maybe it's the stress. Maybe you've just had a bad night of sleep (after many successive bad nights with little to no sleep). But something in you breaks at the sight of the frosting smeared across the dirty subway tiles.

Your eyes sting with exhaustion. Chest drawing in tight with a crumbling ache that makes you want to curl up on the cold tiles. You're just so tired.

There are people around you staring at you. No one in their right mind who lives in New York would sit on the floor of the subway.

But your legs are heavy and numb. You can’t move from the spot. Everything tastes like bile. You try to swallow and force it back down but it's no use, your throat has swollen shut. Your cheeks run wet and you press your palms to your eyes to make it stop but that only seems to make it worse. Snot runs down your nose and drips down your wrist. You're crying and you don't know how to stop.

Is this the rest of your life?

In the morning, you wake in your bed with a sore ache that gnaws at your bones. Swollen eyes and a soreness that scratches the lining of your throat.

Your back hurts, and as you try to turn to your side to get out of bed a sharp pain surges up along your entire spine.

Fuck.

It's too bright. The sunlight is offensive. It stings your eyes and makes you sick to your stomach. You only have vague memories of how you made it back home. Feet shuffling through the subway in a daze like the walking dead.

God is that what you are? A dead man woman walking?

You crane your head and catch a glimpse of your clock on the bedside table. 9.13 You're late for work. But that's mind as well, you don't have it in you to make it in.

What's the point anyhow? You hate that place.

Besides, if the subway on the way over doesn't finish off the job this time around, then eventually a taxi will. Failing that the universe is probably going to send over a ninja assassin rat from the subway to come after your life.

There's a soft breeze coming in from the open window that grazes the back of your neck and you turn your head towards it. All you can see from your window is the brick wall of the neighboring building. Even though your apartment is on the sixth floor, you can't see a speck of the New York skyline.

Still the breeze is nice, though you don't remember opening the window last night. You never usually do. It is silly and paranoid. No human robber could possibly climb up your six storey building just to climb into your window and rob you. If they could, they’d find that there isn’t much to rob in your apartment, the most valuable thing you own is a complete Le Creuset Cookware set.

Your eyes glaze over your work tote bag on the floor next to the window, drifting upwards and spot the pink box sat on the window sill and you stop.

You didn’t put that there.

You sit upright in your bed, setting your feet to the floor and force yourself to leave your bed as you pad over to the open window.

It's a fancy looking thing. Baby pink, and chiffon ribbon on its side. Wrapping your pinkie around it, you tug it loose. You perch your thumb against the corner of the lid when you stop.

It's not another one of the universe's assassination attempts is it? You're not going to open it to find a bomb ticking down are you?

You hesitate for another moment, taking a deep calming breath before you gather the courage to finally lift the lid. Inside, there is a gorgeous display of cupcakes adorned with white and pink frosting, topped with strawberries, chocolate shavings and on two of them there's mini macarons.

Way fancier than the day old Costco cupcakes you'd lost yesterday.

Picking up one, you take a bite. The frosting is light and zesty. The refreshing lemon melts on the tip of your tongue as the buttery cream floods your mouth with the rich flavor. It's the best thing you've ever tasted.

Lifting the box, you check the sides of it to see if there's any note left behind, but there's none.

Gladis Bakery. It's from a bakery you've never heard of before. When you google the name the place is outside of New Jersey, 58 minutes away and you would need to take a subway then switch to a tram.

There's no note attached, but you don't need one. The list of candidates who would be physically able to climb up six floors up the bricks of your apartment building to leave cupcakes on your window isn’t a long one.

Something warm blooms in your chest at the thought, and your fingers linger on the top of the box, savoring the taste of lemon and sugar still lingering on your tongue.

You put your head out the window, not sure what you're expecting to find but find yourself disappointed all the same when there's nothing there. No people in the quiet street below, and nothing unusual above.

"Thank you for uhm... saving me,” you say into the silence with nothing but the traffic noise below to answer you.

“And the cupcakes," you add.

There's no reply.

~ To be continued.

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#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #marvel #miguel ohara x reader #oscar isaac #spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you

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georgiapeach30513 · 1 month

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Two Good Reasons, Part 5

Summary: You and Andy have family fun

Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit langauge, unprotected sex, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, PIV sex, mentions of infidelity, depictions of an allergic reaction, baby Suede 🥺18+ ONLY

Word Count: 8.4K

Series Masterlist

“Stop,” you giggle, trying to push Andy off your back by bumping him with your ass. He likes this way too much to ever stop, and you don’t actually want him to. His mouth permanently plants on your neck as you mix up some chicken salad.

“Andy,” you can’t help but squeal. Knowing that you have things that you need to do, but he feels so good. Too good. His lips know exactly what to touch on your body, and judging by the heat radiating from his crotch to your ass, you know he’s wanting to break the bed in.

“First lunch,” it’s such a weak boundary that you’re willing to fold on.

“The only thing I want to eat is you,” his voice is so hoarse as his hips roll into you, and you feel his hardening length. Dizzying your mind immediately. Those meaty hands knead on your breasts, and you back yourself more into him. You need more. You need all of him, “See, who needs lunch?”

“Mmm,” you groan, closing your eyes as you just focus on Andy and his ministrations. Now he is the only reason you haven’t spent your weekend pacing around the house, staring at your phone, wishing that Scott would at least read that you asked him to let the kids call you this morning. Now it’s after lunch and you still haven’t got to hear their voice, or see their giggling faces.

“Andy,” you’re so weak when it comes to him, but at least the feeling is mutual. The spoon drops into the bowl, and your hand grabs his cheek, pulling him to your mouth, closer to where you need him, and you melt into him. Pushing your ass into his engorged pants, and arching your back so you can gain better access, you preen at just how hard he is for you. You need him ways you have never needed someone before.

The wait and journey were worth it, and now you didn’t feel rushed, you wanted him to fully take his time. His tongue rubs over your lips, and you part them the same way your legs part. Andy makes quick work of your button before plunging his hand down the front, and right to your core. His fingers gather your slick, and then move back to your bundle of nerves. He creates the slowest circles with not enough pressure, and you whine.

“You’re so wet for me, Doe. So very wet. How about we put this in the fridge, and then…” his movements pause, and your eyes go wider. You get a sweet smile before he’s pulling his hand out of your pants, and you spring to your bedroom. You didn’t even pause. The new bed, and bedding just feels better, and didn’t cause that awful memory to imprint in your mind. Andy hadn’t been defiled by your disgusting husband; he is still here, and ready for a life with your and your babies.

The bed hasn’t even been defiled by your boyfriend — yet. It feels good to say your boyfriend. You nearly slide into your bed as you reach for your phone, you click it on, and say hey still breathless as your beautiful babies’ faces come onto the screen.

“Hi, mama!” Suede squeals, trying to lean more into the screen. “Mama, hi!”

“Hi, Suedey, give sissy some room, too. What are you guys doing?” Audrey’s eyes look beyond the phone. You assume she’s looking up at her dad as she smiles up at him. Despite it all, you’re glad that she’s continued to have a relationship with Scott.

“Daddy and Taylor are taking us to soft play!” You hope that Scott realizes just how happy she sounds and looks. Even the bright smile on Suede’s face makes you feel more at ease. If only Scott could hold those memories in his mind, so when they ask to play with him, he understands the joy it brings.

“Chess! Me pay!”

“And daddy said he’s going to get on the trampoline with us,” both kids are smiling ear to ear, and looking beyond the phone. You miss them, but when they look at ease and this happy, it helps.

“Daddy jump! Chess!” He throws his hands up into the air, and you sigh in relief as he looks up and behind the screen again, holding his fist up for a bump. “Aye!”

“Yay!” Scott repeats. You hope that he can see how much they enjoy playing, and how much more special it is to play with their parents. Especially with Suede. Him and Scott have such a strained relationship, and he was a baby. Your children just want to make Scott happy and proud, and you think there’s a part of him that often forgets that, and it’s no longer your responsibility to remind him. He chose this path, not you.

“Na Na at?” Suede puts on a serious face, and he gives a growl. “Mama, Na Na at?”

You’re leaning over onto the bed, laying on your belly, and Andy’s fingers graze up the backs of your thighs, before gripping tightly to your ass, and he leans into frame, the kids none the wiser of how Andy’s hard cock is settled on your back, “Na Na! Me pay!”

“I hope you have so much fun, too,” Andy is such a turd, keeping his hand groping your thighs, and trying to inch back to the unbuttoned jeans, but him being so sweet to the two little on the phone is confusing your brain. “You gotta see if you can jump higher than your dad.”

“Me tan! Ump high!”

Audrey is too busy paying attention to her dad, smiling up at him to be fully involved with the conversation. She misses him so much. They had a sweet bond sometimes. Even if her dad pushed her academically, he also made time to play with her. “Alright, tell your mom bye,” of course he wouldn’t acknowledge Andy’s presence. Just for that comment, Andy’s hand moves from your thigh to in between your cheeks, and under you, cupping your throbbing cunt. And his face is the picture of innocence.

“Mama bye! Na Na bye! Ove ooo!”

“Love you, Suedey. Bye, sissy. Have fun today, and watch bubba.”

