#(It started out as a kiss how did it end up like this)

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could you write a Dad!oscar where baby piastri insists on “driving” like her dad. Maybe she takes over his simulator at home, and he sets up a little toy car for her in the paddock. The other drivers and team members can’t stop laughing at how serious she is about it, and he’s just the proudest dad ever.

Future Champion

The paddock buzzed with the usual hum of excitement as the race weekend unfolded. Engineers scurried around, laptops in hand, as the scent of hot asphalt and motor oil filled the air. It was just another Friday, the start of practice sessions, but for Oscar, it was a bit more special.

His two-year-old daughter, Yn, was spending the weekend at the track with him.

Yn clung to his hand as they strolled through the McLaren garage, her wide eyes scanning everything with an endless curiosity only a toddler could possess. Her brown curls bounced with every step, her other hand clutching a half-eaten snack that was already crumbling against her tiny fingers.

"Daddy, what's that?" she asked, pointing at the sleek orange car parked in the garage.

"That's my car, sweetheart," Oscar said softly, crouching down to her level. "That's what I drive on the track."

Her lips parted in awe, as if she was seeing magic for the first time. "You drive that?" Her voice was filled with wonder.

He chuckled, brushing a stray curl from her face. "I do. I'm going to drive it in a bit. You want to watch me?"

Yn nodded enthusiastically, her snack momentarily forgotten. "I wanna see!"

Oscar smiled as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Alright, baby. You'll sit with Uncle Lando while I drive, okay?"

As if summoned, Lando strolled over, dressed casually in his team gear, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Hey, Yn," he greeted, wiggling his fingers at her. "Ready to hang out with the coolest person here?"

Yn blinked up at him with mild confusion before turning back to Oscar. "Daddy’s cooler."

Oscar let out a laugh, lifting her into his arms. "You heard her."

Lando gasped in mock offense. "Betrayed by a two-year-old!" He shook his head dramatically. "I thought we were friends, Yn."

She giggled, clinging tighter to Oscar's neck. "Daddy's best."

Oscar's heart melted at her words, and he squeezed her gently before passing her over to Lando. "Be good for him, okay? I'll be back soon."

Yn pouted for a second, but she allowed Lando to take her, nestling comfortably in his arms. "Drive fast, Daddy."

"Always," he promised with a wink before disappearing toward his car.

---

The rumble of engines filled the air as free practice one began. Yn sat perched on Lando's lap in the McLaren garage, oversized headphones protecting her little ears. Her attention was glued to the screens showing the track, her eyes scanning for any glimpse of her dad.

"He's there!" she squealed suddenly, pointing at the screen as Oscar's car zoomed through a corner.

"Yep, that's your dad," Lando confirmed, bouncing his knees slightly to entertain her. "He's pretty fast, huh?"

Yn nodded vigorously, her face lighting up with pride. "He's the best driver ever!"

Lando chuckled, adjusting her headphones when they slipped slightly. "You're his biggest fan, aren't you?"

"Yes!" she declared without hesitation, her little hands clenched into excited fists.

When the practice session ended, Oscar returned to the garage, pulling off his helmet with a relieved sigh. Before he could even process his engineers' comments, Yn wriggled out of Lando's grasp and sprinted toward him.

"Daddy!" she cried, throwing her arms up.

Oscar bent down, scooping her up in one swift motion. "Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, still catching his breath. "Did you like watching me drive?"

Her face was flushed with excitement. "I wanna drive like you!" Her words tumbled out in a mix of gibberish and enthusiasm, barely understandable.

Oscar tilted his head, frowning slightly as he tried to decipher her excitement. "You... you want to drive?"

Yn nodded, her curls bouncing again. "Yes! Like you!" Her tiny hands made a vague steering motion, as if that would clarify things.

Lando, watching the exchange with amusement, scratched his head. "Is she asking for driving lessons?"

"I think she is," Oscar murmured, his lips twitching into a smile. He shifted Yn to one hip and turned to a nearby intern. "Hey, could you grab the small McLaren car from the storage room?" he asked softly, and the intern scurried off immediately.

Yn tilted her head in curiosity. "What car?"

"You'll see, baby," he assured her, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

Minutes later, the intern returned with a sleek, kid-sized McLaren car���a perfect replica of Oscar's race car. Yn's eyes grew impossibly wide as she wiggled out of her father's arms.

"For me?" she gasped, reaching out to touch the shiny surface.

Oscar crouched down beside her. "Just for you," he confirmed, opening the tiny door. "Come on, let's get you in."

With his gentle guidance, Yn clambered into the car, her face glowing with delight. Oscar carefully closed the door, adjusting her position as she fidgeted excitedly.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said softly, pointing to the miniature steering wheel. "You hold this to steer. And if you press this button, the car will move."

Yn's fingers curled around the wheel as if it were the most precious thing she'd ever held. "Like you, Daddy?"

"Just like me," he promised, giving the car a soft push forward.

Her delighted squeal filled the pit lane as she rolled down the smooth surface, her tiny hands steering with intense concentration. She was serious—dead serious—about this.

Lando let out a low whistle. "Wow, she's already better at this than half the grid."

Oscar laughed quietly, his heart swelling with affection as he watched her. "She takes after her father."

It wasn't long before the other drivers began to notice the tiny McLaren zipping (well, crawling) around the pit lane. Max, emerging from the Red Bull garage, stopped mid-step, his brow arching as he spotted Yn.

"What is that?" Max asked, pointing toward her.

Lando leaned against a wall, grinning. "Future world champion."

Charles wandered over next, his eyes widening when he caught sight of the toddler making her slow but determined way across the lane. "Is that... Yn?"

"Yep," Oscar confirmed, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice.

"She's very focused," Charles noted, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "Maybe a little too focused."

"She's serious about this," Lando agreed. "I mean, look at her. That level of dedication at two years old? Insane."

Yn, meanwhile, was entirely unbothered by the growing audience. She tightened her grip on the wheel, her lips pressed into a little pout of concentration as she maneuvered her car in circles around the pit lane. To her, this was the most important thing in the world.

Oscar crouched down again when she rolled back toward him. "You're doing amazing, baby," he said softly. "You like your car?"

Yn beamed up at him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "I love it!"

Lando clapped his hands together. "Alright, Oscar. When are you signing her to McLaren?"

Oscar chuckled, scooping Yn up as she reached her arms out for him. "Give her a few more years," he teased, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "She'll be ready in no time."

Yn snuggled against his chest, sighing contentedly. "I wanna drive like you always, Daddy."

His heart melted right there on the pit lane. "And you will, sweetheart. One day, you will."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hope you guys enjoyed this! My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[woollypoison]

Spiral

male reader x Giselle a/n: spoilers, but this story contains topics such as death and grief. Word count: 19k

You owe your life to Giselle. This is not an exaggeration. This is also not a metaphor. This is not even some poetic way she saved you—though it will end up that way too. No, this is fact.

-

There’s a loud, wet plop that reverberates from your attic bedroom, to the stairs below it, into the kitchen and finally stops near the front door as Giselle releases the head of your cock from her plump and peach colored lips, her cheeks hollowed out to make the noise reach every corner of the house it previously was never allowed to.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,“ Giselle giggles, her bright pink hair falling over one eye as she tilts and looks up at you with a gaze that claims this was somehow the most important task at hand and she just had an obligation to find out. It wasn't and she didn't.

If the promise you made was anything to go by, that honor would be bestowed upon studying for your midterms. And if it makes any difference, you did study at first, you really did. It started with you on your bed, reviewing your notes in between peeks at your girlfriend. Giselle at her desk—your desk, actually, but when she was here, it was hers, like everything you owned—lazily swiping a highlighter across her paper, making it very clear she had no interest at all in the economy of post-war Europe.

In your defense, you were still just on your bed. It was Giselle who was now lying between your legs, her hand softly clamping the base of your cock, resting her cheek against the inside of your thigh, looking up at you like you are the most interesting thing in the world.

You’re not.

You’re just some guy who told his parents he couldn’t come along on the Disneyland trip because he had to study. “You’re staring.” She interrupts your self-indulgent train of thought.

“I was just thinking about how I gave up Disneyland for this.”

She raises her eyebrows, feigned shock playing at her face before she stifles a grin you can’t help but catch. “Wow,” she lilts through a chuckle. Giselle has this way of making her eyes bigger than what you could possibly take in, and her mouth small and pouty which conjured a magnetic attraction that kept pulling you towards her in a way none of your physics books could explain whenever she was acting mock-offended. Mock-wounded, even.

A small gap between her lips allows hot breath to escape and hit you where it burns, and she has the audacity to let the grip she’s maintained on you soften, those eyes professing innocence and claiming she’s not currently casting a spell on you from which there is no escape.

“You gave up Disneyland for this?” she repeats, and her voice is all incredulous scandal and disbelief, making her out to be some second-rate plastic junk prize at a carnival and not the single greatest thing to ever happen to you.

You sigh, succumbing to her spell with an arm over your eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why I stayed. It was your idea in the first place.”

“Oh, I know why you stayed,” she purrs, the weight of her chin pressing into your thigh as she makes herself comfortable, her soft hand squeezing a little tighter and then not anymore, “but I still want to hear you say it.”

“Do you?”

Her grip tightens, your life in her hands.

Your breath catches.

She smiles.

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

Your head drops back against the aptly named headboard, your eyes open peering at the love of your life from a tiny gap beneath your arm. “Because you’re here, and we can be as loud as we want.”

She hums, pleased, pressing a kiss against the very tip of your dick. “Good answer.”

She’s keeping you upright, slow kisses trailing their way down your shaft before you break the spell and foolishly interrupt her. “I still don’t get why you’d even pretend to be shocked.”

“Because it’s Disneyland.” she says in between kisses, like that explains anything. It only raises more questions she’s already giving an answer too, slowing the pace of your pleasure, which you now realise was a stupid mistake. “It’s Mickey Mouse, overpriced churros, dry turkey legs, pirates and ghosts and superheroes and some dumb mountain that everyone pretends is a real landmark.”

With a raised brow, “Space Mountain?”

“Splash Mountain.”

You snort. Admittedly, you wanted to be moaning (as loud as you want, mind you) right now, but this was your own doing and you might as well make the most out of it. “They closed it.”

Giselle gasps, not a shred of feign in her shock, genuinely scandalized, and for a moment, you forget she still has a hand wrapped tightly around your cock.

…Almost.

Because now she’s sitting up, straddling your thighs, planting her hands on your chest like she’s rock climbing and you’re her anchor, staring down at you with nothing short of betrayal in her eyes.

“They fucking what?”

“Yeah, they closed it,” you repeat, trying very, very hard to not be distracted by the fact that she’s fully naked, fully on top of you, and somehow infinitely more interested in Disneyland’s performative politics than your dick.

“For what?” she demands out of you, her nails digging into your flesh as if you made the call.

You laugh, partly because you can’t believe that it was Splash Mountain that cockblocked you, and partly because you’re helpless to do anything else in front of her. “I’m not sure, I think it was something about racism—”

“Oh, so now they care—”

See, when she’s getting all huffy and puffy, there is something about her waist that suddenly becomes irresistibly grabbable. So you do, and you flip her back onto the bed, changing places and slotting your head between her thighs, effectively shutting her up.

Or at least, for a second.

But Giselle is nothing if not a menace, and she immediately recovers, her hands finding their rightful place in your hair, her thighs pressing into your shoulders as she whispers “Does this mean we’re making our own splash mountain?”

This deserves a groan. “That is literally the worst thing you’ve ever fucking said.”

But you’re still beneath her, staring at her face—a little upset you’re not fucking it but more than happy to let her fuck yours—and when her tongue slightly protrudes between her lips, licking the top first and then the bottom with her eyes fluttering as if they’re spelling the Morse code for “Fuck me,” you can’t help but indulge.

You plant exactly one soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, no more and no less. Her whole body twitches under the contact.

Giselle is beaming.

It’s not the previously worn grin, not the giggly, mischievous, I-just-did-something-chaotic smile. No, this one is worse. This one is far, far worse for you. It’s all teeth, all dimples, all radiant, glowing, pure lovesick joy. It's hard to find a word other than the given, irresistible.

You’ve barely done anything yet, but her eyes are already glassy, her breaths loud and rhythmic, and she’s looking at you with so much goddamn love that it feels like standing too close to the fucking sun. And you give her the same look back, because how could you not?

“I can’t believe you,” she sighs, dreamy, high off of nothing but you.

She’s all yours, bucking her hips into you, surrendering to your touch. You just tighten your grip on her waist, locking her down. “I haven’t even done anything yet?”

“Oh, you know what you’re doing,” she accuses, and she meant to sound annoyed, but her breath halts and hitches halfway through her emphasis on the ‘know’, betraying her, because the truth is that she doesn’t mind at all. The beautiful truth is that she’s hopeless about you, and she knows you know it.

You can’t help it— her grin is infectious, and suddenly you’re beaming too. It’s true what they say about becoming more like each other once you love someone. With that pure lovesick joy, you lean down, letting your tongue barely graze her slit as it finds its mark. You place it right under her clit, and give one brazen swipe upwards before you pull back, making her whine—actually, physically whine—and the sound goes straight to your head like the cheap liquor you are bound to steal from your parents cabinet.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” you speak softly, throwing her own words back at her, hot breath crashing into Giselle’s sensitivity causing her thighs to tense up against you.

She groans, she tugs on your hair—a punishment you know you deserve—and this time around, succeeds in addressing you as the most annoying person on planet Earth. “Oh my god, I hate you,” she grunts, pushing her hips up against your mouth like punctuation. 

“No, you don’t,” you say, without a shred of doubt, tightening your grip on her hips, keeping her exactly where you want her.

Before giving her another chance at a comeback, you dive back in, a lot less reserved this time, planting a slow kiss against her folds.

“No,” she agrees, her nails scraping against your scalp as they curl in your hair, tugging your closer. “I really, really don’t.”

Your tongue responded instinctively to her admission, flattening against her slick folds, slow strokes highlighting every sensitive treasure spot like it's your first time discovering her.

Giselle is intoxicating. A drug that dissolves on your tongue, a spell too sweet to break, a firework that you can’t tear your eyes away from. Her sweaty scent fogs up your head, her taste coating your tongue and lingering there, her hands clutching at you tighter in response to every filthy thing you do to her. Every sound, every twitch, every one of your senses—overwhelmed. She’s got you, and fuck, you’re letting her have you too.

You should be used to her by now. Built up some kind of immunity. But when you sink two fingers inside her dripping cunt, feel her slick against your knuckles, curling up against that perfect spot, and she moans your name—loud, like never before, unmuffled and unrestrained—it's the only sound that makes sense to you anymore.

You freeze.

It’s not hesitation—it’s pure awe.

Her voice is still dancing in your ears, unfiltered and full of affection, louder than either of you had ever allowed before. So used to stifling it with your hands or less savory appendages, but now basking in its unadulterated echoes. And fuck, it’s beautiful.

“Why’d you stop?” Giselle demands, as though you just committed a cardinal sin. You might as well have. Her fingers tangling into your hair, unrelenting, not yanking or guiding—staking her claim on you.

You blink, and you take it all in. Her cheeks, rosy from the blush. Her lips, peach colored and smeared from kissing your cock. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflect the only thing she wants—you. Everything about her is so fucking beautiful it makes you sick.

“I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate the sounds you’re making.” You murmur, and smirk at the edge of your lips, much to her annoyance.

Her breath halts. Her gaze drops, and then— a scoff. That signature scoff of hers, the one she throws out so nonchalantly when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected. She clearly is.

“Then you better start working that tongue again before I go mute,” she quips, but the rolling of her hips betrays her. It’s rhythmic, it’s needy, and it’s honest.

With a raised, cocky eyebrow. “Right, that’s why you’re still moving your hips like you’re begging for me to fuck my fingers deeper into you.”

Giselle doesn’t hesitate. She barely ever does. “I don’t beg.”

She’s a wonderful girlfriend, but a terrible liar.

“You do when I make you.”

And right when she’s about to throw something back—something sharp, something clever, something quintessentially Giselle—

Your tongue is on her again. Slow, hooking under her swollen clit, flicking up, before your lips seal around her.

It was that easy. The oncoming verbal onslaught? Gone. The battle of wits? Over.

She gasps—the sound ripping out of her like she wasn’t prepared for it. Her back arches off of the bed, forming a bridge to some goddamn nirvana.

She always has something to say. Something that dares you to keep up. But throughout it all, you love her voice the most when she has nothing at all—when the only thing she can say is your fucking name.

And so you drag it out of her, because fuck, you need to hear that again.

Your fingers fuck into her harder, curling just right, twisting, spreading, relentless. But your tongue? Slow. Cruel. Featherlight flicks. Teasing. Deliberate. The contradiction drives her insane. She chokes on a sound—somewhere between a moan and what she’d never admit is begging—and the way it breaks halfway through makes your cock ache.

“Don’t—” she heaves, pitch rising as she confuses how to beg with how to demand.

She swallows. Tries again.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

There’s no way you could. Not even when she starts babbling—half words, half nonsense, another half your name, and all desperate for release. Not even when her thighs are quaking, trembling into the side of your head. Not even when her hands have abandoned your hair in favor of gripping the bed sheets, pulling like she means to tear, when her whole body arches off the bed as if trying to ascend towards the pleasure as she chases it.

You feel it.

She’s so fucking close.

It’s in the way she trembles like her legs will give out and the way her thighs clamp tight around your head. Her whole body claiming you in a desperate display of want.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—” Her voice is all throaty, breathless desperation. "Don't stop. Don’t fucking stop—”

Your fingers drive into her harder, curling inside before pulling back out—”come on, baby, fall for me”—while your tongue twists around her clit, making her spiral out of control.

And she can’t help jerking her hips in response, riding against your face, mindless. She needs it, and she’ll have you give it to her.

“God, you—fuck, you love this, don’t you?” she gasps, desperate laughs, almost delirious, rolling her hips down faster and harder, grinding into your tongue. “Love me—love making me lose my fucking mind on your mouth—”

Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do.

“Look at you.” She’s throbbing at this point, panting rapidly, helpless, but somehow mustering a sharp-edged bite through her heavy-lidded stare. “So fucking desperate to make me cum. You like when I scream for you, huh?”

You groan into her flesh, your response vibrating against her clit, and her volume increases, if that was even possible.

“you—oh fuck—you’re so good—so fucking good— fuck, please—please—”

She’s begging now. Even she couldn’t deny it anymore.

“Say it,” you taunt, breaking away just long enough to look up at her and make her desperate, lips drenched in her. “Tell me how bad you need it, baby.”

“I—I can’t—”

You deliver a sharp, fast stroke with your tongue, lethal precision, just to make her sob.

“Say it.”

“Fuck, I need it—need you, need your tongue, your fucking fingers…I need to cum on your fucking face—”

You bring her over the edge. A heartbeat passes. And then she shatters.

A moan? No, a cry, pours out from deep inside her, high and sharp, louder than anyone has ever screamed on actual Splash Mountain. The walls shake with it. Her hands, aimless, uncontrollable, claw at anything they’re given. Your hair, her own skin, her bedsheets—your bedsheets actually, but we’ve been over this—while her body locks up tight, shakes, then crashes down in wave after wave after fucking wave of pleasure.

And through all of the filthy fucking obscenities she’s belting out—your name.

Fucking screamed.

It travels through you like new life, straight to your cock, straight to the part of your brain that wants to fuck it out of her again.

You don’t stop. You should, but you can’t. Keep attacking her, keep pushing her through it, keep drinking her in like she’s your life support.

She twitches, tries to close her legs—too sensitive, too overwhelmed—but you grip her thighs, keep them spread, keep going, keep her yours. Keep her here.

Until she lifts your head with trembling hands.

“Too much,” she exhales, exhausted, wrecked.

You look up at her, her face half hidden under the mounds of her tits, but clear as day. She’s ruined.

Flushed from chest to cheeks, skin sparkling with sweat against the sun dripping in from the window, lips parted, swollen from biting down. Panting. Her hair’s a beautiful mess, fanned on your pillow and tangled across it, pupils blown up with pleasure.

She looks like an angel.

Like she should have a halo, but you’re just too much of a sinner to see it.

But then—she opens her eyes, lazy, dark, and dangerous, and—

Yeah. No. No halo. She’s just as much a sinner as you.

She commands you with such a soft, saccharine sound, you’ve already agreed before hearing the demands. “You’re not allowed to ever do that to anyone else.”

“As long as I have you, that can be arranged,” you smile back.

She collapses. 

The bed creaks beneath her weight, and you can feel the way her whole body unwinds in your hands, still rooted firmly just above her hips. For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of her breathing, getting slower and deeper, full of delicious content.

Giselle pushes her elbows underneath her, pushing her upwards. She hums a slow, peachy sound, as she works through her failing legs. And then, just as lazily, just as hungry—

She pushes you onto your back.

It’s not forceful. It doesn’t have to be.

You let her.

You go willingly.

And the second you hit the bed, she’s hanging over you.

She tilts her head, watching you like she’s debating her next step. Her face inches closer to your cock, her lips purse and then—

She kisses your hip bone instead.

Your breath catches. Another kiss, this time lower, but not yet where you’d die for it.

You resist the urge to buck your hips into her face. Barely, but you manage.

“You know,” she muses so sultry, tracing circles against your thighs with her thumbs. “I think I love you the most when you let me take what I want.”

Crawling over you, straddling your hips, pressing her nude, still-trembling body flush against your own. And fuck, you feel it—your heat against her heat, wetness dripping against your stomach, every inch of her soaked and sensitive and ready to devour.

But she doesn’t sink down onto you. Not yet.

Because she’s got plans for you. You made her beg, and she always returns the favor.

She whispers in your ear. “You’re shaking baby,” and you were so confident you had it under control. “You want it that bad?”

Her lips collide against yours, tongue invading your mouth, like she was hungry for a taste. Hers is like peach, and yours is like her.

When she pulls back, her smirk is heavy-lidded, predatory, wicked. A mixture of spit and her cum connects you two, growing heavy, splitting and falling on your bodies.

“My turn.”

Her hand wraps around the base of your cock. Her grip is firm, teasing, all smug satisfaction.

“You can hold out until I get to taste you, right?” She purrs, her voice dripping with playfulness.

You exhale, your eyes meeting her in a determined gaze, dragging your fingers slowly over the curvature of her hips. “You tell me.”

She hums a questioning tune, unimpressed. She takes her time to get her hand moving, stroking deliberate, unbearably slow, luring you out.

Your breath catches for a frame, and—fuck—you know she caught it.

Her lips curl. Smugness oozing off of her. “Right, I thought so.”

She leans in closer, nibbling softly on your ear, moving down, pressing a slow kiss to your throat that lingers. Then another. Working her way down, her free hand following suit over your stomach, fingers splayed and nails grazing your skin like she’s got all the time in the world to make you squirm.

You know exactly where this is going.

And so does she.

“Giselle.” Your voice is low, buckling.

She smiles against your skin, her teeth grazing your flesh, contemplating a bite. “Yes?”

You narrow your eyes, but she just blinks up at you, a quick flutter of those enchanting eyes, all innocence, like she isn’t also stroking you with a lazy, practiced, perfectly tuned in to you rhythm. Like she isn’t sinking lower and lower into depravity—right where you want her—with every passing second.

She has this glint in her eye. You know it all too well by now, she wants to be teased back, to have you push her buttons. Wants you to get impatient enough to forget how much you love her just enough to handle her a little rougher.

And you do. You let your fingers slip into her vibrantly colored hair, slow, dragging through the strands before coming together with just the slightest bit of force at the roots.

She exhales. Or rather, she pretends it’s just her exhaling.

With a soft, tiny little shudder that you most definitely felt, coupled with a moan she couldn’t help but keep in, your lips curl. “Oh?”

Giselle stops. Her fingers, mind you, still against and around your cock, her face perfectly blank, like you didn’t just catch her falling for you.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widens. “I think you just—”

She glares, her grip tightening in retaliation.

And just to shut you up, she ducks her head, dragging her tongue slow and warm from base to shaft to head of your cock, marking her territory with a line from base to tip.

All of your breath and sound tumbles out of you.

Giselle hums, smugness regained, lips glazing against the tip of your cock as she murmurs, “That’s cute.”

She wanted a little rougher out of you anyways, and you’d indulge, fingers flexing in her hair. Then—slowly, deliberately—you strengthen your grip, not enough to really hurt, but enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet your hungry gaze.

She gasps, and then her breath catches. Big eyes, asking you what you’ll do next.

You lean in, voice dripping low and quiet. “You love being my good girl, don’t you?”

And the way she shivers? Fuck.

Her lips part, her thighs squeezing together tight, but she’s too stubborn to say it outright. She won’t let up yet. Instead, she presses closer, hanging her tongue out of her mouth as she presses it against the back of your cock, breath warm and teasing, spit drops dripping down to your balls, one by one.

Your jaw clenches, as does your fist, keeping her in place.

She’s dragging this out on purpose.

You give her a quick yank back, and then push her back against your cock, and you mutter, “You know what I want, baby. Give it to me.”

Her eyes flicker. Sparkle, even.

She swallows, licks her lips, wetting them, and finally speaks softly. Her tone insinuates she already knows what your answer will be.

“Make me.”

And fuck—who could resist pushing her forward? Her mouth enveloping the head of your cock, her tongue swirling around and lapping against you. Her hand pressing down firmly against the base of your cock, and vibrations of her soft moans jolting through your dick.

She seems extra hungry today, leaning into her gagging and groaning, reveling in your fierceness, and right as you were about to test her limits even further—

The sound of metal rapidly vibrating against wood. Your phone on your nightstand. You roll your eyes, but Giselle gives you this look that you’d learned to intuit meant “It could be important?” You don’t let up on Giselle’s throat breaking previously set records, but you take a peek anyways.

It’s your aunt. She’s probably just checking up on you, something not important—not as important as fucking Giselle’s face— so you resolve you’ll call her back.

You put your phone back on your nightstand, and you heard it ring, again. 

Weird.

-

You haven’t cried yet since the news.

Giselle has barely stopped.

It’s morning—you think, it might also be noon, it’s all a blur—but the light creeping into your room unwanted through the window feels wrong. It’s too bright. Too harsh. Like it should’ve dimmed out of respect.

Your phone still lies on your nightstand where you put it yesterday, face down. Turning it over would mean seeing the missed calls, seeing the texts piling up. You can’t touch it. Just keep staring at it like that might change what’s already happened. Like that might stop the jumbled mess of words your brain can still remember, in your aunt’s voice looping over and over in your head, buried in sorrow, barely making sense through the sobs. “A drunk driver—”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“All—All passed away.”

And a thought you know you shouldn’t have creeps its way in with the others.

“Stay home from the trip, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You resent her for it, if only for a split second. You can’t think like that. But if she didn’t say that, you might have prevented this somehow. Or not have to feel this pain, being with them. Another split second. 

No. 

Stop.

Where is Giselle anyways? You turn around, and her warmth is missing. She’s not lying next to you. You close your eyes. Try to suppress the thoughts. It doesn’t help.

There’s footsteps outside your door. Slow, hesitant. Followed by a knock, barely more than a tap.

“Are you awake?”