“Okay, mommy. I love you,” and with that, Scott’s finger comes into view as he clicks the end button too quickly, and you just stare at where their smiling faces once were. You suppose Scott didn’t want to hear if Andy loved his kids or not. You’re at least happy that Suede wasn’t crying, and that Audrey is being her smiling self. It hurts when they’re away, but them having fun makes it more bearable.

Andy grabs the phone out of your hand, and flips your body over, having you lay on your back before he sinks to his knees. Carefully removing each sock, “I think you need to take a day off and get a pedicure,” you roll your eyes, but his hands slide up your legs, and up to your hips where he starts tugging at your still undone jeans.

“I’m serious,” he whispers, kissing over your panties. Starting at the elastic before dipping lower, and lower. He didn’t pull the pants low enough, so you can’t even spread your legs further, and give him access to where you want him, “Why so needy, honey?”

His voice is like silk as it rumbles right at the start of your split. “Mmm,” you whine more than moan. Trying to tug your jeans down, and then your panties. You want him and need him over every inch of you.

He chuckles, jerking your jeans completely down, and you tug on your panties. “Uh uh,” he tsks, removing your hands, and pinning them to the sides of your body. And when you whine, he smacks at your quivering cunt.

“Andy!”

“Can you just let me enjoy myself?” You start to protest, but he flattens his tongue, and licks up your entire covered slit, and you want to drool. The way he’s obsessed with you, and making out with a different set of lips. Licking, nibbling, kissing, devouring. Close, but not close enough. Where you want him, but not how you want him. Your lace panties are ruined. Soaked through and you don’t know if it’s your juices or Andy’s, and it’s probably both.

He moans like he is eating a delectable dessert. Laving up every bit of your honey, and you’re so into this moment. Forgetting where you are, and just feeling him. And when he slips the thin material to the side, he smiles up at your wrecked face before gorging himself on your slick. Stabbing two thick fingers into your hole while he sucks on your clit. In and out. In and out. He makes excellent work on two forms of stimulation.

Andy then presses on your stomach, adding a bit more pressure there, and it’s as if he opened nerve endings you didn’t know existed. Everything becomes more sensitive, like you can feel every bit of his calloused fingers, and exactly what part of your pillowy walls they’re touching. Curling his fingers, he drives harder into you, and you scream his name up at the ceiling like a prayer, mixing in non-words to emphasize the pleasure coursing through your veins.

Asking for him to have mercy on you as a deep rooted coil twists tight in your belly. A feeling you’re familiar with, but then it’s so much more prominent. It’s toe curling. It’s out of body. It’s a high you could become addicted to.

You try to lift off the bed, and can’t, he presses down harder, and with this odd amount of pressure, things build. Build. Harder. Tighter. Heating up. You whimper out his name in a long laborious moan, and your dam breaks. Juices spray over Andy’s face and down his shirt, and his movements slow.

Going slower each second as he coaxes you down from your high, and he leans back on his ankles, panting, and smiling at you. His chest heaves right along with yours, and you sit up on your elbows, smiling at him. “What was that?”

“Well,” he licks his lips, and you look down at his soaked shirt. If you didn’t remember what his shirt looked like beforehand, you would wonder how the cotton became drenched, “You learned a new trick.”

“No,” you giggle, watching as he removes his ruined shirt. You’ve never been a woman obsessed with tits, but his are massive. So pillowy and still hard. Still so scrumptious, and you just find yourself wanting to bite and bury your face in his titties, or at least squeeze, bite, kiss, lick, or touch them. Whichever came first. “I can’t squirt.”

“You couldn’t before, but now, clearly you can, and it was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen. Maybe nobody has ever made you come so hard, and that was only with my fingers and mouth,” he stands up with his devilish smirk, yanking his pants and boxers down in one go, and his cock flares up to life. Bouncing to attention, and shining with beads of precum, and you’re so thankful you can’t get pregnant because you want nothing to separate you from Andy. As he steps out of his pants, you pull off your shirt, and it’s as if something smacks you in the gut.

You go blank as a quick flash of Taylor riding Scott jumps into your mind. Your body freezes, and you stare at nothing. You’re numb, and falling. It’s like a black hole sucks you up when you realize where you are. And then a pair of beautiful blue eyes breaks into your darkness. “Only look at me, Doe. Stay with me.”

Andy crawls onto the bed, using his thick stature to keep you spread. His throbbing cock runs through your slick and smears his precum through your opening. “Are you with me, honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me?”

“Like I’ve never wanted anything before,” slowly he inches into your body. Hooking his hands behind your knees he lifts up your legs. Making them follow his descent into your warmth. He pushes them wide, and makes your head and legs go in ‘the same direction. Keeping you spread and at an angle that he can bury himself to the hilt. Not stopping until the spongy tip of his head kisses your cervix, and you sigh.

“Andy, I love you, but I’m ruined,” he deserves someone better than you. Someone that didn’t have all this baggage, and an impending divorce on the horizon.

“I know. You’re ruined by me. But you, my beautiful sweet little deer, are not ruined. You’re perfect. I don’t care if you have your moments. Just keep your eyes on me. It’s just us, okay?” You nod your head, breathlessly trying to stay with him. As he slowly rolls his hips into your body. “Give me a good reason. Just one good reason.”

You gulp, “Because it’s always been you,” Andy draws himself out of you, and pushes back through slowly, and you feel that thick vein drag through your weeping cunt. You feel every inch of him. “It was only ever you,” your eyes stay locked on him. Only on him. You didn’t even know where you were, you just know you are with him. Only him. Nothing else matters but the way that Andy has you fully filled.

All you have ever wanted were moments with him. Adult moments that you two only ever talked and teased about. The two of you connect as one with no barriers, just like now. Wet hot skin on wet hot skin. The way he would enjoy filling you up with his seed, and then his child. The way you thought up names for your unborn children. All of this was supposed to be for him, and now you can’t give it to him. Except the one thing he really wants.

“We’re not in a rush,” he assures you, his pace starting to pick up. Each thrust met with a grunt from his voice, “And we’re already a family,” tears fill your lash line. You didn’t know how this man could be so perfect, but it wasn’t the same. “We’ll adopt. Or have a surrogate,” you keep looking into his eyes so full of sincerity. You’ve never wanted intense eye connect with anyone during sex, except Andy. You would bare your soul for him, “Or we could get lucky.”

Smirking, he rolls the two of you over without leaving your warmth, keeping you on top. He pulls your hands to his chest, and he grips onto your hips so tightly. His eyes gaze upon you like you’re the most perfect thing in the world. Like you’re a goddess that is so precious to him. You move over him once.

“Use me, Doe. I am here for you to use. Take out your anger and frustrations on my body. Enjoy yourself. Claim it back,” with every word he says up to you, you move faster. Harder. A grind turns into bounces. “There she is. You feel so good. I love you, and we’ll do what we have to. But I’m yours. All of me is yours, and it always was.”

You ride on top of him so fast, and still hold his stare. He meant it. Meant every word. And you need to hold them inside of you, and want to protect those promises. Scott might have dragged you down little by little, but he didn’t destroy you. Your babies didn’t allow him. “I’m. All. Yours,” he repeats as you slam your body over his, over and over again. Sucking him in so deep that you see stars.

Andy’s voice is pained as he tries to stave off his orgasm. “Let go, baby. Let go for me. Let me feel your body surge around me, so I know that you are mine. Every inch of you is mine. You belong to me,” and everything tumbles down to the ground. He didn’t take down your walls brick by brick, he sent in a wrecking ball and destroyed them. Obliterated anything that separates you and him. Perfectly at the same time, euphoria cocoons the two of you in a matrimony of pleasure and the sweetest sin, and you sigh as Andy’s hot cream coats the inside of you.

You will never get tired of this feeling. The way his sticky heat fills every inch of you, and you hope one day, any day could connect the two of you together with Andy’s flesh and blood. You want to give that to him so badly. It’s what he deserves. He pulls you into his chest as he peppers kisses over your lips.

“We wasted so much time not doing this before.”

“We were too young, and we were terrified of getting pregnant before you finished law school,” while the sex is amazing, there’s something almost sweet about him softening in you, and dripping out of you. “I saw on the internet there’s these blankets that are waterproof. You just lay them over your bed, and your bedding doesn’t get, well, you know — wet.”

“Filthy and drenched in your squirt.”

“Stop! I did not squirt.”

“You most certainly did, and I drank it all up. We’ll get you your fancy blanket,” he stares at you a moment, no words between you, just putting this moment into his core memories. “Doe, hypothetically speaking, our plan was never to have you working,” leave it to Andy to bring into question your job.

“Our plan didn’t involve me in paying for a divorce, and no, I will not allow you to pay for it. This is something I need to do on my own.”

“But,” you push a finger up against his mouth, silencing him.

“I need to do this,” Scott is your problem. You loved Andy for giving you the support that you desperately need, but you also need to handle your shit.

“But you could be at home with Suede.”

“Don’t tease me! Yes, I would love to be at home with my baby, but this is my problem, and I need to resolve it, and then we’ll talk about everything else.”