Giselle. Thank God.

You want to answer, but the lump in your throat stops you. She pushes the door open anyway. She’s a fucking mess. Bloodshot eyes with bags to accompany them, and her hair done in a messy bun, loosely pulled together. She’s wearing one of your hoodies—too big for her, sleeves dark from moisture. She looks over at you, your eyes meet, they linger for a moment, and then drop solemnly.

“I made you something to eat,” she says. It sounds hoarse and strained.

You don’t respond. You wish you could.

She’s hesitating before stepping in. Like it would mean stepping into your grief too, and she isn’t sure if you’ll let her.

But she wants to.

She approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, turning towards you and shuffling the plate your direction. Toast and eggs. It smells like food. The smell of food doesn’t smell like something you can shove down your throat right now.

“You should eat,” she tries.

You bit down on the inside of your cheeks. Stare at the plate like it’s an endless tunnel.

Her eyes can’t seem to find yours, seeking the solace of the window instead. She sniffs once, catches herself, and rubs the tip of her nose with the sleeve of your hoodie before exhaling and speaking. “Just a little, okay? Just—just a bite.”

You take the plate, not out of hunger. It’s just the least you owed her after resenting her for a split second. You break off a piece of the toast and chew. It doesn’t even taste like food, and it’s not her fault. You force yourself to swallow anyways.

She’s trying. For you.

And you hate it.

The plate in your hands is too heavy. You put it away on the nightstand, pulling your knees up to your chest and locking them in place with crossed arms. Your lips tremble against your arm, speaking into your skin. The sound is wrecked and exhausted. Fragile, like—fuck, like what? Like life? “You don’t have to be here.”

Her eyes snap to yours, wide and wet.

“Don’t,” she ekes out, her voice breaking on the first vowel. Her lips press together tightly, trembling as they seal away her words. They part slightly as she shakes her head.“Please don’t do that to me.” She sounds raw. Small. Scared of whatever you might reply with it, if you even say anything. Like she thinks she might not survive this conversation.

Maybe you won’t either.

You drag in a breath, but it’s hard. Like the air itself can feel that you don’t really want it there. Like two metal plates pushing together inside your throat, forcing everything out when it needs to go in. Your body fighting against what you’re trying to make it do, like you suddenly got rewired and need to relearn how to breathe, and it’s so fucking frustrating how even breathing requires thinking right now.

Your arms uncross, elbows against knees and hands rubbing into your face. Press the heel of your palm against your eyes until all you see is static, bursts of color mixed with black, a flickering distraction behind your lids. But it doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t shake it loose, doesn’t take away the building pressure you can feel behind your eyes.

Your family is dead.

And you’re still here.

You should say something

That you didn’t mean it. That you’re just—tired, or lost, or whatever the fuck this feeling is that’s twisting your stomach, making everything taste like nothing and the air feel impossible to muscle down. But the words don’t come, and Giselle is still looking at you like you just asked her to push a knife you held to your chest deeper to finish the job.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her hoodie—your hoodie, but who fucking cares at this point? You remember her saying she loved it, months ago, attributing it to how it smelled like you.

Now it probably just smells like salt.

“I wasn’t with them.”

Giselle stiffens.

The weight of what you just let out settles between you both. It’s thick, suffocating, harsh and pressing down on your ribs.

It’s impossible to look at her now.

There’s a breath. Not yours. It’s shaky, coming in three tiny bursts of being pulled into her lungs.

A small pause. Then: “No,” she whispers. “You weren’t.”

And it’s not comforting. You both know that. It's not meant to be.

Your family is dead.

You are alive.

Nothing can change that. Nothing can fix it. And maybe worst of all—you need someone to blame. Anybody to take it out on. It can’t even be that piece of shit drunk driver, he had the sense to take himself out with everyone else.

And you realise you owe your life to Giselle.

“If only you didn’t ask me to stay,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you figure out how to stop yourself, “I could have been with them.”

You’re not accusing her.

Not really.

But it still lands like one.

You don’t know how to take the words back, how to unmake the weight they carry, how to make it so you didn’t open your fucking mouth and let them spill out like venom.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. You should have been with them. If you’d just gone on the trip like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t have to feel this. You wouldn’t have to be here.

You wouldn’t have to be.

And once more, for a split second, for a horrible, fleeting split second, you resent her for it.

Because she asked you to stay.

Because she made you stay.

Because if it weren’t for Giselle, you wouldn’t be in this fucking bed, in this fucking house full of memories, swallowing down a piece of fucking toast that tastes like nothing, thinking about how to fucking breathe, while your whole fucking family—

You found someone to blame. And you hate yourself for it.

The thought is barely even there before you shove it down, bury it so deep inside yourself it might as well have never existed, as though if you push hard enough, you can convince yourself you never thought it at all.

But it’s too late.

Giselle sees it. And she’s looking at you like you just drove a jagged knife into her ribs. And maybe you fucking did. And she’d even let you.

She’s having trouble swallowing it all down, her lips parting, and for a second, you think she’s going to say something—but she doesn’t.

Because she doesn’t see you as wrong. She sees you as right. If only she didn’t ask you.

“It’s my fault.”

You can’t help but physically, viscerally recoil from the words.

No.

That’s not true. That’s not what you think, this isn’t that. That’s not what you meant. That’s not—

“If I just hadn’t—” But it’s interrupted by a sharp inhale, like there’s not enough air in the room to speak the words. Her eyes squeeze shut, maybe so she can’t cry, or so she doesn’t need to look at you, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s squeezing down. “If I just didn’t say anything, maybe they wouldn’t have left when they did. Maybe they wouldn’t have been on that road, at that time, in that moment—”

Her breath hitches again. Her hands unclench briefly, only to grasp at her face, fingers pressing down into her skin around her eyes, shaking.

You feel like throwing up. 

Because you’re not the only one with a brain that won’t shut up. With thoughts that won’t stop forming, poisoning, curling inside your skull like parasites burrowing into every action you take, every thought you think.

And for the first time since waking up, you turn to look at her.

Really look at her.

She’s a wreck.

Her face is swollen, but her eyes have it worse. They’re puffy, red-rimmed and drained. Her nose is pink, not from the way she likes to do her makeup, but from rubbing it too much with her sleeves, turning it raw, and her lips have bite marks from where she’s been biting down when she wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.

Giselle never looks like this.

She always carries herself with this effortless sort of self-possession, even when she’s being an absolute menace. But right now?

Right now, she looks like she’s barely staying afloat herself.

“Giselle—”

“I took you away from them.”

Her voice cracks.

You whip your head up so fast your vision starts to swim, like gravity itself is pulling you to the same place you’re trying to hide that wretched thought of yours, and fuck, she’s crying again. And she can’t look at you. Won’t meet your eyes. “You resent me.”

You knew she saw it. You knew she fucking felt it, even in that fucking split second before you buried it, before you even had the time to feel ashamed of yourself, that hate yourself, not her.

But hearing her say it out loud is worse.

“You should hate me,” you mutter.

Her eyes open slightly, and her gaze lands somewhere near you. Not ready yet for landing on you. “What?”

You inhale, sharp and shaky, then exhale just as fast, voice low and wrecked.

“You saved my life.”

You think you meant them, but they feel so, so wrong, because nothing about this feels like being saved. Nothing about this feels like anything but a burning car wreckage and shattered glass from every window it broke and the goddamn sound of your aunt’s voice on repeat, over and over, like a twisted song stuck in your head, one which your brain is desperately trying to make you forget the lyrics to.

And Giselle, she just—

She breaks.

Not like the way she’s been breaking since yesterday, tiny fractures, cracks forming, desperate moments but still holding on.

This time, it’s worse.

She makes this sound—this horrible sound—choked, gasping, sobbing like she wasn’t expecting her body to give in, like she’s hurting worse than what she’d thought was possible, like there was still more grief to pull from her that she was sure she locked away, and collapsing into herself, fingernails digging into her skin and you’re not sure if it’s to hurt herself or hold herself close, like she just needs to hold or be held right now before she breaks.

“I wanted you to stay.”

The admission rips out her, raw and violent and sobbing and so full of guilt it makes your heart feel like it turned to ash.

“I wanted you to stay and I’m sorry and you—” Another sob cuts through it all, her sleeve wiping across her face like she could take the feelings with it as well, the noise of her tears and shattering voice being muffled. But you still hear it, still feel it, and hate it, the way it destroys her.

And then, softer.

“I don’t know how I’d survive if you were in that car as well.”

The confession is small. It’s shaky. It’s honest.

“I think about it every second,” she rambles on, there’s no stopping the confession. “If I just had shut my fucking mouth, you could’ve done something, or been there, or at least not have felt like this.”

Her knuckles whiten from straining them too hard, disgust seeping in her voice as she speaks next. “But I’m glad I didn’t. Do you understand what that says about me? It means I can’t even tell if I’m allowed to be grateful that you’re here, because if I am, does that mean I’m glad your family is dead?”

She’s furious with herself, nails tearing at her own skin as if she wants to rid herself of it all, head shaking furiously. “That just makes me a fucking monster.”

And fuck, it’s suddenly so much worse than the weight of her earlier words, worse than it’s my fault, worse than you resent me, worse than the feeling of your own guilt pressing down on your ribs, because Giselle is—

She’s glad you’re here.

She’s glad you lived.

And she hates herself for it.

And you want to tell her—you really fucking do, if only the words would come out—you want to tell her it’s okay.

Or, that it’s not okay, but that she is. That she shouldn’t have to feel like that, that she doesn’t deserve it, that she has no reason or need to carry, she doesn’t have to bear this kind of weight, she didn’t do anything wrong, that she couldn’t have done anything, it’s not her fault, that she’s allowed to be relieved that she still has you because fuck, you’re relieved you still have her too, and it’s fucking selfish and ugly and it makes your stomach churn but you just can’t afford to lose her too, you can’t, you can’t, you fucking can’t—

But you don’t have the energy.

You wish you did. You don’t.

And it just adds another layer of self-loathing.

Because Giselle is falling apart, and you can’t do anything about it.

So you just sit there, motionless, watching her break, breaking with her.

Her sobs keep coming, louder and wrecked by the minute in this quiet room, and they won’t stop, like she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like if you did leave, like she’s trying to fill the space around you with something less suffocating, but it’s still there, under everything, pressing it’s full weight on you.

It makes your whole body feel heavy.

Like it would take too much effort to move. So you don’t.

You just let her cry.

And eventually, eventually, her breath evens out—just slightly, still ragged, still trembling, still fucking unbearable to listen to, but at least she’s not gasping for it anymore.

She sniffles, rubs the sleeve of your hoodie over her face again, sniffs again.

“I’m sorry.”

Like something just punched your heart.

“No,” you rasp, air you didn’t have being forced out. “Don’t be.”

Her hands disappear into her sleeves, clutching the fabric around her hands, her shoulders curl inward like she wants to sink as deep as possible as she can into your hoodie. Her hoodie? She considers it your hoodie. Makes it more special.

She moves. It’s sudden, but careful.

It’s slow and it’s hesitant. Shifting closer over the bed, closing the distance between you two. It’s careful, like she’s testing if it’s okay with you with every inch. As if she’s half-convinced you’ll push her away. It’s silly. You don’t.

It’s all filled with uncertainty. As if the routines and rituals you’ve built up have all vanished. Hesitating before making her way under the covers. Her arms making first contact and her whole body curling up behind them, trying to make herself small enough to fit against you without you noticing, like she’s trying to just be with you even if you can’t take it right now. Because she needs it, and she hopes you do too. Like she’s still afraid she’s not allowed to belong here.

And her face presses against your chest, somewhere you think your heart should be, her arms wrapping around your body, her breath hot and finally some capacity of steady brushing against your skin.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

She just holds on.

And you let her. Your arms wrap around her.

Your eyes slip shut, and for a second, you just breathe her in.

But then you hear it.

A voice.

Not Giselle’s.

Not yours either.

His.

“You sure you won’t get too distracted if she stays over?”

Your whole body tenses.

Giselle stiffens slightly against you, feeling it.

Dad.

It’s a fucking disaster, and if you weren’t so desperate to hear his voice, you’d force this memory away in a heartbeat.

You were standing in the driveway as your parents were already packing everything for their trip. Your brother was already burning through his Switch battery on the backseat, letting the world move around him, and your mom was inside packing everything she was sure your dad was forgetting.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, champ,” he’d said, clapping his giant hand on your shoulder with that booming voice of his barely avoiding leaving a ringing sound in your ears. ”Just make sure to actually get some studying done. If you fail your tests, you’re not even getting an invitation for the next family trip.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Smirked at him, full of confidence. “When have you ever known me to fail?”

His laugh had been loud, warm.

“Don’t act all too confident, we all know Giselle takes care of you.”

And then he’d grinned.

“But for what it’s worth?”

A pause.

A squeeze of your shoulder.

“I feel better knowing you’ll have her.”

You inhale, but it’s the kind that preludes tears.

Giselle presses closer.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours—

Your eyes burn.

-

You can’t tell how long it’s been since Giselle crawled into your arms.

If you were asked, you might even say it’s been forever.

There’s only her, warm and small, slotted in your arms, curled up against you and unrelenting in her grip, like she’s afraid you might cease to be if she lets go. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you would. Maybe she’s the only thing keeping you here, really here, and not slipping into some void you fear you might never escape from.

So your arms tighten around her. It’s instinct more than anything. It’s just, her body is so familiar, should be so comfortably familiar—but this time is different.

You’ve pulled her close a thousand times before. Grabbed her by her waist when she got all huffy and puffy, pinned her against a well or closed door or anything she’d let you, tugged her onto your lap, mouth on her neck, her laugh energizing you and spurring you on. It’s always been a pull with her, a want, a need.