“Give him the house,” you roll your eyes, starting to look away, but he squeezes your cheeks with his fingers and thumb, making you look at him, “It can take awhile to find one. We’ll casually be looking for our home. But he can have this house. Not have him move in it now, you need it for the kids. But you heard what I said, I won’t be living here, and I won’t be living without you. Now, say, ‘Okay, Andy,’” you start to giggle, and he stifles his own laughter, “No, say it.”

“Okay, Andy. And in the meantime,” he gives you every bit of attention that you have longed for in years. Nothing else matters but you. “I think — you should — start staying some nights here.”

“You’re sure?” This is a huge step in general, but when you have children, and this is their space, it’s different. This is their space, their home. And you can’t make them feel uncomfortable.

“Or every night,” you can’t look away from him if you wanted to. You’ve never lived with Andy, and this is what you’re suggesting. You have a deep desire to beg him to move in. You didn’t want to spend a single second without him, “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“You’re the one that needs to be comfortable. This is yours and the kids' home,” and you understand that. You just want him ot be part of the equation.

“I know. They already want slumber parties with you. There’s empty space in the closet,” you hadn’t bothered with expanding your own clothes. Spreading everything out wide, and having the closet all to yourself.

“What are you suggesting?”

“If we’re going to be buying a house, we could save money if you sold the condo,” Andy nods. Things right now are more talk, but he knows Scott could have stipulations on you while you’re going through a divorce. And part of those stipulations could be where Andy lives. He’d make something up about someone not being able to officially move in with you. But six out of seven days isn’t fully living here.

You hum as a sleeping Andy pulls you closer to his front, his own taut body curling into yours in the perfect spoon. You’d been awake for a bit, but wanted to just soak him up this morning, knowing the kids are snuggled up in their beds, unaware that Andy had stayed the night. You worry how they’re going to react to seeing another man in the bedroom, even if they were excited about the new bed.

His soft beard tickles on your neck as he inhales, and you can’t help but to trace the vein on his arm. You could get used to this too easily. It’s so perfect. So comfortable and cozy, and today is going to be a perfect day. It is your weekend, and it is a beautiful fall day to spend with your family. Yes, Andy is part of that family, and if your kids didn’t adore him as much as they did, you might think twice about him staying until they wake up.

His lips pucker against your skin, and his breathing changes. Silly man, he is kissing you in his partial sleep addled state. You wonder how light of a sleeper he is now because you already hear the door to Suede’s room crack open. Can hear his heavy footfalls as he goes to see if his sissy is awake. There’s only minutes from him going in there until they’re padding down the stairs. Suede scooting more than anything.

Slowly they creep into the living room, and you hear Suede gasp, “Mama at?” His voice hurts you a bit because he sounds concerned. He’d become too accustomed to you sleeping on the couch.

“She wouldn’t leave us,” Audrey breathes in deeply, sniffing the air, “She’s not cooking.”

“Bed?”

“You go check.”

“Ooo.”

“I think you should,” they go back and forth a few times, and Andy kisses the back of your neck for real this time. It is a little bit groggy, but he does it.

“You are scaring them. Just say their names.”

“Shh,” you want them to genuinely just spot Andy when they come through the door. It wouldn’t be too much longer now. Their footfalls get louder, and then the sweetest mama whispers off Suede’s mouth the same time as the door starts opening, and his head peeks through first with Audrey shortly after.

“Mama?” The question on his voice is easy to infer. Easy enough for Andy to sit up so Suede can see his face, and he giggles, dashing to the bed along with Audrey. They’re both so fast, and then pulling their bodies onto the bed, and looking at the two of you. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to the pumpkin patch today.”

“Aye!”

“And we’re going right after breakfast,” Andy responds. You look at both kids and realize that you’re all smiling, including Andy. “So we should get started right now!” He sits fully upright so quickly that you all three start laughing. “Doe, you want to pack us some snacks for the day, and then I’ll make some breakfast?”

The amount of times that you realize how much more superior he is over Scott is too many to count, sometimes you wonder if this is just a dream. A figment of your imagination that you made up, so being alone wasn’t so hard.

But now, you’re going to be able to accomplish tasks so much faster because he is willing to help. He wants to get things going at the same time so it didn’t take as long. You didn’t have to be in a foul mood already because he wants to sit on the couch and watch the game. He is truly a part of the day in every sense.

“I’ll pack snacks. Let’s see what you got for breakfast.”

—

“Mommy,” Audrey gives a whisper as she tiptoes into your bedroom. You have just finished pulling on your boots. She gives a quick spin, “I really like this,” smoothing out her dress. She walks over beside you wrapping an arm around your leg, “Can we wear kinda matching clothes more often?”

“Of course sweetheart. Are you ready?” She twirls again before following you out of the bedroom, and your heart swoons at Suede in Andy’s lap. Both laid back watching Bluey, and Suede’s hand is petting on Andy’s beard. Andy in suits is hot. But Andy in flannels with your baby boy in his lap is quite possibly the sexiest thing you have ever laid eyes on.

“Yes! We’re ready, and look at you two, you match,” he scoots his body towards the edge of the couch, allowing Suede to get down, and he makes a sound you hadn’t really heard before, and then he walks out of the living room and towards the playroom. “I’ll have two beautiful girls with me today.”

“Ouch!” You turn around to see Suede stomping his foot, a toy falling behind Audrey, “Suedey that hurt!”

“Suede Theodore Huffman, you apologize to your sister right now,” Audrey tries to hold back tears as she kicks the block away, and rubs the back of her head. “We don’t throw things.”

“Me, too!” He screeches, tapping on his chest. “Me, too!”

“Audrey doesn’t have to say sorry, you do,” Suede normally is the average two year old. And then sometimes he has fits that typically included him not being able to tell anyways what he really needs.

“No no! Me, too!” His foot stomps again, looking at Andy. “Me, too, Na Na!” He smacks on his chest repeating his words over and over again, becoming more frustrated when you don’t understand. “Na Na! Me! Pease!”

Suede’s cheeks turn blotchy as tears stream down his face. “Bubba, it’s okay, I guess,” now Audrey is the one slamming herself down on the couch, and crossing her arms pouting. These moments are the ones you fear will cause Andy to rethink this relationship. Children are little people with emotions too big for their bodies, and things like this happen. And sometimes they happen often.

“Mama, me, too. Na Na!” You turn back to look at Andy, apologizing. He had been rubbing on the back of Audrey’s head where the block hit her. “Na Na! Me!” Your attention is back to Suede who gets that awful sound in his throat. This didn’t happen often, but during a few times when his frustration of having to vocalize something in so few words makes him so upset his breathing stops, and the crying takes over.

Dropping to your knees, you calmly kneel in front of your son. Trying to gently persuade him to breathe, so you don’t panic, “Suede, look at mommy. I need you to breathe,” it’s staggered and painful, but the screaming stops, but not he’s still unable to catch his breath.

Holding his hand you put it over your mouth. Inhaling and exhaling slowly. Methodically, “Buddy, breathe, we’ll figure it out,” his chest heaves, and he watches as Audrey runs into the kitchen. “Eyes on mommy, buddy.”

“Suede, breathe, and then you can tell us what’s wrong,” Andy squats down beside you, getting on Suede’s level instead of towering over him. Making him feel comfortable instead of making him feel fear for nothing being able to communicate. Becoming a safe space of communication instead of Scott’s screams that prolong the ordeal.

“Here, bubba,” Audrey hands him an applesauce pouch. “I know you didn’t want to hurt me,” she’s too kind, and he still will apologize once he’s calm.

“Hey, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Suede points at his pumpkin shirt, and then at Andy’s. Babbling as he points at you and Audrey, but always ending with his chest and Andy’s, repeating ‘Me, too.’

“Na Na.”

“Andy?” He asks, and Suede nods his head. A smile tickles the edges of his mouth when he realizes that Andy is following along.

“Me — too,” Suede exhales so slow. It’s long and drawn out, but it helps him regulate the oxygen to his lungs.

“So,” Andy looks at you and Audrey. His eyes looking over your outfits before back to Suede, “Are you upset that you don’t match mommy and Audrey?” Suede shakes his head no, tapping on Andy’s chest, and repeating Na Na. You pout, knowing exactly what he’s trying to convey.

Andy smiles and nods his head, “Are you wanting to match with me?”

“Chess!” Suede starts wiping at his eyes, and then rubs over Andy’s flannel. “Dis. Ike dis.”

“You like this? Well, does he have flannel?” If you weren’t doing a hands off policy with Andy, you’d kiss him right now. That was one of the shortest temper tantrums with Suede ever. Obviously it was the first with Andy. Again little bodies and big emotions. “First, I think you need to tell your sissy you’re sorry. And next time, maybe we can talk before you throw things?”

“Tay,” Suede walks to Audrey, and gives her a big hug. The two of them giggle a bit, “Ree.”

“Okay, go find your shirt so we get good pumpkins for the stairs,” Suede grabs onto Andy’s hand, pulling him towards the stairs, and Andy picks him up. Carrying him up the stairs to rummage through his clothes. It was a moment that could have been avoided, and yet you still feel some butterflies that your son wants to dress like Andy. Wants to match him like you and Audrey match.

You just have never thought about buying matching outfits for him because Scott never would wear that. He preferred to pick out his own clothes, and didn’t want to look cutesy. “Auds, you want an applesauce pack, too?”