This time, it’s a quiet, desperate hold.

And just like her, you grip tighter, arms holding her as close as space allows, so that you can’t loosen your grip even a little, lest she slip through your arms just like everything else.

She begins to inhale, preparing for something, breaking the quiet trance you’ve been slumbering in. Her warm breath burns against your collarbone.

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Your eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

Her body twists, nudging into you, softer, her grip loosening but not letting any space form through it. “Don’t be. I thought—” The words start spilling out, her eyes pointed upwards searching solace in your face before she regathers herself and tries again. “I really thought you were going to push me away.”

Hearing her voice those concerns makes the pit of your stomach turn upside down. “I need you. I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she exhales, hesitation making the air come out in stutters. There’s not a lot of her signature confidence present, as if she’s scared that saying it out loud would jinx it. “But you—you barely even looked at me. And I—I Didn’t know. I didn’t know if you wanted me—wanted me here or if you just—” she shakes her against you feverishly. “I didn’t know.”

You can’t blame her. You haven’t been sure what you want yourself.

You did pull away. Told her she shouldn’t be here. What the fuck was that even about?

It wasn’t because you didn’t want her here. Not because you don’t need her.

It’s the fucking weight of all of this—the sheer, unbearable fucking weight of existing in a world without them—felt like it would be easier to carry alone. Or easier to escape if you were alone.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. You press your lips to the top of her head.

“I love you,” you murmur.

She doesn’t respond, pausing. She probably doesn’t know what you want from her, again.

“I know you know that. But I need you to hear it. So you know.” Your hand presses onto the small of her back, and she gives in. It’s not rough, not hard, not tight, but just enough that she knows you mean it. “I love you. You’re the only one I have left that I can say that too.I can’t bear the fucking thought of losing you too.”

Her shoulders tremble and she pushes her away from your chest, just enough to be able to look in your eyes. “You won’t.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her.

But you thought your parents were permanent, too. Or at least more permanent than this? Thought your little brother would be stealing your shit until you left the house, and then some. Thought there would always be another Christmas, another birthday, another vacation, another tomorrow.

Your fingers rest on the back of her head, pulling her closer back against her chest, against your heartbeat.

“I didn’t tell them I loved them.”

She stills, like a toy that ran out of batteries.

“My dad said it before they left. I didn’t say it back. Felt too embarrassed or something. I just shrugged it off and said I’ll see them later.”

Giselle doesn’t just move—she reaches for you.

Her hands don’t hesitate anymore. One finds your wrist, fingers curling around it gently, as if chaining the two of you together. The other wraps around you, presses against your back, firm, solid, unrelenting.

Her words are hoarse, muffled, being spoken directly into your chest. “They knew.”

You fall back into not responding. You want to believe they knew.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Because later didn’t happen, and later was taking for granted, but it was a fucking lie.

Because some drunk asshole that couldn’t even have the decency to just hit a tree and only punish himself for what he did stole ‘later’ from you.

And now? Your last words to your family weren’t love, weren’t warmth, weren’t anything that mattered.

Just a brush-off. Just something to replace the words you felt too cool to say.

Giselle shudders against, feels the twitch in your muscles as your thoughts go dark and darker. The warmth of her breath is arrhythmic, and you realize she’s crying for you.

Like she’s crawling underneath your shoulders, cracking, holding the weight with you, carrying it when you can’t. And it’s too much, even for her.

Her hands clutch desperately at you, twisting your shirt. “You have to know they knew,” she says, voice cracking every few words. “You have to know that.”

It’s still hard to respond, but she squeezes you tighter anyway. Like she’s forcing it into you.

For a moment, the room is nothing but shallow breaths and the same hum you hear every day of the world moving on outside these walls. It’s sickening.

Then, her voice, breaking the sounds:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It takes a second to process the question.

Absolutely not. Your arms flex just at the thought of it.

“Like—” She wipes her nose after another sniff, sucks in a trembling breath. “Right now. When you think of them. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Your mind stutters. Because how the fuck are you even supposed to pick one thing when a thousand are racing through the tunnels of your brain? How are you supposed to take an entire lifetime of support, annoyance, respect, frustration, love and compress it into a single moment?

Can you even answer that question?

“He laughed,” you mumble, voice rough like new tires.

Giselle listens. It’s all she does.

“When I asked if you could stay over while they were gone,” you continue, the words seemingly coming out on their own, eyes pointed upwards, the ceiling being the only thing you can stand to look at. “Said he knew I wasn’t actually gonna study. But he’d still feel better knowing you were taking care of me.”

The next sound Giselle let out surely was something new to her—soft, wet. It starts as a laugh from something unexpected, but not because something was funny, because it quickly gets overtaken by a sob.

It’s comforting. It might begin to feel like she really is taking on some of that weight. “He always did that—acted like he was onto me, like he had me all figured out. Said he was much the same when he was my age. Used to say he could read me like a book, cus he wrote the damn thing.” You swallow, not sure if it was even okay to say the next part out loud. “I used to think it was fucking annoying.”

She chuckles this time, and it’s not interrupted with a sob. That sound is a lot more comforting. It’s quiet, it’s breathy, and it’s pulling you back.

You’re shaking, but you wouldn’t have caught it if it wasn’t for Giselle holding onto you as though to hold you in place.

“I think you’re right,” you blow out the air through your nose. “They knew.”

Her fingers run over your back. “Yeah,” she whispers. “They did.”

This wasn’t enough to hold back the pain—not yet. But maybe someday it might become enough.

Giselle fits so perfectly into you, and you shift to allow her more room, for your faces to lay closer. She melts into it.

For the first time since waking up, the air doesn’t struggle to leave or enter your body. Your limbs don’t feel heavy with sorrow. Your brain doesn’t feel like drowning.

Floating.

Stagnant, but being held, and holding on.

Giselle’s body shifts, or twitches? You’re not sure. It feels like she’s about to move, is all. You don’t let her. Not yet.

“Just a little longer,” you murmur.

She shakes her head, forehead rubbing against your chest.

It’s absurd, makes you pull back, struggling to process. 

“No,” she says, firmer now. “Not just a little longer.”

She nudges her forehead into your chest, the way she’s done a thousand times before when you’ve said something that got on her nerves. “I’m not leaving. You don’t get to lose me. Ever.”

She snuggles into you, and she stays.

-

You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep long enough for the sun to hide, Giselle still close. Like she promised.

“Are you up?”

Your eyes peel open slowly. “Mhm.”

“We should go eat.” She says sleepily as her muscles push awake.

You don’t answer this one.

Giselle exhales through her nose, and it’s not the first time she’s said it today. Knowing her, it won’t be the last if you don’t agree. She shifts her weight onto her elbow, tilts her head up at you with pleading brows, and looks at you properly. like she’s measuring whether or not you can handle whatever she’s about to say.

She doesn’t waver though.  “We should go downstairs.”

Downstairs. You haven’t left your room yet, since. It’s fucking terrifying, as if stepping outside would only solidify what you already know. Like if stepping outside will make everything collapse. Like you’ll have to face the fact that nothing is waiting for you outside of it except a house full of ghosts.

Giselle must see the way your expression changes. She always has this sharp read on you. Her voice softens. “I know.” She exhales a heavy breath. “But we still have to go.”

We.

Not you.

We.

She stands before you can think of a way to ask her not to. Walks to the door before you can tell her no. Turns the knob and pulls it open, just enough for the familiar orange light to creep its unwelcome way inside. She pauses, waiting.

You really don’t want to go.

But she’s waiting.

And this—this is Giselle. She doesn’t ask for much. It’s for you.

So you move.

The door groans on it hinges like it’s screaming at you that you’re making a mistake. Stupid fucking door.

The hallways are colder than you remember. Colder than it has any right to be. Or maybe you’ve just gotten used to the heat of Giselle pressed against you. Or maybe it’s both.

She’s right behind you. Of course she is. Close enough that you feel her presence like a torch protecting you from the biting winds of winter. You take a step forward, then another, down the stairs that feel too long, too steeped in memory.

The house doesn’t smell like home.

Your feet hit the ground floor, and for a second, you hesitate.

Giselle doesn’t.

She’s right behind you, her fingertips ghosting your back, barely touching, barely there, letting you know she’s there. She’s here, and she’s not trying to push. And that’s enough. So you can keep moving.

The kitchen is dark.

You hesitate before flicking the switch. If you just keep the lights off, you might evade some of the memories. You flick it nonetheless, and the light is too sharp. Too bright. You glance at the fridge, at the magnets holding up old notes and things you can’t bear to take a second look at.

So you don’t.

Giselle steps around you, reaching for a glass. The sound of the cabinet opening, the slight clink of the glass on the counter, the rapid rush of water from the tap—It’s too loud.

“You should drink something,” she says, gentle, full of care, but firm, like she won’t take no for an answer.

You nod once, just to show you’re listening. She watches as you take the glass, lift it to your lips and drink. She nods back, approving, a soft curl in her lips for making progress.

She searches the fridge, the light beaming from inside, before her voice rebounds out from it. “Is there anything you want to eat?”

The answer is nothing, so you tell her exactly that.

She obviously doesn’t accept that. “Come on, just—something easy.”

Your shoulders slump before you answer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t care.”

“I know.” She continues rummaging. “But we have to eat something, right? We can’t just…not.”

So do you, you want to say. Giselle wouldn’t let you turn this around on her though. She never does.

She pulls out something. A leftover container of soup from the fridge—something your mom must have made. Something that feels too good to eat right now. But it won’t stay fresh forever. So might as well still enjoy it while you can. Giselle throws you a half smile upon seeing your reaction to the soup, dumps it into a pot, turning on the stove and heating it up for the both of you.

The smell of it is more than food. It smells like home. Or it used to? It’s all too confusing.

Giselle turns around and leans against the counter, her arms supporting her against it. Waiting for the soup to be ready, before snapping you both back to reality. “The wake is in three days.”

You give her a puzzled look, like you can’t understand how she knows that. You knew it had to happen at some point, but—

“Your aunt came by earlier this morning, when you were still sleeping. She told me to tell you. It’ll take place here.” she explains further, not letting you stew in it.

You haven’t thought about it yet. Not about the wake itself, Not about what it implies. How you’re supposed to stand there all day while people pile on, saying things that won’t matter and offer condolences you don’t want, and then—what?

Bury them?

That’s too much.

Giselle is quiet. She lets the silence go unpunished, the only sound present being the faint bubbling of the soup. And then she moves, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet, keeping her hands busy, keeping herself busy.

And you eat. And you swallow. And you try not to think about how this is the last time you’ll ever taste this soup again.

-

The house is full.

Not full of ghosts, or stale air or a silence you just can’t seem to break through no matter how hard you try. No. 

This is different.

It’s wrong, worse.

There’s too many people, all clad in black, superseding silence with their low murmurs and occasional pitiful glances at you when they think you’re not looking. There’s too many of them. Faces you recognize, but can’t quite place, it’s all too hazy. People that knew your family, come to console themselves by letting you know they feel bad for you. None of them can imagine what you’re feeling anyways. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And thank fuck, so is Giselle.

She’s hovering around you. Always close. Not yet touching, not yet saying anything. Just—watching. Monitoring. Worried.

You can’t blame her, she should be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Fuck. If the first time already makes you feel like you want to run, you might as well give up now.

It’s your father’s coworker. You recognize him now. You met him at a barbecue your dad hosted last year, the one where he burned some burgers but kept insisting they were fine, eating them himself. Your mom called him an overgrown child, and your brother almost vomited when he tried eating on himself.

That was only a year ago.

And now—

Now a remnant of that time is standing in front of you, alive and breathing and saying the same meaningless sentence you’re bound to hear a hundred times today.

His hand lands on your shoulder. Grasps it. Too firm. Too much.

He keeps talking, something about ever needing something, but you wouldn’t rely on your dad’s coworker for anything anyway.

And Giselle?

She moves.

Not a lot, mind you. Just a little. Shifting her weight towards you, the slightest brush of her sleeve against your arm, like she’s testing something. 

You nod at him. That’s all you can do.

You take a breather. Regain your composure.

Another.

“They were such wonderful people.”

One of your mom’s friends this time. She looks different. Maybe she just looks older. Maybe she’s been crying. Maybe you should care.

Her hands reach for yours, and you almost—almost—pull away.

You really don’t want them touching you like you’re some beacon of grief.

None of them should be touching you.

But you let her fingers wrap around yours, let her squeeze, let her eyes soften like she can even come close to understanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

Your jaw locks. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, feel the skin break, the sharp sting of it preventing the cracks showing on the outside.

And Giselle moves again.

Another shift, another breath that sounds like it might be the start of a sentence, but—nothing. Just some warmth.

She’s hesitating.

She must be doubting if she should step in or not.

You haven’t been exactly clear on whether or not you want her to.

Because you don’t know.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

How fucked up is that? Way to rub it in.

You don’t even look up for this one.

Just nod. Another nod. That same fucking nod. Like you’re a puppet on string, but broken and only capable of doing one thing.

You don’t even know who just spoke to you and shook your hand. Some neighbor, maybe. Someone who used to wave at your mom in passing. Who smiled at you and your little brother at the grocery store. Someone who only knew your family in the way people know nice things in passing.

Not like you.

Giselle shifts again.

This time, you feel it more than you hear it, grazing the back of her hand against you, momentarily letting her index finger rub against the back of your hand. Like she just wants you to know that she’s there.

Another voice. Another fucking voice.

“They’re in a better place now.”

You exhale so hard it shakes.

You want to ask them where.

Where, exactly, is this better place you keep hearing about? Because they were supposed to be in Disneyland, and now they’re in a fucking coffin.

Your nails dig into your palms, but you just fucking nod again.

And Giselle notices.