“Yes, please. Do I need to help with the car?”

You can see that she’s buzzing with excitement about Suede getting to dress like Andy. His flannel pairing nicely with yours and Audrey’s outfit. “No, baby. Here you go. I’m going to put the stroller, and stuff in the car, okay?” She blows you a kiss before heading up the stairs to babysit, of course.

With there being a lot of walking, you take the double stroller in case Audrey gets tired of walking. Carrying the bag of snacks and drinks to the garage, you smile a bit at Andy’s Audi beside your mom car. While this might not be your home with him, it’s the little things of your car and his being next to each other in the garage that make you happy. It’s the big things like Andy being the one to figure out Suede’s tantrum. And the sexy things like him being a good dad and keeping Suede busy while you got ready.

It’s the way that the three of them walk into the garage. Audrey holding his hand, and Andy holding Suede. They weren’t identical, but close enough to make your baby have the biggest proudest smile on his face. The way he looks even sexier as a dad. You bite your lip as Andy hands you Suede. He leans in for a kiss behind your ear, “You’re drooling.”

Oh, he’s walking with a bit more of a swagger than before. The flannel somehow emphasizes his shapely tits that you can't get enough of. He smirks, walking past you to open the door for Audrey. Helping her get in, and you have to contain yourself enough to get your toddler in his own seat. “You look handsome, bubs. You want to dress like Andy?”

“Chess!” Blowing raspberries on his neck, you place him into his seat. “My Na Na,” oh. Oh, that hits you hard. It’s not just you falling for Andy, it’s also them. They’re falling just as hard as you. The comfort, and the lack of weirdness today. You can never be sure how children will react to change in their home. And everyday is going to be different, but today has started off so good. The tantrum wasn’t great. But the result couldn’t have been better. Especially seeing Andy and Suede dress similarly.

Suede blinks hard over at Andy, and Andy winks back before closing the door. Both of you get in together, and just so there’s not any weirdness, you wait until he backs out of the garage, and gets turned around, and you settle your hand into his. Weaving your fingers together, and Audrey giggles, but Suede beams up at you and Andy.

“So which cheesy 80s music are we listening to today?”

“No! Play Taylor Swift!”

“Tip Tip.”

“No! I don’t want to listen to Tapleton. Play Taylor!” Andy smiles in the rear view mirror before turning on some AC/DC. It isn’t what either wanted, but Suede taps his foot along with it. “After this can you put on Tapleton for Suedey, and then a Taylor song for me, please?”

“Yes, since you asked nicely, and wanted to share, Chris Stapleton is next, and then Taylor,” you settle into the ease of the ride. You didn’t care what they listened to. It is the fact that everyone is happy and together. Stealing a glance at Andy, he squeezes your hand a bit. Today is going to be a good day.

“Andy! What about this one?” Suede grunts, trying to pick up a large pumpkin, while Audrey points at the pumpkin in question. “It’s kinda blue!” They have spent the better half of the afternoon picking out pumpkins, and trying to get Andy’s attention more than yours. Running up ahead of you and Andy, just to stop and make sure you’re both paying attention.

You had caught Andy’s prideful smile as the employee helping you on the hayride commented on his beautiful family. He smiled so big as he thanked him, and then clamored behind you and Audrey. Suede rarely left Andy’s arms, or lap, or hand. He has found him his buddy, and he clings to him constantly.

There’s a tiny part of you that is ridiculously jealous, but another part that loves that he has someone that Suede feels comfortable with. Someone he’s proud of. A man that he has chosen, too. “Can we have this one on the steps?”

“Chess. Ugh…big!” Suede stops trying to pick the pumpkin up, but points at it, until Andy leans over to grab it. You get a cheeky look at his scrumptious rump, and Suede keeps a hand on the pumpkin, ‘helping’ of course.

“Don’t ever stop checking me out, Doe,” he whispers, putting the pumpkin in the wheelbarrow. He drives you crazy with his whispers. These private flirty conversations with just him drives you wild!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” how has life turned so happy? There’s an intensity, but it’s not tense. You keep calling it easy, but even that doesn’t fully explain everything. Comfort. Joyful. Cute. Hot. Sexy.

“Did you know you do this clicking noise with your tongue when you’re thinking about what you want to do to me?” the kids have already run off again, and you can look at them as an excuse not to stare at your beyond sexy boyfriend. “They have three more pumpkins to pick, and then we get to decorate the stairs for fall. Tell me you weren’t checking me out.”

“I shouldn’t lie.”

“You’ll admit that, but not that you make a noise? It must be involuntary then, hmm? It’s kinda hot though, so don’t stop. I love knowing I turn you on,” he steals a kiss before returning to the wheelbarrow, but first he pulls up his flannel shirt to give you a better view of his ass before following the kids. He’s in a flirty and cheeky mood today, and you’re loving it.

The both of you decided to let the kids guide the way in the corn maze. You and Andy stay behind as their giggling little voices trail ahead, discussing which way they’re going to turn. “I really like today,” Andy says out of nowhere. His eyes have stayed on them just as much as your own, and the way that he hasn’t hesitated to hold onto your hand.

“I’ve always wanted these moments with you, ya know?” Audrey and Suede stop at a crossroads, trying to figure out which way to go, and Andy pulls you in for a hug, and a quick peck. Releasing you before they make the decision. “It’s so simple, but these moments are just — the best. Can we make this a tradition? Pumpkin patch on the second weekend in September?”

“I love that idea. And,” you start walking once they’ve decided the direction they want to go. “I always wanted these moments, and I think I lied to myself in thinking that anyone could have replaced you.”

Andy sighs, squeezing your hand a few pulses. “Because I know how much you enjoy this, and want this, and you’re going to treasure these moments just as much as I do. So thank you. Their dad never did things like this with us. If we did this, it was just me and them. I think Scott just wants to do what he wants to do, when he wants to do it.”

“Daddy!” You and Andy both start walking faster as Audrey turns a corner, but Suede comes running back to you, holding his hands up for Andy to pick him up. Andy scoops him up right as you hear Taylor’s obnoxious cheery squeal.

“Oh, great,” groaning, you decide to be cordial. They’ve already spotted Audrey, so it’s not like you can hide. “Hey, Scott. Taylor,” you nod. With Scott holding Audrey, you see Taylor put her phone back in her pocket, a photo clearly just being taken. No doubt she’ll add some stupid caption on her Instagram, pretending to be the perfect step mom.

“Took you long enough to check on our daughter,” he emphasizes ‘our’ when he sees Andy holding Suede. “What are you doing here?” The bigger question is why is he here with Taylor, and wouldn’t be caught dead here with your and your children.

“I thought that the kids would like to enjoy some fall activities,” if Scott knew anything about Andy, he’d know how clipped his words seem, and just how irritated he sounds. “Tell your dad how many pumpkins you picked out,” Suede’s head picks up from Andy’s chest, and he holds both hands up.

“Ten pumpkins, huh? Wow. If you want, Scott and I can take the kids, and you and — whoever this is can have some time alone,” Taylor’s smile is sickeningly sweet. You want to like her, but the image of her disrespecting your marriage can never be forgiven, even if it was an already ruined marriage.

“Oh, no, they’re fine. We haven’t even got to see the kids’ play area,” some people didn’t understand you could have fun with Andy and the children. Knowing Scott as soon as he got a free moment without kids, he’d sneak her off somewhere to get in a quickie.

“Oh, it’ll be nothing. Suedey, you want me to hold you?”

“No,” Suede lays his head back on Andy’s chest, and you almost feel sorry for Taylor. Almost. She’s trying to win against you, and now Andy. She might be able talk Audrey into walking around with them, but never your son.

“Baby, it’s fine. They don’t need help with the kids,” vomit. Baby. You wonder if he realizes how gross it sounds to be calling this twenty-three year old baby, when he’s twenty years older than her. She’s literally young enough to be his baby. This relationship shouldn’t have moved past sex.

“I think they need to babysit their mom and Andy anyways, huh, Barber?” Ugh, Scott is such a pig. Everything has to be about sex. One day he would realize you and him have built a relationship that extends past the physical parts.

“You two know each other?” She’s fucking clueless. Of course she is, she could barely understand the nuances between you and Scott.

“Barber here is the DA.”

“What’s a DA?” You look at Scott instead of her. How could he not truly explain his career with his fiance? She truly is a clueless ditz.

“District attorney,” Audrey giggles. She does a little dance in between the four of you, oblivious to an odd pisisng contest between Andy and Scott.

“Oh, so you’re like a lawyer?”

Andy’s grin is so condescending as he looks at Scott, his brows raised a bit. Her age shows with more than just her looks, “Yeah, I’m the chief prosecuting officer. I’ve been in court against Scott a few times.”

“So you’re like the bad guy?” Scott presses his hand on his temple in annoyance, and Andy just shrugs. You hope he enjoys every stupid conversation with her.

“Depends on who you think the good guy is.”

“Andy wants to become a judge,” Audrey adds. Smiling up at Andy as she does so. She lifts her hands up to you, and you pull her up in your arms, even though Scott clears his throat. You dare him to tell you not to hold her, ‘she’s too big to be held.’ She’ll be held if that’s what she wants.