You know she does.

Her head tilts slightly, like she’s asking what she needs to do, reading you like she always does, like she’s looking for something she can fix.

She won’t find it.

Another one.

“If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

You hesitate to answer.

Because what you want to say—what you wish you could say—is give them back.

But instead, you say what you don’t mean:

“Thank you.”

It tastes like poison in your mouth.

You wonder if you’d be able to choke and get away from this shit if you said it again.

Giselle’s finger’s twitch, but you pull away instinctively.

“Time heals all wounds.”

Does it? You can’t help but wonder.

Does it really?

Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Your little brother is dead.

What part of that is supposed to heal? 

What part of that is supposed to be supplanted by scar tissue, become something these people don’t pry open? How long do you need to wait before this doesn’t feel like some twisted prank you keep hoping someone is going to reveal the joke to? You want to scream at them how you don’t even want it to heal. How it’ll feel like forgetting them.

“Stay strong.”

Oh, fuck off.

What the hell does that even mean? Stay strong? For what? So they don’t have to see what this is really doing to you? So you can keep nodding, keep shaking hands, keep standing in a room that is shrinking every second?

What if you don’t want to be strong?

What if—

Your breath comes in too fast.

Too shallow.

Like your lungs have forfeited the whole inhale-exhale thing and decided to just go, like a car with no brakes.

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Oh.

Oh, really?

You bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you taste copper.

This one almost gets you.

Almost.

Because there’s nothing more insulting than some asshole trying to dictate how you’re supposed to grieve.

Your hands are shaking.

And Giselle moves.

She doesn’t wait for another nail to hit your coffin.

She just—

Her fingers curl tight around your wrist.

And she pulls.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not a question.

It’s not Can we go?

It’s We’re going.

You barely register the floor beneath your feet, barely register the voices still talking, still offering words you want them to keep for themselves, barely register the nod your aunt gives you as if to say “go, I got this,” and who has been running this farce as Giselle drags you through the hall and up the stairs like she’s rescuing you from a burning building.

And maybe she is. It feels like you were burning already, anyways.

She flies up the stairs, you in tow, frantic steps barely avoiding tumbling down, like she’s racing against the clock and when the countdown hits zero, you’ll explode. Her hand is solid around you, gripping your wrist, offering no escape.

You don’t even bother fighting it, how could you? You can barely control the airflow from and to your lungs, it’s much easier to just go along, much easier than listening to yet another person you haven’t seen since who knows when hammering in the reality of it all.

You can still hear them though.

You can still fucking hear them.

Claw at your ears, but you can still hear them, even as Giselle throws open your bedroom door and pulls you inside, you can still feel their words pressing down on you and—she slams the door shut behind you. The sound explodes, it breaks all thought, it locks you up in the four walls of your room, it shuts everything up.

But it’s only for a second. Because there is now a silence that is threatening to become the norm looming over you.

She locks the door. No more intruders allowed. Nobody gets to invade your head anymore.

Your muscles aren’t responding anymore. Locked in place, cut off from your brain by some invisible scissor.

Held hostage inside your own crumbling body. Standing there, on the precipice of destruction, something brewing in the core of your body that you can’t even begin to know how to stop.

And Giselle—Giselle is watching you, looking for the same answer you’re searching for. Her own chest struggling to keep up with everything. With herself, with you, how to prevent what’s happening to you.

And she moves.

You can’t stop it. Her hands find you, clutching at your chest, palms connecting with your shoulders, pushing, struggling, forcing you back, down onto the bed, second guessing herself every inch but still going forward like she’s being driven by nothing but instinct.

She’s still struggling to breathe. Your muscles are barely listening to you again. You’re both unsure of what’s happening. You’ve been pushed down onto the bed, just barely supporting your upper body on your elbows to meet Giselle.

She straddles your lap like she used to do all the time. Hands no longer pushing but bundling up the fabric of your dress shirt at the shoulders, the fabric of her own black dress hitching up around her thighs.

And you peek at what’s underneath.

It’s reflexive. And you can’t believe yourself.

In this situation?

“Giselle—”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s in the process of breaking. It’s desperate. It’s a plea to forgive her that she doesn’t have the perfect answer. It’s fucking honest, accentuated by the swelling of her tears in the corners of her eyes, but held back enough to refuse falling.

It feels like it took away a small part of the blockade in your throat preventing you from breathing. 

Carved a little tunnel in there that allowed you to do what you know your body should be able to, even at diminished efficiency.

She crashes into you.

Her full body leaning against you, being supported by you, your lips attaching to each other for the first time in what feels like years. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It’s desperate, she’s desperate, messy. It’s fucking shattering. Teeth clumsily tapping, your breath mixing, her hands nearly tearing the fabric near your shoulders, yours clutching at your bedsheets—or were they hers now? Doesn’t matter, clutching as though bracing for impact.

Your mouths disconnect, and Giselle drops her head, hiding. Her whole body shifts in your lap, hips pressing closer with each desperate roll—and fuck, it’s like you’re being resuscitated, air forcefully fed into your lungs you didn’t know you desperately needed.

Your hands leave the bed as you straighten your back, grounding yourself in the skin of her hips, tightening, letting her know you’re there.

And her head shoots up, your eyes interlocking as she gasps when you realize—

She’s shaking.

Not much. Just a little. So small, you’re surprised you picked it up. Just barely enough to feel it. But you felt it. Only you know her well enough to pick up on it.

And that’s the final breath of air you needed pushed into your lungs.

Because she’s not just doing this for you.

She needs this, too.

Giselle needs you.

This is the same Giselle who owns everything you own, who teases you, taunts you, makes you flip the script on her because she’s just so desperate for your attention.

This is the same Giselle who you’ve touched before, held hands with before, kissed before, fell asleep with while watching a movie before, fucked before.

Her heat is undeniable, burning against you and you can feel it—fucking flooding your mind with thoughts of every time you plunged your cock deep inside her. She’s grinding against you, her eyes searching for clues on your face to tell her if it feels good. But she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t restrain herself, she wants you, doesn’t ask if this is okay. She has no choice. Because it has to be.

Because if she can’t even do this, if her putting her whole body on the line doesn’t let her reach you—then what?

You wince, your body reacting to her. “Giselle, I—”

“This is all I could think to do.” It cuts you off. She responds too fast, like she’s afraid to hear what you would say, too fast, just to keep some kind of control over the situation. “You looked so in pain, like you were about to do something you’d regret, I just—” The words tumbled out, even faster, stumbling over themselves, her eyes darting from left to right, searching for something, anything. And then she looks at you. 

Right at you. 

Deep inhale. Shaky exhale. Her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes close. “I need you to be here.”

“I am—” You begin to claim, but before you even have the chance to convince yourself, let alone her, she interjects again.

“I love you.” Her hands loosen their grip on your shirt, only to grip even tighter onto the flesh of your shoulders. “I know you think you know. But I need you to hear it. Really hear it. I need to know that you know. That I love you.”

And you’re at the precipice. All you need to do to just feel a bit of comfort is respond to her. Just tell her that you know, or that you love her too, and maybe cry in her arms, and you’ll feel just a little bit better, it should be that easy. 

But you’re silent. Just, rotting.

As if taking this final step is too much. It’s easier to just rot. If you let her in any more, it will just hurt even more when she’s taken away from you.

Her grip falters. The strength in her fingers fades, barely lingering on your shoulders before her hands slip down entirely. She exhales sharply, her face dropping for a second, and you hear it—fabric shifting, the quiet rustle of her sleeve dragging against her cheek. Wiping away tears? You don’t look. You don’t want to know.

Her head snaps back up.

She’s glowering.

Not the desperate, pleading look you were expecting. Not soft, not sad. Her whole body is trembling.

“You fucking suck right now.”

Right, you suck right now. Wait. What?

It makes you blink. Your head jolts back, and two more blinks follow it.

Your eyebrows pull together, and she sees it—the first real fucking sign of life from you since this whole thing began.

“You know,” You begin, a scoff interrupting you. “Pointing out that I suck doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

Her response is quick, instinctive, decisive as to not let you cypher these emotions away again.

She leans in, foreheads mere atoms apart.

“It’s supposed to make you mad.”

Her head pulls back again, but in the blink of an eye smashes it back against your forehead, a clumsy headbutt, the surprise more shocking than the pain but it—

“I fucking love you!”

And you finally got mad. Like the pain had pierced through any fog your head had built up inside, and you could finally see color again. As if your brain was set to the wrong TV settings, showing every channel in monochrome, but a good smack to the side fixed it and you could finally drink in the vibrancy on display. So you could look at Giselle. Really, look at her. Her bright pink hair, the color slightly faded from washing it with her shitty shampoo—your shampoo actually, hers was specifically made to not let the color of her hair dye fade. Her kiss-swollen lips, peach-colored with little dents in them from where she bit down too hard. Her eyes colored like afternoon sunlight shining through a glass of whiskey you were sure to have stolen from your parents cabinet, looking at you with such frustration that you almost expected her to headbutt you again.

And how fucking dare she.

“That fucking hurt.”

Giselle’s palm presses against her forehead, rotating and rubbing against it with her eyes squeezed tight, a grunt escaping her as she replies. “Yeah? Well, it hurt me too, you idiot.” 

She removes her hand and checks for blood, staring you down and tilting her head, assessing you. “Should’ve hit you harder.”

“Excuse me?”

She leans in, her hot breath pushing into you. “If that’s what it took to get you out of your own fucking head, I should’ve put my whole back into it.”

Your hands fly up, grabbing onto her hips, holding her down against you, body reacting before your mind can catch up, as if she has to pay for what she did. As if she owes you some kind of apology for not letting you sit under your own self-imposed ceiling of sorrow. As if you just fucking need her.

And Giselle pushes back. 

Teeth catching your lower lip, stinging, sharp and sweet, filled with promise. She pulls as far as you’re willing to give, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make you want her lips, enough to make your pulse beat in your neck when she finally lets go—

She doesn’t even give you a chance to recover.

Because the second she releases you, her lips claim yours.

Messy, hot, urgent, familiar, undoubtedly Giselle.

“There you are,” she breathes into your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” is all the verbal response you give her, your hands grasping at the fabric of her dress with an intense fervor you were sure to have lost, pushing, pulling, twisting, anything to make it be less on her. 

“Jesus,” she recoils, but she takes no steps to stop you. Instead, she pushes back, her own hands having a similar battle with the front of your shirt, desperately fumbling with the buttons.

And you don’t even realize the force you're putting out until you hear the sharp sound of fabric tearing.

Her dress.

You fucking ripped it.

Her eyes go wide, her hands stop fumbling with your buttons, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh,” she breathes out.

Your grip tightens. You feel bad about it, or at least you know you should, but right now, you’re barely holding back from ripping the full fucking thing off her.

“You will be buying me a new one.” She glares at you, hands curled into the torn fabric at her side. She watches you wince, but there’s no sympathy in her face. It’s more like she’s processing—realizing at the exact same time you are just how much this is turning her on. “So don’t stop now,” she tells you, “tear me apart.”

The sound it makes is thrilling. The fabric gives, but not without putting up a fight, resisting enough that when it finally gives way, it’s a violent thing. The rip reverberates in the room, splitting apart from her side. The dress ceases to be a dress—just a mess of torn fabric clinging uselessly to her skin before sliding down, slipping away.

And Giselle fucking melts into you, reduced to nothing but matching black underwear, forearms pressing up into your chest, her hips sliding, rolling down, coating your bulge with her wet through her panties like she’s desperate to let you ruin her. She is as much a mess as you are, failing at letting you control the pace, just as desperate to feel all of you. 

It’s exhilarating. You might have to start investing in cheap, flimsy dresses for Giselle, just so you have an excuse to rip them off of her again. Because the effect it’s having on you, let alone her, is something you’d let ruin you financially.

“All that whining about your dress,” you taunt, that hint of bite returning to your voice, “but you’re dripping onto my pants like you want me to rip those off too.”

“I can’t help it’s fucking hot,” she mumbles.

Her head tilts, looking up at you, fast and desperate, like she needs to get her mouth on you before you even know what she’s doing. Her hands, still shaking with adrenaline, grip onto your shirt and keep you close, using it as leverage as she pulls herself up and crashes her lips against the curve of your neck.

You flinch, your muscles tensing up against her assault, and she feels it, her arms refusing to give even an inch, doubling down. Lips parting, tongue taking first contact just to tease before retreating, sucking hard on your skin, like she’s educating you on what the punishment is and will be for torn dresses. The pressure is immediate, bruising, and you lean into it, her breath hot against your skin as she works at you. 

Pain melts into pleasure, sharp stings of heat spurring you, your hands finding refuge on her supple ass, kneading and grasping, in turn spurring her on even more.

She moans against you—soft, drawn out, almost involuntary, like she wasn’t expecting this to turn her on so much. It’s impossible to ignore, vibrating into your skin, traveling directly up your spinal cord and sucker punching all of your neurons simultaneously with the sheer fucking audacity of her.

She pulls back slightly, just to admire her work, panting breaths exhaling against the wet, oversensitive mark of her territory left behind. Her tongue grazes the spot again, teasing, curving upwards against the fresh bruise she just made, before a single hum delivers the haymaker—smug, pleased and starving for more.

“You are so fucking impatient,” you stammer out pushing her away from your neck, hands firmly on her shoulders to keep her where she’s forced to look at you.

And she looks like she’s going to break any minute, her eyes big and pleading, already a prelude to her next attack. “What, you’re not going to make me say please, are you?”

Fucking hell.

You allow yourself one incredulous chuckle before advancing, one hand curving around her back, pinching the hook and eye clasp of her bra together before releasing it, causing it to drop into her lap still tangled around her arms, where your other hand already reached cupping her where she’s wet, palm pressing against the skin above her cunt, fingers hovering over her sensitives.

She gasps, submitting to your touch, putting up no fight at all. And she stops. And so do you. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflecting the only thing she needs—you, again. Her heat begging you to envelop your cock. And her fucking tits—bare, soft, perfect. Her nipples are stiff, whether from cool air or sheer anticipation—you’d bet on the latter— begging to be touched, sucked, bitten, made yours. She arches her back ever so slightly, like she’s offering them to you without the indignity of pleading. Because she knows she would if you asked. It’s better to just give in already. 

She is a fucking vision, the kind you could only experience at moments that blur the line between reality and fiction. The kind that demands you act before it vanishes. 

So fucking beautiful it still makes you sick.

“You’re looking at me like you just realized you’re about to fuck me,” she says, her voice shaking but a smirk letting her keep some semblance of control.

“Only if you say please.”

 She doesn’t hesitate. She pouts. Her eyes pull you in.

“Please fuck me?” she pleads, incriminating herself in your little trap willingly.

She’s brazen, enthusiastic and about to be rewarded for it. Breaking eye-contact from this point onwards would be considered taboo, as your fingers slide the last barrier between you and her velvety heat to the side for access, letting the rest of her panties unmoved, hugging and squeezing her hips. 

At the same time, she tugs the remaining straps of her bra down her arms, letting the fabric fall away entirely, leaving her completely exposed above you. Giselle was never embarrassed, never even a little bit shy. No, even now, even like this, she keeps that fucking fire burning on alcohol in her eyes, daring you to take what’s yours.

You slip into her soaked heat, and—fuck—she’s already so wet. So fucking ready for you. No teasing, no hesitation, just yours for the taking.

Giselle gasps, her whole body stretching and flexing as two fingers push inside her, stretching her open for you, pressing into the cunt she’s been grinding against you with no shame. Fuck giving her time to adjust. You curl your fingers, rolling them into her, against the spot that makes her shake, makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Oh—”

It’s the oboe playing the A note before the symphony she’s about to perform. But you don’t give her time for the tuning of all the other instruments.

She sways forward, her body being pulled into yours without her permission, a slave to her instincts. Her hands fly to the buttons of your shirt, but the poor girl is shaking too much to do anything useful. “Fucking—” She struggles, losing coordination, head swaying and eyes squinting to focus to no avail. “Get this—fucking thing—off—”

There’s a pop and a dink. A button flies off, bouncing against the floor. She doesn’t flinch, neither do you. Another one soon follows.

“Jesus, you’re ruining my shirt,” you taunt, but you don’t stop her. If anything, this color of desperation looks nice on her.

“You ruined my—fuck—my dress first,” she protests. “If you’ve got—”

She’s not wrong, but you’re not about to let her be right. You flick your thumb over her clit, slow and precise, just the way she loves it, just to feel her pulse against you.

She opens her mouth to retry what she was snapping back despite your little trick, but—

You had another up your sleeve.

Your other hand asserts itself on her tits, fingers spreading their domain over the soft flesh of her breast before closing in, pinching at her nipple, tugging just enough to get her to forget. Just enough to see her reaction.

Her back arches into your touch, lips parting wider with disbelief, breath coming in bursts that sting. Her face is a masterpiece of desperation, eyebrows pooling at the center, eyes wide and pleading, her whole body craving what you’re giving.

And still, she continues fighting it.

“Just you—oh my god—” she manages, but you’re sure it would have been more coherent if she wasn’t  bucking her hips into you trying to fuck herself faster on your fingers.

“You can either finish that sentence,” you interject, thumb circling her clit slowly, “or you can come. But you’ve gotta pick one.”

She’s gasping, faltering, having vocabulary erased from her lexicon with each thrust and curl, head falling back but she’s still got this defiant look in her eyes. Like she’s about to hit you with a comeback so good you’ll only find an appropriate response three days later when stepping out of the shower.

But you don’t let her.

“Come on,” you whisper, tone softer now, coaxing her, a stark contrast to the ruthless way your fingers are working her. “Be a good girl for me.”

It’s her favorite thing, and the ace up your sleeve. She snaps without resistance.

Her body locks up, a sharp rendition of your name sings from her lips to your ears, her walls pulsing around your two digits as her orgasm ramps up. She clings to you like someone cast out at sea clings to a lifebuoy, nails ripping what remains of your shirt, mouth open, gasping, unwilling to do anything but surrender, take everything you’re pushing into her.

You don’t stop until she’s a trembling mess, until you’re sure you’ve felt every little muscle spasm, until the aftershocks are making her twitch against you, until she’s nothing but a gasping, pink chaos in your arms.

It’s only then you slow your movements, retreating to her hips, letting her breathe, letting her catch herself where your hands failed.

But she’d be a fool if she thought this was anything but the warm-up.

“Think you’re ready to get your insides stirred now?”

She barely lifts her head, eyes heavy-and-half-lidded, still dazed. Giselle always needs recovery time, and you’ve usually been graceful enough to grant it, but she has that smirk, that little bit of fight, that spark in her eyes left in her.

“I couldn’t possibly say no to you.”

Your grip tightens on her hips. “That’s my good girl,” you hiss.

Her hands fumble at your belt, too clumsy and too shaky to get proper progress like she usually would. Her fingers aren’t the focused and precise instruments they usually are, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. She yanks at the buckle again, flexing her fingers as though that might help.

And you’re just watching. Leaning back. Enjoying the fucking spectacle of her trying and failing to get your cock out. Your fingers tangle into her messy hair, pulling just enough to make her tilt her face up.

Low. Taunting. “Do you need some help?”

Her eyebrows twitch in annoyance, her glare hazy but defiant. “Shut up. I know how to get my boyfriend’s dick out.”

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah? Cause you kind of suck right now.”

Her nostrils flare, and she rips the zipper down with enough force to nearly break the damn thing as well. Your slacks and boxers are shoved down, disposed of in one rough motion.

And then she freezes. Her hands glued to your thighs for support. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen.

“...Okay, what the fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

She tilts her head, fingers wrapping around your cock, testing the weight, the firth, her thumb dragging over the tip before her grip tightens.

“No, like. Actually. Is it bigger than usual?”

A scoff, she can’t be fucking real. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” She strokes down your shaft, slow, like she’s gathering data, measuring it to what she remembers.

“Maybe it’s the angle.”

She clicks her tongue like that’s not quite it, tilting her head, still studying you like you’re some kind of science experiment. “Or maybe it’s a rage-induced growth spurt.”

“That is not a thing.”

“Seems like a thing,” she muses.

“It’s not a thing,” you keep asserting.

She circles the head of your dick with her thumb, wiping precum all over it, watching you twitch under her hand. “You seem pretty sure.” “Because I—Jesus, Giselle,” she interrupts you, a quick slide down your shaft sending a jolt up your spine, “because I am sure.”

“Well, I’m gonna pretend it is possible,” she hums, shifting her hips forwards, bucking against you, preparing the base of your cock against her soaking wet cunt, drowning it in her slick with every slow, deliberate and precise roll of her hips.

You feel every bit of it. How ready she is. How warm, how soft, how desperate, how shaky.

You can’t help but tighten your grip on her hips, fingers digging in hard, no intent of ever letting go.

And she’s such a slut for it, the feeling of riding against your dick while your digits dig into her makes her moan, high and breathy, but still contained only to this room.

You can’t let that go unpunished. “You’re still shaking.”

She huffs, daring you to shift your hands to her waist, but she’s gripping your shoulders. “And you’re still talking.”

Her nails make their way down, scratching your chest as she rolls her hips again, slow but insistent, pressing herself against your every inch, teasing, tormenting you both—

“So I guess I need to do a better job,” she puffs, face tilting downwards a little so she can look up at you with a pout. “Let’s see if you can still do the same when these tits you love so much are bouncing in your face.”

She smirks, satisfied, shifting forward, lining herself up above you, her cunt dripping against the tip of your cock, ready—

And then she pushes down.

She sinks on to you, rough and deep, deeper, deeper, until she’s seated in your lap, flush up against you, stuffed fucking full with rage-induced growth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You pulse inside her, feel the way her walls tighten, adjusting, flexing, gripping you like she never wants to let go. The sensation mixes with the way her eyes flutter, unfocused, her hands scratching and digging into your chest, harder and harder like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s processing every inch of you.

She swallows. Tenses her thighs. And she starts moving.

First, it's slow. Rolling. Experimenting what she can handle. She lifts herself up, just a little, and you feel her tremble before she sinks back down. Her and your moans weave into each other.

She does it again. A slow, shaky rhythm, taking you as deep as she fucking can.

And you resist the urge to grip her hips and hold her up, pounding into her until she cries your name to the heavens. For now. Because she’s trembling. Still weak.

She knows it too, but as long as you don’t intervene, she won’t be stopped. She leans in, a soft half-moan half-breath escapes her, her eyes obsessed with you.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me put on a show for you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, low, throaty, just the way it gets her going.

She smirks, her hands flying into her hair as she lets it cascade over her back, giving you a perfect view of her neckline. “You always get like this when I’m on top. Can’t even pretend to play it cool when my tits are bouncing, can you?”

She’s not wrong. Her tits have a hypnotic quality to them.

Her body moves, slow and deliberate, dragging you back and forth inside her like she’s trying to make clear what you’ve got to lose if you try to play it nonchalantly.

“Just admit it, you’re weak—fuck—weak for my pu—”

She chokes on the last word, her confidence faltering mid sentence as she tries to lift herself, her legs twitching, shaking, muscles threatening to give out. She barely gets halfway up before her thighs tremble violently, still wrecked from her previous orgasm, forcing her to slam back down onto you, her whole body tensing up. It’s quick, and high-pitched. A surprised whimper escapes her throat involuntarily.

You pull back, a face that could only mean to ask her if she wants to find an excuse for that.

She glares up at you, face flushed red instead of its usual shades of pink, panting. “I—” she starts, but her voice shakes.

You help her along, like the loving boyfriend you are. “Having some trouble?” You’re clearly enjoying this, watching her fight against her own body.

And that only pisses her off. Her glare sharpens. “Shut up—” But her legs twitch again, this time not even managing halfway, forcing another stuttered moan out of her.

She’s struggling with the limitations of her own body, huffing in frustration, but not giving up. Her hands grasp your shoulders, and she tries to lift herself up again. In vain. She barely makes it off of you, more of a grinding act, before collapsing onto you with a sharp gasp, staying impaled on your thick cock.

She whimpers another fuck, as her walls clench and flex, forcing her body to do what she wants.

It’s adorable, a sight to revel in. Struggling, mustering all the power she still has left after having most of it fingered out of her. Your hands reaching for her thighs, sweat-slicked, feeling the little movements of muscle on your palm as she forces herself to rise. They tremble violently under her weight before giving out entirely, making her sink back down with a mewl.

Giselle’s cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, equal parts arousal and humiliation. She bites her lip, warring with herself, considering her possible actions, before finally breaking.

“Fine! Will you please fucking help me already?” she yelps, neediness exemplified.

“There we go,” you crow, immensely satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

Your grip tightens around her hips, your whole body surging forward as you take control, flipping her in one swift, fluid motion, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp as her back hits the mattress and you cage her beneath you.

Her legs are still wrapped around your waist, but you push them up, folding them into her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows exactly what she just asked for.

“This is what you wanted?” you challenge, hovering over her quivering body. “Needed me to manhandle you? To hold you down and use you?”

Giselle squirms in your grip, her pupils blow wide with lust and anticipation. “Fuck yes, I need your cock to stretch me open,” she whines, straining to grind her hips against yours.

She’s being so fucking messy right, and if she gets any louder, you are both running the risk of turning this catharsis into the most humiliating moment of your life. In a desperate attempt to shut her up, you lean down, capturing her lips in a needy kiss, tongue twisting into hers, swallowing all her moans directly into your throat. When you finally pull back, you hold still for a moment, giving her an intense stare matched by her expectant gaze.

“I love you,” you tell her, raw honesty shattering the moment. Her eyes blink in shock, clearly expecting something a lot more depraved to have come out of your mouth. “I fucking love you so much, Giselle. But if you don’t control your volume, you’re going to ruin this.”

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows shoot up, the kind of look that says “excuse me?” but her body betrays her, leaning in instead of pulling back. “Fine,” she whispers fiercely, “I love you too.”

“Now stop being a sap and fuck me like you want to break me,” she purrs, swirling and bucking her hips into your throbbing girth invitingly. “I want you to have to carry me tomorrow. I want to be limping when you’re done.”

Lust overtakes your brain, painting your vision in the color pink that you can’t help but indulge in. You line yourself up anything but carefully, slamming in, hard, brutal, like you want to break her, burying your entire length in her tight and sloppy heat. Giselle throws her head back with force, walls clamping down on you, and you can see your name spelled on her lips, ready to be cried out. She somehow bites it back, only letting a strained moan escape her.

“Yes” and “fuck” and “oh my god” are chanted deliriously at a volume you’ve both painstakingly mastered to never get caught in the past as you set a punishing pace, pumping in and out of her cunt.

You pound and pound, grunting with exertion, eyes transfixed by the irresistible sight of her voluptuous tits bouncing wildly just past her thighs with each thrust. And she notices, because Giselle knows you. And knows you love watching her tits bounce. So she does the only reasonable thing, which is to arch her back and offer herself to you as much as her strength still allows.

“I know you like watching my tits while you rail me,” she taunts, kneading them together for your viewing pleasure. Giselle loves putting on a show. “Love seeing them shake from how hard you’re pounding me? Hmm, I bet you wanna cover them in cum already, mark them as yours.”

“Fuck, keep talking,” you strain out, angling your hips to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her see stars. 