“The man with a hammer! That’s really neat,” neat? This girl was meant to only be a babysitter. You seriously question the fact that Scott has this woman helping him on his weekends. Who is having questions that a child would be asking.

Audrey giggles again, “It’s not a hammer, silly goose, it’s called a gravel.”

“Gavel,” Scott can correct his daughter, but not his grown fiancé, “Baby,” Scott clears his throat again, leaving Taylor to smile awkwardly at him. I guess he found a woman that will pick up on his clues for behaving, unlike you… “It’s their — her weekend to have the kids. And how and who she chooses to spend her weekend with at this time is her prerogative.”

“Andy has been the only person sharing our weekends with us. But you two have a great time. I’m sure you’ll get lots of photo opportunities for instagram,” her genuine smile makes you feel bad for making fun of her interest in posting aesthetically pleasing photos. She’s young, that should be what she’s doing. Not becoming a stepmom. And yet your care also just wasn’t there.

“I know! They have these amazing caramel apples. Want to see my pictures? Oh!! The kids will love them. They have some with pecans and chocolate, and one with walnuts and…”

“Suede can’t have walnuts,” Audrey interjects. Frowning as she looks at her. “He could die!”

“Oh, that’s right. Little nugget. No matter. The food they have here is amazing!”

“She usually packs Suede lunch. He has to miss out on food at places like this a lot,” yeah. That’s your cue to leave. If Scott wants to point out Suede’s differences and how he might not get to experience things like others, you didn’t have to listen to it. Suede’s lunches were a just in case type of thing, and you always made them fun for him!

“Well, you two have fun. Tell daddy ‘bye’, guys,” Audrey responds quickly, blowing him a kiss, but Suede won’t look at him. “Suede, tell daddy, bye. We’re going to go to the kids’ playground, and you and Audrey can run around until it's time to eat!”

“Bye, daddy,” Suede doesn’t lift his head, and barely even looks at Scott, but he waves his hand, and drops it back to Andy’s chest. His fingers gripping onto his shirt, like if he lets go that Scott can pull him off Andy. Now to grab the stroller again, and let the kids get out some energy. You try to not see Taylor as much as possible, and this is the reason why. She infuriates you.

—

“How are you feeling?” You and Andy sit at the picnic tables, while the kids play. You squint in the sunlight, keeping your eyes on them, when you really wish you could give Andy your undivided attention.

“I’m fine. I just hate that he doesn’t see how controlling he is. How he doesn’t see that he is just using Taylor as a way to make himself feel more like ‘the man’. She’s easy to control because he’s significantly smarter, and experienced in life. And he makes the money, so she shuts up and deals with it, until she’s tired of his tyranny, and most likely move onto a man that won’t have to pay child support and alimony.”

“You got all that with the interaction, too?” Peeking over towards Andy, you nod your head. “Does he really think she can be a safe option for your kids? She couldn’t even remember Suede is allergic to walnuts?”

“And she shouldn’t have to, and yet, here we are. The only thing I blame Taylor for, is the fact she was well aware that we were married. She babysat them while we went on dates. I think they both suck for that. But,” you turn your eyes away from them as you smile up at Andy. “I should thank them. We’d been in Newton for a few years now, and you were always right there. Had I met you before now, I might have been the one cheating. No, I definitely would have,” Andy leans in for a chaste kiss.

Your hand rubs up his chest, holding the kiss a few moments longer. The disintegration of your marriage is so layered. What killed you that day is the one thing that set you free. But admitting that had you known Andy was right here, you would have been the one cheating is liberating. He was always the one, and always worth it.

You revel in this moment of comfort. Hearing the sounds of kids playing in the early fall weather. It’s just happiness. Pulling off Andy, you gaze up at the most amazing man you have ever known, and know that there’s no way to explain just how much he means to you.

And of course happy moments have been short lived for some time. Suede’s blood curdling scream hits you first, and you jump up. Scanning the play area when you see his feet stomping around. Holding out his hand, while Audrey swats at something. Andy and you sprint over towards him, and you know something is worse when his cries change. It’s a sound you have never been able to get out of the depths of the darkest places in your mind.

“Andy, my bag. Get it fast,” tears blur your eyes, but you’re on autopilot going over to him. Picking up both kids and getting away from a swarm of yellow jackets, and you set both down, kneeling on the ground. Suede’s breathing labored, and his cries are completely gone as he struggles for air.

His mouth opens and closes, and no sound comes out of him. His airways cut off, while tears pour from his bloodshot eyes. Your sweet angelic baby turning into a nightmare before your eyes. Visions like these haunt you. Your worst fears materializing.

“Andy!” Audrey cries up at you, and you start undoing Suede’s pants, the pen working better without a barrier. Andy drops to his knees beside you, and you reach in for Suede’s EpiPen, pulling out the separate pouch, so it’s easy to grab. “Hold her,” you can’t handle her own tears when your only focus is oxygen to Suede.

Suede’s face gets all blotchy, the color changing with the lack of air, and you press the pen in his leg. Counting the seconds it takes for his airways to clear, and he looks so scared as that first strangled breath is inhaled. “We gotta go to the ER. Buddy, hey baby, just keep looking at mommy,” you wipe away the tears that stain his face. “It’s okay, baby. Andy is going to get us to the ER, okay?”

“Mama,” his voice is the sweetest thing right now. Even if it’s difficult for him. Even if everywhere on his body is swelling. “My mama,” how many times did those fucking beasts sting him?

“Yeah, baby, mommy is right here. Andy and sissy are getting everything, and we’re going to make sure my baby is okay?” You are already making your way to the parking lot. Andy can handle Audrey and the stroller, you just want your baby out of the crowd, and away from all the people asking if he’s okay. It’s just you and him. He needs to just see you.

“Mommy?” Audrey meets you in the parking lot, and hugs both your legs. “Can you sit in the back with us?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Did you get stung, too?”

“Just once, but Suedey had them all around him. I couldn’t get them away.”

“My brave strong amazing girl, you did amazing. You showed no fear when it came to yourself and bubba. You did perfect, baby, and I’m so proud of you,” she knows you’re upset with a steady flow of tears running down your face and dripping to your neck, but she hugs you back nonetheless.

“Alright, come on,” Andy helps Audrey into the car, buckling her up, and you shudder to think you have to put Suede out of your arms. You just want to hold him, so you can feel his breathing. “Doe, honey, if you want to hold him, you can get in the third row. Never feel bad about it.”

“You’re sure?” You rarely question what you’re doing as a mother, but right now, hearing that it’s okay has relief rushing through your body. The adrenaline finally subsiding, and your fear spikes. You’re so exhausted, but the thoughts of putting your son in his car seat is making your heart race. The fear of seeing him like that can never be erased. Add that to the fucking list of allergies that he has to endure.

“Of course, honey. Let’s get him to the ER. Here, I’ll hold him, while you get in. Just make sure to hold Audrey’s hand, okay?” You nod as you hand Suede to Andy. Knowing how much harder this would be if you were alone. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay because it has to be.

It’ll be okay.

He’ll be okay.

They’ll be okay.

You don’t even matter anymore.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy

#two good reasons #andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x fem!reader #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x y/n #andy barber x you #andy barber x doe #andy barber smut #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fic #andy barber fics #andy barber fanfictions #andy barber fanfics #chris evans #chris evans character #defending jacob #tw: allergic reaction

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mercurygguk · 6 months

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imagine risqué jk... (m)

"asking politely isn't the same as begging, baby, it's just common sense," he rasps tauntingly.

jungkook leans over you, lips brushing the skin of your chest as his fingers find your heat. he leaves a kiss on one of your nipples as his fingers slowly start playing with your pussy, your arousal making it easy for him to slip one finger inside and pull it out again, same finger moving up and circling your clit in the slowest, most torturous pace he can muster.

"but i guess being this needy and wet..."

he collects a good amount of your arousal on his fingers before bringing it up to the same nipple he kissed before, spreading your own wetness onto it. the tiny gasp you let out has him smirking to himself as he watches his own fingers circle your nipple with your glistening juices

"... really makes you dumb, hm?"

do yourself a favor and read risqué here !

#risqué jjk #jungkook #bts #jungkook smut

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xmanicmushroomx · 4 months

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slow dancing in the dark || eijirou kirishima

tags: reader x eijirou kirishima, established relationship, mha, bnha

cw: none, sfw

the dorms’ common areas are always craziest on friday nights.

between bakugou’s insults hurled at everyone near him, deku’s constant muttering and mumbling, and mina’s incessant hip hop dance practice, on top of everyone else’s chatter, it’s hard to do anything in a sane state of mind.

that’s why you and kirishima waited until everyone else went to bed.

and no, not for that thing that just popped in your mind.

for the peace. the serenity. the one time you get to do your favorite thing together, what draws you closest as a couple with no responsibilities — slow dancing in the low light of the kitchen.

your head nuzzles into his chest, your arms are wrapped around his torso, and his arms are wrapped around your shoulders, resting his chin on top of your head.

you don’t even really dance. you just stand there together and sway, spinning in a slow circle with your eyes closed, and you’re so incredibly happy.

the first time anyone saw you, it was denki. he’d immediately rushed to get mina and jirou, and they all silently ooh’d and aww’d at the two of you.

both of you noticed. neither of you cared.

because this was your happy place. your security. the one thing that the two of you never skipped out on, every friday night, since the week you started dating.

warmth blossoms in your chest every single time you two meet in the kitchen. your worries and stress from the week always melt away the moment you’re in his arms. you set your phone on the counter and play the slowest, sweetest love songs, taking turns humming them to each other as you talk about anything new.

you don’t worry as much about anything anymore; because you know that, at the end of every long week, you’ll be in the arms of the sharp-toothed redhead that you love with your entire heart, whispering ‘i love you’s and trying not to giggle at your friends who do a terrible job of sneaking in to take candid photos.