Giselle’s eyes roll back in bliss as you pound into her g-spot, absolutely no mercy, no remorse, just brutal fucking with relentless precision. Filthy praise spills from her lips between muted cries of ecstasy. 

She looks at you for a second, hazy eyes starting to roll back as she obediently continues. “Next time, I want you to bend me over that desk and take me from behind while I struggle to stand. Spank my ass until it’s raw and pull my hair while you fuck me stupid. Leave me shaking so bad I forget my own.”

Your rhythm stutters, a guttural groan and risk of drool tearing from you at the deliciously dirty image she construed. Giselle, consistent as she is, notices immediately and grins impishly, emboldened.

“Or maybe you’d rather I ride you in front of the mirror, let you watch my ass bounce on your dick? Let you play with my tits and see how perfect we look together?”

She finds some strength again, meeting your rhythm on a one fourth beat, rolling her hips in sync with your thrusts. “I love how sexy you make me feel. Love when you look at me like you want to devour me, love being your perfect little fucktoy.”

“Keep going,” you growl through your teeth like a desperate animal, picking up the pace, getting lost in her fervor, fucking into her harder, deeper. “Tell me everything.”

“I didn’t forget that I owe you a blowjob, but how about you fuck my face and we call it even?” Giselle continues, shameless and needy not strong enough words to describe her. “Want to choke on your big cock, let you use my throat and paint my face with runny mascara and cum.”

You’re pounding into her with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the room, thank fuck for your thick door. Her words inflame your lust to never before seen heights, dipping your head to latch onto one rosy nipple, sucking the sensitive bud atop her heights into your mouth.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she drools out, punctuation getting forgotten as she grows incoherent with pleasure. “That feels so fucking good. They’re so fucking sensitive for you, please bite them, leave your marks all over me. Shit, I could cum just from you playing with my tits…”

And what are you, if not a loving boyfriend, obliging her filthy request, nipping and suckling at her flesh, determined to cover her mounds in hickeys and teeth marks. Cover her in you.  Never relenting your pace, drilling into her squelching pussy like a man possessed by a pink haired goddess. Some kind of Aphrodite.

Her cunt is practically gushing everytime you move your cock, soaking your thighs with her arousal.

“Close, I’m so fucking close,” she slurs, but not in the way that would get a themepark to close a faux landmark. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—please, I fucking need it—cum for me too, paint my fucking cervix white, breed me, fuck, knock me up, shit shit shit, I’m gonna—”

Her filthy pleas are your undoing, destructive, a siren’s call drowning you from head to hilt. The sound that escapes from you is feral as you slam into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as is physically possible and then some. Your core tightens, your hands push her thighs flat against her body in way that will leave her sore in more ways than one, as the worst idea you’ve had yet doesn’t take time to consider itself, just throbbing straight through your cock, pulsing and erupting inside her, thick spurts of cum painting her insides filling her up.

Something about being too caught up in the moment.

Giselle is soon to follow, orgasm crashing over her, this one harder than before, triggered by the new sensation of your scalding seed flooding her clenching cunt. Her eyes roll back once more, the start of your name up to the first vowel breaking through her throat, shockwaves of pleasure tearing through her quivering body.

You recognize the danger, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, half falling into her before catching you back up with your other hand, muffling her debauched cries, Giselle being too far gone to stay quiet on her own. Her lips are wet against your palm, breath heating you up as she bucks and writhes beneath you, impaled on you making her overflow, being equally guilty with how she milks for you every last drop you have.

The world shrinks and vision narrows to just you and Giselle, overcome and lost to feeling. Feeling her, feeling yourself, feeling… alive. Your hips piston in short, sharp thrusts on instinct, working your release as deep into her trembling body as possible, driven by some naturalistic part of yourself you’ve newly reacquired, a need to claim her and fill her to the brim with your essence.

And she takes it all with desperate enthusiasm, greedily and eagerly accepting everything you give her like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You haven’t, not even once.

Her life-giving eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks flushed the same pink as her favorite brand of peach colored lipstick, features slack with untainted pleasure. She looks utterly defiled, fucked silly, like the very picture of a perfect girlfriend and her wanton debauchery.

Your cum is leaking out around your shaft, dripping down between you, staining her bedsheets—still yours, but if she’s dripping on them, it’s her problem. Knowing her, she will make an argument it’s your fault because it’s your cum. 

She’s never looked more beautiful, like an angel meant to absorb all your sins.

The aftershocks of her second crash ebb away, leaving you both panting, your hand sliding off of her mouth. Exhaustion hits all at once, causing a collapse on top of her and only bracing for a fraction of the impact on your forearms so as not to crush her. Pillowy tits caught most of the impact anyways, welcoming you gladly, trembling limbs following up and clinging to your sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but soothingly contented. “You’re carrying me tomorrow. No fucking choice. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

You chuckle, actually chuckle, or maybe it’s better described as a snicker turning into a chuckle, reintroducing Giselle to a sound she thought she lost. She immediately surges up to capture your lips, tasting the sweetness of the laughter on your mouth with sloppy abandon, all tongue and spit and residual passion. She’s grinning dopily up at you as you break apart, and it does something to you. 

She sighs, twitching beneath you. “Tch. After everything I let you do to me, all the places I said you could have made a mess of…” Her smug smirk makes an entrance as she tilts her chin down. “You just had to fill me up instead. Nice and dangerous.” Your pulse is still hammering, the implications of what you just did barely catching up to you before she derails it completely. She tilts her head, mock contemplation, but her smile is pure smug, a deadly taunt, hammering away at you. “And here I thought you wanted to see how pretty I’d look, tits covered in cum, dripping down my stomach.” Your jaw clenches, but she’s not done yet. “Or maybe,” she continues, “you wanted me on my knees, tongue out, looking up at you while I begged for it. Feel how messy I’d get swallowing everything that drips out.” She exhales, all faux-disappointment, licking her lips like she’s tasting the mere thought of you. “I get it though.” She grins, utterly fucking depraved. “It felt fucking amazing. I would have picked this too.”

“You’re insane.”

And so are you. For her. Staying like that for a moment, longer than a mere moment, just existing in the intimacy. Eventually, you pull out of her, a wet squelch announcing your physical separation.

The mixture of your combined fluids immediately starts to drip out of Giselle’s thoroughly fucked pussy as you pull out, a lewd concoction of her arousal and your thick cum. She whimpers, one eye closed, at the loss of your cock stretching her open, the sensation of your release seeping from her folds making her shiver.

There’s a sparkle of mischief in your eye, the glint indicative of the kind of challenges you and Giselle always throw at each other, and she characteristically notices, but just observes. You swipe two fingers through the mess between her thighs, coating them liberally in a layer of your shared passion.

She follows your digits through hooded lids, chest still heaving, a smirk turning into a surprised moan as you raise your slick fingers to her lips, painting them with you and her before pushing inside. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss as she eagerly accepts the offering, tongue swirling around the digits, lapping up every drop of your combined taste.

“Mmm, we taste so good together, you know?” she purrs sultrily once you withdraw your fingers with a signature Giselle pop. She opens her mouth, presenting the elixir on her tongue. “Want a taste?” You hadn’t considered it before, but half of what was in there was hers, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you dive in, kissing her haphazardly, tongue pressing against hers and swirling into a helix, tasting how good you two really come together. You pull back, and she swallows your cocktail down, proudly presenting an empty mouth.

“You do know a quick swipe isn’t enough to keep me from getting knocked up though, right stud?” She punctuates her words by clenching her walls, more of your release dripping out to pool on the sheets. “I can still feel so much of your cum inside me. We’re definitely getting plan B tomorrow, and you’re paying.”

Your cock twitches between your legs, as though being called to action. “If you keep spewing filth, I’m going to get hard again.”

“Promises, promises,” Giselle singsongs, grinning at you. She looks thoroughly well-fucked, hair a wild and pink tangle, skin covered in sweat you wouldn’t mind getting a taste of, your marks littering her breasts, throat and rearranged insides.

This is satisfaction. 

You collapse next to her on the bed, one arm slipping under her and the other over her, gathering her up into you. She comes willingly, a little joyous squeal escaping, tangling your legs together, uncaring of the sticky mess. Exertion turns into exhaustion as you listen to your racing heartbeats gradually slow and even out.

This was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of things for once, but as the high fades, reality sets back in. It feels different, something unspoken that settles over the both of you, settling into the spaces in the room where grief and love have spent the last few days battling for dominance.

Your forehead rests against hers at its most comfortable, close enough you can hear every breath as it keeps her here. Her fingers brush over your back softly, fingertips gliding idly, starkly in contrast with the frantic clawings she left earlier.

Silence falls between you, but it isn’t the kind you want to chase away. It’s the one that says it all. Not oppressive or suffocating anymore. Just… full.

You shift slightly, not because you want to leave her, something simple, the feeling of your arm starting to fall asleep, and Giselle groans. “You are not allowed to move yet.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she mutters. “Stay.”

It’s a simple request you never had any intention to ignore. But it’s the way she says it—soft, drowsy, fragile—that turns it into an impossible request to ignore.

Your face buries into the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses against her flesh, the scent of sex and sweat wrapping around you.

“I love you,” she whispers, and it's so damn near silent that you’re not sure if she said it for you to hear or for herself.

You close your eyes, settle into her and answer back anyways. “I know.”

She exhales, a snicker preluding her. “You’re supposed to say it back, asshole.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, tugging at your lips, but there’s not a trace of teasing in your voice when you respond to her a little too quickly. “I love you too.”

Her body relaxes, and yours follows suit. More silence follows, More warmth. More of just simply being.

Then, Giselle huffs and puffs, your hands automatically on her waist. “You know we’re stuck here until everybody has left, right?”

You grunt, but you don’t even bother to lift your head. “What?”

“My dress is currently in several pieces on the floor,” she remarks, no question about who the accusatory tone was meant for. “And while I am thrilled by the feral caveman display of strength, it does leave me exactly with zero options for leaving this room.”

You snort, shifting just enough to glance at the shredded fabric scattered across the floor like some ruined jigsaw puzzle. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Her gasp is clearly exaggerated, and the weak shove she gives your shoulder is a dead giveaway. “Excuse me? You did this!”

“Mm,” you hum, unconcerned with her accusation. Truth be told, you’d take any excuse to be stuck here with her forever. Still, a comeback felt deserved. “I clearly remember you telling me to ‘tear you apart’”

“That’s unfair, that was in the heat of the moment!”

“Almost everything we just did was in the heat of the moment.”

She opens her mouth faster than she can think of a clever comeback, and you can see the gears spinning in her head but not coming up with anything useful. Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes glare at you in betrayal. “I hate you.”

A familiar song and dance. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” she agrees, her shoulders dropping and releasing tension, as she nudges closer to you. “I really, really don’t.”

And you don’t feel like you’re spiraling anymore. Like the world is collapsing around you and you’d just let it. Like a husk of a man, just keeping the body alive while the mind is drifting further and further away into oblivion.

You feel… at home with her.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing against the side of your face, undoubtedly noticing the weirdly optimistic crestfallen expression you carried. “What?” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens in its familiar constriction, but you manage to speak anyway. “My dad said something before they left.”

Giselle’s fingers still against your skin, as if bracing for impact. “Yeah?”

You swallow, inhaling like it might make this easier, but nothing can. “He said he felt better knowing I’ll have you.”

The words hang between you. Giselle stares, blinks once, and lips part slightly at their center, but nothing comes out. Not even air. Clueless on what to say to something like that, something that raw.

You sigh, resigned, but with a tinge of optimism that some might confuse for naivety in your tone. “Guess he knew what he was talking about.”

The muscles in her face loosen, and she responds with her body first. Not hesitant, not afraid, a sense of certainty and clarity guiding her.

Her fingers find familiar footing in your hair, another hand palming your jaw, warming it up and comforting you. She’s taking you in—and yesterday it would have been because she’s worried, but today it’s because she isn’t. Like she knows you, down to your very bones, exactly who you are and she’s waiting for you to realize it too.

“Right,” she breathes with ease. “You still have me.”

The words are like a magic spell, settling somewhere into the ache in your ribs, into the spaces grief left raw and you tried to dispose of, a stitch pulling on the raw flesh of an open wound, preparing it to heal.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think there’s anything you can say to that.

You hang loose in her touch. She lets you. Lets you take your time. Because she knows.

You’re not okay.

Not yet.

But Giselle makes it feel like maybe that’s okay too.

That maybe it’s enough for now to know that you’re still here with her, that she’s saved your life twice now. And tomorrow you can take her up on all the filthy promises she’s made, but if you need to just be in her arms today, that’s fine too.

Because you still have her.

[heyimkana]

Currently thinking about... how break-up sex would go with JJK men...

Like what if, even though you're both so in love with each other, the situation you're in right now forces you to break up with them. They'll try to fight about it, of course, you're crazy about each other, after all. But you insist on breaking up, even going as far as to tell them that you don't love them anymore just so they'll believe you. And before you say goodbye, you ask them to hold you one last time.

Satoru would be quiet. Sex was always fun with him. rough, fast, exhausting, but never boring. Sex with him was always filled with laughter, giggles, and playful kisses that would end with gasps and moans but your last time with him would be quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you could probably hear the sound of him gritting his teeth while he was fucking you from behind, all because he was trying to stop himself from saying, "This is a joke. This must be a joke. We play tricks on each other all the time. You're just trying to get back at me, aren't you, baby? There's no way you don't love me anymore. But even if you do, I don't care. I had let someone go a long time ago and I'd spent years of my life regretting it. I'm not letting you go, not now, not ever. You're staying. No, I'll make you stay." He wouldn't look at you when he fucked you, not once, as he was actually scared that you truly hated him then. But it wouldn't matter if you did. He was never going to let you go.