#kirishima eijirou #kirishima eijiro x reader #bnha eijiro kirishima #mha eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x y/n #kirishima x reader #bnha #mha #my hero academia #mha fanfiction #boku no hero academia #x reader

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askinkiskarma · 1 year

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High Infidelity III (the end)

Adult!Neteyam x (f)Metkayina!Reader x Ao'nung

Warnings: smut (fingering, oral - m and f receiving, spitting in mouth, anal play, p in v, creampie, praise kink), mentions of cheating, cursing, violence, blood, 18+ minors dni for the love of god !!!!

Word count: 6k words

Notes: honestly i need to be doused in holy water after writing that, but i'd probably just burst into flames anyway. i hope you enjoy reading the last instalment of High Infidelity, and I hope it's everything you've ever wanted and more, cause omg, did I enjoy writing it besties. thank you for all the love of this series, I really felt it. i love you all sm xoxoxo

previous part (x)

You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love

The slowest way is never loving them enough

Do you really want to know where I was April 29th?

Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

Neteyam’s face snapped in the direction of your voice, an unreadable expression marring his beautiful features.

“What did you say?”

You were boldened and empowered by the ache running through you, by all the feelings that mingled into a cocktail that looked a lot like bravery, that looked a lot like you were going to finally give in to your biggest desires and wildest dreams.

You moved closer to him, taking slow, purposeful steps, until you circled around him and kneeled in front of him, in between his legs, placing on hand on each knee to help you, and you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered as you noticed the goosebumps on his skin where you touched him.

You looked at him intently, wanting to show him that you meant it, that you were in this, that there was no doubt in your mind, no wavering in your resolve.

“Neteyam… I want you to fuck me. I’ve needed you, ached for you since the moment on the beach, since you apologised, since you were kind to me and showed me there’s more to life than men who take and take until there’s nothing left. That there’s more to love than what I’ve known all my life. That when it’s right, you’ll know it in your gut, you’ll know it in the way your whole body reacts like it’s been set on fire, or like it’s been set free.

I should have called it off the second I knew I started having feelings for another. I was afraid, afraid of the consequences, afraid of breaking people’s hearts, afraid of broken expectations and unfulfilled bonds, but I am not anymore. I’m not afraid anymore, the only thing I am afraid of is living without knowing this feeling, living without knowing I’ve done everything in my power to give in to you.

You told me one day I’ll beg you to fuck me. So here I am. I am begging you to fuck me. To take me. To show me all the things I know only you can. The things I only want you to.”

Neteyam’s expression turned wild and fervent, and you felt the growl he let out deep within you, deep in your core. His hand went to your jaw, that he brought closer to his face, so close, your eyes were struggling to focus on him, and the tint of green in his yellow eyes. You found yourself tracing each gleaming dot on his face, each stripe that marked his skin like a battle scar, his full lips that were parted, the deep breath that came out through them and into you, and you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes, allowing yourself to drown in the weight of his presence, in the weight of the feelings he brought out of you.

“Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me. You have no idea what I’ll do to you. I told you you will beg me to fuck you, but baby girl, when I do it, I’ll do it until you’ll beg me to stop. Until I’ve made you come so many times, until you’re so drunk on my cock you can’t see straight anymore.”

“But not tonight. I don’t know what happened in the time you went away, but we are doing this the right way this time. I won’t risk losing you again. You can sleep it off, sleep the drink off and the night off, sleep Aonung off, and tomorrow, if you’re ready and you’ll still want me, I’ll be here for you, and I’ll be yours forever.”

You whined as he let your jaw go free and your mind twirled with images of his words come to life, burned in your imagination forever, gnawing at you to make them come true.

“But I want you now. And I know you want me to, I can see it in your eyes. I’m here, I’m begging you, isn’t that what you wanted?”

“That is what I wanted, just when you’re sober and not reeling from Aonung’s mistakes. Come, I’ll take you home.”

You woke up dazed and confused, needing a long while before realising you were back in your marui, back to the comfort of your sleeping mat and loosely wrapped in thin covers. You slowly rose, quickly regretting it, as the motion made you dizzy and nauseous and want to reconsider every moment that made it so this was your current life. Flashes of last night and all the hurt it brought with it started appearing in front of your eyes, furthering your sullen mood and unhappy state. So much happened, so much that you would give anything to forget.

As the world settled a little around you, you noticed a little trinket on your mat, next to where you lay your head. It was a bracelet, you noted in shock. A beautiful, intricate bracelet, crafted with a technique and materials characteristic of the Omatikaya.

Neteyam…

You immediately removed the bracelet that was already on your arm and swapped it for the one you were holding tightly in your palm, and tried to not think what a perfect allegory this was, how this was the beginning of your new life. The beginning of new love.

Your body loved the touch of the breeze as it caressed your skin, soft and tender, like a lover. It was necessary, like the air going in and out of your lungs, keeping you alive, allowing you to keep going. You tried your best to relax, tried your best to remove the anger and anguish for one man, need and ache for another, both of which felt like poison coursing through your veins, and tried to replace it with other, less intense emotions, like the relief of knowing, despite the hurt and the pain, that you could finally be free of Aonung, free for the first time in your life to make your own decisions, to live outside of the expectations and the burden placed on you since you were young, free to follow your heart, free to grow and be yourself, and to discover who that is to begin with.

You felt entranced by the beauty of the nature surrounding you, that you grew up with, that you’ve experienced every day of your life and yet somehow never took for granted, never fully got used to it, as you allowed your feet to feel the soft grainy sand beneath them and the water splashing over your ankles and calves as you walked on the beach that felt like your safe space, like your haven in the storm. You thought about Neteyam and his words, about the bracelet he left on your pillow and how it felt against your arm where it now resided and it will continue to for as long as you could help it, how even this gift was a perfect metaphor of your past and present. Aonung’s bracelet was beautiful and opulent, with rare stones and shells, with what he thought you wanted, but in reality, it was harsh and it scratched at your skin every time it was on your body, leaving friction burns and scratches that left you bruised and bloodied if you weren’t careful. When you lost it, you didn’t realise it, you just felt freer and weightless. Neteyam’s bracelet was understated and carefully crafted, with soft leather and round, polished pebbles, and it felt like velvet touching your skin, it felt safe and healing. It felt like the calming nature around you, like the warmth of the sun caressing your skin. It felt like new beginnings.

As your mind wandered over the events of the past few weeks, and those of the past few years, you came to the conclusion that this, this whole mess, is not about Neteyam or Aonung. Not anymore. It might have started that way, it might have been what set everything in motion, but it wasn’t the whole picture. This wasn’t about two men. It was about you and your life, your past and your future, and who you wanted to be moving forward. It was about realising that the shackles that bound you to one destiny were loose and rusted, and with a little force, you could be free of them, free at last to be more than who your chains led you to believe. The dark feelings that possessed you made you aware that there was more to you than what you thought, than what everybody thought. The ache and need you felt for Neteyam showed you you were a woman now, a woman who wanted to learn and explore her sexuality and learn what makes her body tremble, what makes it convulse in pleasure. Kissing him and letting him explore your body allowed you to see you were capable of wrongdoings, you weren’t just a two-dimensional being with only positive and light coming out of you, but you had a darkness in you, you had the capability to be selfish and put your own needs first, something you have never done before. The anger that enveloped you when you heard Aonung cheating on you, the thirst for revenge and vindication, the way you told Neteyam that you wanted him, showed you that you were strong, that despite your and everybody else’s view that you were frail and weak, and not a warrior, there was something in you - a power, strong and unflinching, an infinite untapped potential that you swore you would get to know in time.

You were so deep in your own thoughts, that the tug of your arm that spun you around almost knocked you to the ground, and you had to swallow the vomit that rose in your mouth at the harshness with which you were handled.

“We need to talk.”

As soon as the world stopped spinning around you, you were able to make out Aonung’s body and his face, sullen and tired, and you knew instantly he was battling a mean hangover, much worse than yours. You found yourself smirking at his state, hopeful that he was suffering and revelling in knowing he did.

“I’ve been looking for you for fucking ages.”

“Well, you found me. What do you want?”

Aonung’s eyes went wide at your words. He wasn’t used to you talking in such a way, determined, devoid of tears or quivering lips, of soft words and a trembling voice.

“What do you mean what do I want? You fucked off with another man last night, with the tree hugger of all people, and you’re asking me what I want? I want you to explain to me what he was doing there, and why you chose to leave.”

You were so shocked by the nonsense coming out of his mouth, so flabbergasted that the only thing you could think to do is laugh. A crazy, maniacal laugh that continued until there was no more breath in your lungs.

“You know? I knew you were a selfish, self-involved, self-centered jerk for so long, and yet I was continuously blinded by my own desire to see the best in people, the best in you. I held a flicker of hope that the kid I knew was still there, somewhere deep down inside of your shallow soul, but I see now I was blind. You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk. How long have you been fucking another girl, Aonung?”

You watched as Aonung’s mouth opened and then closed, and did so a few more times, while he was trying to come up with an excuse or an explanation, and you felt so free, so weightless, it was like you were floating. No more guilt, no more angst plaguing you, just a light, soft feeling, like a warm hug or sleeping on a cloud.

“Was yesterday the first night? Was it a drunken mistake? Did causing me pain, almost forcing yourself on me turn you on so much that you just needed to do it desperately, that you couldn’t help yourself?”

Your questions were once again met with nothing, no sounds, not even a twitch of the ear or of a facial muscle, no hint that your words were even registering in his mind.

“Come on, Aonung. You said you wanted to talk, let’s talk. Did an Akula get your tongue?”

“Fine, if you don’t want to talk, how about I talk? We’re over, Aonung. So, so over. You want to know why Neteyam came to get me yesterday? Because he’s a better man than you will ever be. Because even on your best day, you aren’t even a fraction of him on his worst day. Because in a few weeks, he has managed to make me feel things you never have, because in just a few weeks, he showed me there’s more to me than what you led me to believe, more to love than what I grew up thinking. And you know what else? I let him do things to me you could only dream of. I let him touch me in ways you never will, let him pleasure me in ways you couldn’t if you tried. And it was amazing. And I will do it again and again, while you will live your life knowing you blew the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Unsurprisingly, that seemed to wake him up from whatever trance he found himself in. The surprise clear on his face made way for panic, a quick brush of sadness that settled finally on anger, deep-seeded anger, manifested through flared nostrils and shallow breaths.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Good luck, Aonung. I hope one day you grow the fuck up, but it won’t be for me to help you through it. Not anymore.”

“You’re such a fucking slut, aren’t you? You act all high and mighty with me, refusing me what’s mine, what was MY right, and you go give it up to some asshole you just met? I guess it’s true what they say, it’s the quiet girls. Always the quiet girls.”

You tried to not let it affect you, his words, his horrible words that somehow manage to pierce through you like knifes, and kept your gaze steady on his face contorting in anger.

“Leave, Aonung. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You turned around to follow you own advice, but found yourself again being yanked back like a rag doll by his much larger hands wrapping around your arms and pulling.

“I’m not fucking done, you sl-“

The bone crunching noise that rang in your ear as Neteyam’s fist made contact with Aonung’s nose was weirdly satisfying, and you watched as the Metkayina man was knocked straight to the ground, blood pouring from his face and dripping down his chest. The impact was so powerful that his blood splattered over your face, painting you in red spilling drops. Whatever form of sympathy you felt for Aonung left your body the moment he called you a slut for doing something he was doing behind your back just a night ago, while not taking any accountability or exhibiting any ounce of remorse. You felt a sick satisfaction, watching him try to gather himself, hand on his nose, forehead scrunched up in pain and confusion. Neteyam put his body in between you and Aonung, taking a few steps in his direction.

“Leave. Now. If you ever, ever touch her again, if you ever look the wrong way at her again, the next thing I break is both your legs.” His voice was low and unflinching, calm and unperturbed by any emotion. He was scary. So scary, you felt that voice in every fibre of your being, and you assumed Aonung did, too. You watched as he got to his feet slowly, and a little wobbly, turned around and started walking away.

“I would tell your parents it was unfortunate, but it didn’t work out. That you felt like I wasn’t the right person for you and you felt bad stringing me along. That you fell in love with someone else. You choose, but I would hurry. Unless you want me to tell them what happened, but then you might not get to keep your family jewels, and I’m sure the girl you were fucking behind my back last night would be very disappointed about that. Good riddance, Aonung.”

You couldn’t stop staring at Neteyam, at this man who drove you to the point of madness, who made you want to do things that Eywa herself would cower in shame at, whose back was tensed with each deep breath he took as he watched Aonung leave like a wounded animal, like the coward he was. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins, making you light up with excitement and need, making you pant with the aftershocks of the fight, with animalistic desire at how powerful and forceful, how brave and imposing he was. As Aonung disappeared from sight, and from your mind forever, you watched as he turned to face you, a desperate wild look haunting him. He approached you and you were able to take note of the blood on his face, that adorned him like war paint, and on his knuckles as his hands found their way to your face and hair.

“Are you alright?”

You just nodded, too overcome with his presence and all it invoked in you to be able to speak.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. That you had to go through that.”

You shook your hand and placed a hand on his, smiling softly.

“It’s over. It’s finally over.”

You couldn’t wait any longer, would not wait any longer, and you swiftly closed the gap between you and kissed him. Kissed him the way you have dreamt since the moment you saw him on the beach, kissed him like your life depended on it, like your sanity hung in the shaky balance between his touch and your body, like he was everything. The taste of blood on his lips did nothing to deter you, emboldening you instead, and he moaned in your mouth before deepening the kiss, lifting you in his arms effortlessly until your legs wrapped around him. He only broke the kiss to replace your mouth with your collarbones and chest, and you threw your head back as his touch brought fluttering in your stomach and throbbing in your core, that was calling for him, begging him to fill you.

Neteyam knelt slowly with you still in his arms, handling you like you were no heavier than a child. His strength and physique never failed to amaze you, and right now, neither did the bulge that brushed against you as he guided you onto the ground. You propped yourself up onto your elbows and stared at it, at him, until he smirked and lifted your gaze onto his own by a touch of your cheek.

“Like what you see, princess?”

You gulped and nodded meekly. He took your hand in his and placed your palm on his hard erection, and you couldn’t help the way you started feeling him, tracing its curve and girth, or the soft moan that escaped you at its feel, at how tight the loincloth was stretched around it, at how big he felt, at how empty your brain was at the thought of it slamming into you over and over until you saw white.

He spoke lowly, teasingly, while reaching for your loincloth, that he loosened and removed without any effort.

“Feel that, baby girl? It’s all for you.”

He pushed you on your back by placing a hand on your chest and used a little force to spread your legs, and you were puny in his hands, malleable to his touch, willing to be whatever it was he wanted you to be. He swallowed as he took you in, admiring you while his fingers trailed over your folds, reaching down south until they circled another little puckered hole, eliciting a small gasp from you at the prospect of what was coming.

“All for you. All for this pretty pussy, and your tight little ass, for this fuckable mouth.”

“So, so fuckable, I don’t even know what to start with.” He pushed two fingers in you without any warning and you dropped to the ground and arched your back almost on command, so excited to finally get some release, any release, like you have needed for so long. Soon enough, it became too little, and you found yourself needing more, much much more.

The bucking of your hips was met with a mocking chuckle and words that made you whine in frustration.

“Not yet, baby. Not yet. You’re not ready for my cock yet. We need to get you ready, and you need to be a good girl and get me ready. Come on, on your knees, my love. Gonna fuck this pretty face, first… what do you think? Do you like that idea, pretty girl?”

You moaned at his words, but did what you were told, rising on your knees, noticing dripping going down your leg as you did so, and came face to face with his hips as he rose in all his perplexing, over 9 foot glory. Being so close, so close with the bulge you were just caressing earlier, knowing faintly what was hiding underneath, made you almost vicious, and you found yourself reaching for his loincloth, untying it hurriedly, your urgency making Neteyam scoff lightly, patting the top of your head in a gentle and surprisingly loving motion.

“So eager, my love. Eager to get stuffed with my cock, aren’t you?”

As the loincloth fell to the floor, so did the rest of whatever pathetic inhibitions you had left, taking in his length, that was even bigger than what it felt like under the loincloth, so big in fact, you were genuinely concerned at how it was ever going to fit in your mouth, fit in you. Your wide eyes didn’t go unnoticed by the Omatikayan, who lifted your chin so you could meet his gaze, and whatever expression he was met with made a low growl emerge from his lips, and you felt yourself clench around nothing.

You couldn’t wait any longer without his touch, without feeling him, so you tentatively grabbed his cock in your hand, struggling to make your fingers meet as you wrapped around his base, and you started stroking him up and down, all the while grinding on the ground, trying to get any relief from the enormous pressure building in your core. Primal curiosity took over you as you closed your lips around his tip, dying to feel the taste of the liquid spilling from it and you moaned around his cock as it was better than you could have ever foreseen. The sound and vibration made Neteyam push your head closer to his body, and you gagged slightly as his impressive length made its way down your throat.

“That’s it, baby. Look how well you’re taking my cock. You’re doing so well, princess.”

Without any warning, he started a slow pace in and out of your mouth, holding your head in place with his hands, and fuck, you loved how he was using you as his own personal sex doll. It was so obscene, so filthy, so so good. He felt so good in your mouth, his sweet taste flooding your every sense, welcoming him further in, until your nose was touching his hip bone and his balls were slapping against your chin with every thrust. You wrapped your hands around his thighs, propping yourself to get a better angle, to be able to suck him off the way you wanted, the way you knew he wanted.

“Look how you’re dry humping the ground with my cock so deep in your mouth. You want to be fucked, don’t you, baby? Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

His unrelenting pace made tears appear in the corner of your eyes, spilling down your cheek, mixing with the saliva pooled around your mouth, that dripped all over his balls.

“You’ve never looked prettier than when you’re getting your face fucked. So pretty, princess. Those fucking eyes looking up at me, all innocent, so wild, so - fuck, you will be the death of me.”

“Gonna let me come in this pretty mouth, huh? Want to suck me dry, baby girl?”

You mewled approvingly around his cock, hallowing your cheeks and pushing your tongue against him to drive him to his release sooner, wanting, needing to feel him, to own him, a piece of him, like he owned you, like he would - forever.

“Ohh, fuuck - fuck, princess, just like that. It’s like you were born to suck my cock. Doing so well for me, baby.”

Hot spurts of thick liquid came shooting down your throat and the deep guttural groans he released as the orgasm washed over him was almost enough to bring you to your own - you’ve never heard something more erotic, something more salacious, something better, in your life.

“Good girl.” He slowly removed himself from you and pushed you back into the ground, towering over you, his still fully hard length slapping over your inner thigh haphazardly. “Do you feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I still am for you? I’ll never get enough of this body, princess. You will be dripping in my cum by the time I’m done, this is what being next you does to me.”

His lips crashed against yours aggressively, and his tongue pushed past your teeth into your mouth, exploring you, tasting himself on your tongue. His cock twitched and brushed your dripping folds and you whimpered in his mouth. He smirked at the sound, and positioned himself alongside your core, started slowly grinding his length on you, teasing you, bringing new tears to your eyes and unintelligible sounds to his ears, that revelled in it, that thrived off of how much of a pitiful, writhing mess you were under him.

“Please, Neteyam. Please, fuck, f-“

“You’re still not ready for me, princess.”

“I-I’m ready, please, I’m so fucking ready!”

He tutted in disapproval and removed his body from yours, leaving you empty and aching. You tried closing your legs together, but that too was promptly interrupted by his hands, keeping them far apart. He started a torturous ritual of kissing and licking every part of your body he had access to, masterfully avoiding the only places you wanted, needed to be touched. He started with your collarbones, and down your sternum, alongside your abdomen, and hip bone, your thighs, and inner thighs, and you were crying, the pleasure so great, and yet so incomplete it was hurting you, it was turning into pain.

“Neteyam, I - “

“Hush, baby. Let me take care of you. Let me show you why it couldn’t have been anyone else but me.”

With that, he placed a tender, barely there kiss on your bare pussy, then another one, and another one. His mouth closed around your clit, sucking on it softly, alternating between it and kitten licks, and the rough texture of his tongue made you see stars, made you convulse around his mouth. His tongue moved languidly, drawing numbers on your swollen pussy, pushing into you and lapping at the liquid falling down his chin. You tasted like heaven to him, like a ripened summer fruit, like a flower in spring, blossoming around him, inundating his smell, coating his tongue in its aroma. He loved seeing you like this, all of this, falling apart at the seams in pleasure, tears prodding at your eyes, lips parted and cheeks flushed, chest heaving up and down, hands in his hair, pushing his tongue deeper in your sopping cunt. He loved all of it.

Two slender, long fingers made their way inside of you, feeling you, curling them to massage the perfect spot, the spot he found last time, the spot he knew would make you come undone, and he couldn’t help the arrogance in his tone as he talked.

“Come for me, princess. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

Your orgasm flushed over you, the most intense feeling you have ever felt, and you now understood why he edged you for so long, and even in your dazed mind, you were grateful that he seemed to know your body better than you knew it yourself.

He continued licking at your entrance, not wasting a drop of your cum, not when it was better than any liquor, better than any drink he’s ever been fortunate enough to taste. When he finished, he got back on top of you until you were face to face, and you noticed weakly the glistening on his chin as your juices coated it, and the smirk he had on those beautiful lips that was unrelenting. He knew he was amazing, he knew what he was doing to you.

“See, baby? I know what you need. I’m what you need. Open your mouth.” You did so, no questions asked, and watched as he spit in your mouth, licking your lips in order not to miss anything, humming to yourself as the taste of your own cum registered on your tongue.

“Feel how good you taste. So fucking good, princess.”

“I think you’ve suffered enough. I think it’s time you get what you deserve for being such a good girl. The best girl.”

You felt his arm on your abdomen as he reached down and aligned himself with your folds, his bulbous tip rubbing against your warm, aching entrance. Slowly, gently, he starts sinking into you, allowing you to feel each inch, allowing you to take in the delicious stretch, and the feeling of you wrapping around him brought shivers down his spine. The mewls escaping your lips fuelled his hunger for your body, fuelled his need to push you until you were so overstimulated, you were blacking out with him still deep inside your cunt.

“Eyes on me, baby girl. Look at how deep in you I am, I want you to watch me fuck you.” Neteyam’s cock twitched inside of you at your incredulous expression, at your wide eyes and fucked out face as your stomach deformed slightly, a bulge appearing every time he pushed deep into your cervix. It drives him to the point of insanity, that look, and he starts a maddening pace, quick and rough, rutting into you deeply, watching as your tits bounce with every thrust.

Your mind is blank of any thoughts and full of immeasurable pleasure, unholy sounds escaping your lips like a prayer, like a litany to keep going, to not stop, because fuck, this is the best feeling of your life, being so owned, so free, so helpless, so in control of your own desires, so full, full to the brim with pleasure, with love, with his cock. You start to see stars, as the now familiar feeling draws closer, and your entire body starts shaking in preparation for the wave you knew was about to hit you any second. His thrusts are unrelenting, hitting your cervix mercilessly as your walls tighten around him, wanting to keep him, to never let him go.

“That’s it, baby. You’re clenching my cock so tightly, want to come all over me, princess? Want to cover my dick with that sweet cum?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes! Yes yes yes!”

Your eyes roll in the back of your head as the orgasm drowns you in overwhelming, toe-curling sensations, and you start doubting you will ever see or hear properly ever again, as the world is enveloped in a white, over-exposed glow and your ears lose their ability to discern the waves and the birds flying above you.

“We’re not done, my love.” You barely registered his manoeuvring your now limp body, turning you upside down, so that your chest was flush against the ground as his hands lifted your ass up, his cock once more prodding at your entrance, and you whine, crying as you are barely able to understand what is going on, much less able to appreciate the way he’s spreading your ass cheeks, massaging them slowly, purposefully, while he sinks back into your wet, sensitive, throbbing cunt.

“Neteyam, I can’t anymore… ’s too much.”

“You can, baby. One more for me, come on. I promised you I’d fuck you til you can’t see straight anymore, and I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“You say you can’t, but look how good this pussy’s taking me, look how it moulds around my cock, how you’re squeezing me. You’re so good for me, princess. I can’t believe I get to do this, can’t believe you’re mine.”

A slap on your ass makes you yelp in pain, waking you up like from a daydream.

“I need to hear you say it, my love.”

“’m yours, Neteyam. Yours.”

“That’s right, you’re mine. And I’m yours. You own me.”

You can’t help the way you instinctively push back on Neteyam, can’t help the way, even in this fucked-out state, you’re still searching for more, you still need him deeper, need him to fuck you dumb, fuck you until you’re passed out on the sand. You match his animalistic thrusts the best you can, moaning loudly, wildly, as each of them takes the breath out of your lungs, as each of them fills you up to the brim, as each of them takes you closer to that third release.

“M-more. I need more.”

“You filthy girl. Such a slut for me, aren’t you? My little slut, drunk on my cock.”

You gasp as his thumb traces your asshole, then slowly removes it and brings his hand to your face, his other hand caressing your lower back.

“Open your mouth, pretty girl.” You did as you were told, and he pushed two fingers inside your mouth and down you throat, and you sucked on them, allowing your tongue to trace in between them, coating them with your saliva.

“Good girl.”

He moved his hand back to your ass again, and slowly pushes one finger in, ignoring the mewling sounds spilling past your lips. He started moving his finger in and out of you slowly, adding the other, all the while rutting into you like a rabid animal in heat, pushing you forward with each thrust, holding you tightly by your hips, leaving imprints on your sensitive skin that you knew would be bruised when this was all over. You loved it.

The feeling of his cock burrowing deep inside your core and his fingers moving in an out of your ass slowly was too much, and you were bracing for the snapping of the coil that has been tightening inside of you, knowing that when it snapped, so will you, and your last remaining consciousness.

“You gonna let me cum in this pussy? Want me to fill you up real nice, paint those pretty pink walls white?”

You tried to answer, but only ugly whimpers came out, and by the sound of his melodic laugh, you knew he took that as a yes.

“Come on, princess. Be a good girl and milk my cock dry.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, as the orgasm took everything out of you, and you would take everything out of him, as a result. He was right. When he was done, you were so drunk on his cock, you really couldn’t see anymore. And as he lowered his body on yours, resting his chest on your back and peppering small, gentle kisses on the back of your neck, whispering sweet nothings and telling you how good you did, you knew you were excited not be able to see straight every day, for the rest of your life.

thank you again to everyone who likes, replies and reblogs and asked to be tagged, i love you all x

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