Suguru would listen with his stoic face intact when you told him that you wanted to break up with him. And softly, he'd ask you why, and you'd lie and tell him that you just didn't love him anymore and his eyes would turn cold as he looked at you, trying to read between your lies and you were scared that he'd know the truth. And if you told him that you wanted him to hold you one last time, he would smile and say, "Sure." but it felt so eerie that you had goosebumps breaking on your skin. Suguru would drag you out of the bed, tear open your dress and his grip was hard enough to leave bruises on your skin but he would still be smiling, even when you flinched in pain. "You like it better like this anyway, right?" he'd say as he fucked you standing up from behind with his fingers wrapped around your neck. He'd have you stand in front of a mirror, making sure to see the pathetic face you made every time he fucked you stupid. He'd show you that you were his in every way possible, making sure you understand that you were going to fucking regret it if you decided to leave him.

Yuuji would be so confused. He'd be confused when you kissed him after you said you didn't love him anymore. He'd be confused when you still hugged him afterward, and kissed his neck, and tugged onto his shirt before you pulled it over his head. He'd be confused when you asked him to hold you one last time, and he wouldn't say anything when you pushed him down to the bed. It was only when you sat on his lap, trying to slide his cock inside that he'd stop you. "No, wait, I can't do it," he would say, unable to look at you because suddenly, tears started to brim in his eyes. "If you're going to leave me after we're done, I can't do it. I love you. I don't know why you suddenly changed your mind about me, but I'm still in love with you and I don't think I can love anyone else but you. You'll break me if you do this, so please..." His voice would break and he would hug you close, his chin placed on your shoulder, his voice, sketched with the tears he was trying to hold back, reverberating right in your ear. "Please stop and tell me. I'm an idiot so I'm very slow at figuring things out and I don't know if I hurt you and I'm sorry but... I want to understand... Why...? Why are you leaving me? Am I... not enough for you?"

Megumi would not do it. He wouldn't kiss you. He wouldn't touch you. He'd only clench his jaw and ball his fingers into fists the second the words "I don't love you anymore" flowed past your lips. And when you tried to kiss him, he'd take a step back, his voice deep when he asked you, "Have I done something wrong?" You'd shake your head no, saying "It's not because of you, Megumi. It's me—" and he'd cut you off with a "Don't give me that bullshit." He'd raise his voice, but only because he was shaking inside. "If that's true, then tell me what it is! Whatever you did, I'll forgive you. If it's a part of you that you think is the problem, I'll accept it. If it's the situation we're in, let me know so I can fix it. Don't just show up and tell me you don't love me anymore, don't—" he took a breath, his voice breaking at the end. His face would twist in heartbreak when he finally gathered the strength to look at you in the eyes. His voice would soften when he continued, "Don't tell me you're leaving me. Please."

Yuuta would feel a thousand emotions at once. For the first few minutes when you told him you didn't love him anymore, he'd keep asking you, "Why? Was it something I said? What did I do wrong? How can I make this right? Please. Tell me. Tell me so I can fix everything." And you'd see tears glazing his eyes and he would look so frightened, so heartbroken, unable to believe that the love of his life was slipping out of his fingers. When you told him, "It doesn't matter, Yuu. I just can't do this anymore." Yuuta would panic, colors leaving his face and he'd start begging, "No, please, you can't leave me. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my everything, please don't do this to me, please tell me how to make things right," and it was breaking your heart seeing him like this so you'd try to distract him by kissing him.

He'd whimper against your mouth, cupping your face with both hands, still whispering, "Don't leave me" again and again. He'd slowly regain his composure, his body melting under your kiss and when you started touching him, he'd respond with as much passion, love, and desire as he usually offered you, not knowing that it was going to be his last time with you. It was only when he was holding you in his arms, your legs tangled around his waist, his mouth slicked with your cum, his hips thrusting slow but deep, that you told him the truth, "This is going to be our last time."

Yuuta would freeze, his eyes turning round in both surprise and horror, but after that... You'd find your body folded in half, your head trapped between your knees, your jaw hanging low on your face, unable to even scream his name as he was fucking the breath out of you. His usually delicate moans would turn into heavy grunts, and he'd bunch the sheets under his fingers before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding them with one hand as he used his other one to grip firmly onto the back of your thigh, pushing you up even further so he could bury himself deep inside you.

"You're not leaving me," he'd breathe out. "I won't let you. We promised each other we'd be together until we die. I won't let you break it." He'd kiss you, rough and messy, smothering you with it. He'd see a hint of fear written in your eyes, maybe you'd even cry a little from how rough he was being with you, but he'd kiss the tears away, his smile looking both beautiful and terrifying when he said, "Don't worry, Sweetheart. There's nothing to be afraid of. No one will love you better than me, I promise you. And if anyone dares to come between us," he'd angle your face to the side, lick a stripe up your neck before he let his smile graze your ear.

"I'll fucking kill them."

[strnilolover]

٠ ࣪⭑ helpless without you

warnings : phone sex. male masturbation. female masturbation. degradation (?). praising. sub!matt. dom!reader. nothing else?

matt couldn’t help himself when you had left to go clubbing with some of your friends—the tight red dress you wore, hugging your curves just right in all the right places. it was embarrassing how hard he had gotten when you gave him a simple kiss on the cheek, telling him you’d be back later tonight.

he tried to distract himself—he really did—but when he saw some photos you posted only two hours in of being there. he absolutely lost it.

his back rested against the headboard of the bed, sweats and boxers pulled down to his mid thighs as his fist wrapped itself tightly around his cock. his tip, pink and swollen leaking pre-cum as he squeezed each time he moved up—just as you would.

but he was growing frustrated. little whines and whimpers falling from his chewed up lips as he tried to cum. but he couldn’t. he was right there on the edge, but nothing could tip him over.

not even the picture of you he was staring at.

tears began to brim his waterline, a recked sob slipping past his lips as his fist moved faster—desperate to cum. but eventually he slowed, the hand holding his phone exiting the photos app as he opened your contact. quickly clicking the dial button.

when you picked up the phone, your breathing was heavy—the sound of music thumping quietly in the background, like you had wandered off to a separate room.

“matt? is something wrong?” you asked, your voice breathless and sweet—he could tell you had a few drinks. he whined at the sound of your voice, his fist beginning to pick up speed once more.

he took in a shaky inhale, then another breathy whine before he spoke. “n-no..m’sorry.” he pants, voice already sounding a wreck. “t-tried without you, but i—fuck—i can’t.”

you smirked to yourself. “tried to what baby? hm?” you teased, knowing full well what he couldn’t do—the wet squelches flowing in from his side of the line.

matt moaned, squeezing his fist tighter around his cock. “c-couldn’t—haa—couldn’t cum.” he squeaked out. you hummed in amusement, already picturing him—sprawled out on the bed, flushed and desperate, hand working himself over but not enough.

“pathetic.” you murmured, voice laced with mockery. “sound so desperate, whining and humping your fist f’me.” and a broken moan tore from his throat, his breathing ragged through the speaker.

“m’not-“ he cuts off with a choked whimper, his hips jerking up into his hand. “m’not humping.”

lies.

you let out a sharp knowing laugh. moving yourself to sit on the counter of the bathroom you were in. you knew full well that he was—knew he was too far gone to stay still, rutting into his own fist. probably imagining it was your own.

“oh, sweet boy, don’t lie to me.” you purred, your own legs spreading as your free hand came down to toy with the end of your dress. “bet you’re so worked up huh? making a mess all over yourself.” slowly your hand moved to the inside of your thigh, moving up until your fingers pressed against your clothed clit.

the fabric was damp, matts little noises had gotten to you. you hadn't realized your own breathing had picked up, too focused on how your sweet boy sounded. slowly, you moved the clothing to the side—fingers making contact with your sensitive nub. a loud moan slipped from your lips. your head tilting back against the bathroom mirror.

matt heard—of course he did, and he slowed his fist, a whine emitting at the loss of friction. your fingers moved down, sliding through your wet folds before plunging inside core, already starting a brutal pace. "f-fuck..matt baby, making mommy feel so good." you groaned, your hips rutting forward to grind against your hand. "gonna be a good boy for me and keep going?"

matt nodded, even though you couldn't see him from the other side of the line. his hand started to move again, hips rutting up into his closed hand. you could hear the faintest sound of the bed creaking under him. "mhm—be so good f'you mommy." he moaned. the wet squelching from him and you combined was lewd, but it only made you move your fingers faster, legs spreading wider.

"doin' so g-good baby." you muttered, fingers moving quickly in and out of your slick walls. you could already feel the knot forming in your stomach, already so close to cumming. matt chokes on a moan, hissing. "p-please." he whines, voice cracking. "mommy please—keep talking, m'so—mmph—s'close."

"yeah?" you breathed, a whimper echoing in the room as your fingers prodded at your g-spot. "wanna cum for me baby?"

"y-yes." he gasps, breath hitching. "please. please let me." he sounded so fucked out, so so pretty. you moaned once more, legs beginning to shake as his noises shot straight through your core. "m'so close too matt." you breathed. "b-be a good boy and cum. cum with me baby."

a loud sob sounds from the other end of the line. his whole body tensing as he cums hard, whimpering your name over and over again like a prayer. and thats what makes you loose it—your own body tensing as slick gushed around your fingers, thighs shaking and moans spilling past your lips.

you both ride out your highs, shaky cries flowing into your ear as matt spilled over his hand and his thighs. every sound making heat flare through you as your hips slowly come to a stop. for a long moment, the only thing filling the quiet space is your combined ragged, uneven breathing and the faint rustling of sheets as matt shifts.

he was the first one to speak. "thank you mommy." he whispered, voice hoarse and tired. you smirked, body slumped against the bathroom counter. "you're welcome baby. did so good for me." you murmured back slowly removing yourself off the counter and fixing yourself.

"don't do anything else until i get home, okay? m'not done with you yet." was the last thing matt heard before the line went silent.

[youngheejay]

Broken hearts and noses

Sometimes you have to get slammed in the face by a door to find your way back into your lover’s arms.

Starring: Jay x fem!reader [established relationship] feat. enhypen members

—————————————————————————

“All you do is work, work, work…” You crossed your arms in a pout and nagged Jay’s ear off as he tried to make some dinner. The emphasis laid on tried.

“Please, y/n. Not this again.” He exhaled tiredly.

“What do you mean ‘not this again’? If you would just listen to me I wouldn’t talk about it anymore!”

“Listen to you?? I’m already listening, y/n! What do you expect me to do?? Tell my manager ‘oh by the way, I can’t do the concert because my girlfriend complains about me not spending enough time with her’?” He put the wooden spoon rather harshly on the kitchen counter and started chopping up some vegetables on the cutting board.

“And I’m here with you right now, aren’t I? So I really don’t get why you’re still whining so much.” He uttered roughly.

His words were like a stab in your heart - he wasn’t taking you seriously. The realisation of it made you so upset that the corners of your mouth went down on their own. But you didn’t want to cry. At least not in front of him. Which was really weird - in the last two years you had been dating him, you never had a problem with crying in front of him.

That was before your last fight with him. Which was funnily enough also the last time you saw him, so 2 weeks ago:

~ “Are you seriously crying again about this?! That’s all you can do, right? Crying and getting on my fucking nerves.”

His harsh words surprised you so much that your tears automatically stopped from the shock. Or maybe it was an instant defense mechanism to protect yourself from any other hurtful words from your boyfriend.

Of course you tried to be rational: he was tired from work, y/n. You shouldn’t have brought it up. It was the wrong timing. He just had a fight with his manager and just wanted to have you by his side and didn’t want to hear you also complain. Complain about how lonely and neglected you felt for the last couple of months. Yet again.

And as always he snapped at you and didn’t want to talk about it.

Not only did he not want to talk about your feelings and problems, but he also never talked about his own. Obviously.

He didn’t even tell you what the fight with his manager was about. If you hadn’t pushed him so much to tell you why he was in a bad mood you wouldn’t even had known that he fought with his manager.

He never talked about anything that bothered and worried him. Never. He always said everything was fine - and at the same time his actions and words showed you that he wasn’t fine.

And as always, he regretted how he spoke to you and apologised.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. Let me make it up to you,” he had murmured against your neck as you tried to ignore him.

“Hm?” He left a trail of kisses all over your shoulder and neck, “I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me, my angel.”

His hands caressed your waist and stomach, “you’re my little angel, hm? C‘mon, let me apologise to you, princess.”

And as always, you also didn’t want to fight with him. You hated it.

Hence, you let him make it up. He kissed you and ‘made love to you’ as an apology.

As always.

It was a never ending circle. A new couples tradition since a few months now. ~

It felt like a barbed wire was tightly wrapped around your neck as you tried not to cry. But your eyes expressed everything that needed to be said. Disappointment, anger, heart-ache, desperation. Too bad that he wasn’t looking at you but was rather interested in chopping those carrots into thin slices.

The more seconds you held back your tears the more you felt like a wall was being built between you and the person you loved the most. How could your relationship develop like that?

You watched him for a few moments in complete silence. The way he was cutting the ingredients made it seem like he was in complete peace. That’s what he used to tell you - that cooking brought him peace and a chance to gather his thoughts in his hectic life. Or just to completely shut down from all his problems. Either way, it was his way of dealing with his emotions and troubles. A moment of peace and quiet.

It seems like that this also isn’t a good moment to talk to him about my feelings.

But then your eyes wandered up to his face. His eyebrows were furrowed angrily, his lips in a sulking pout and he was clenching his teeth which was evident because of his prominent jaw.

You quickly realised that he definitely was not coping well with whatever was going on in his head. Your heart clenched at the thought of your boyfriend struggling and keeping everything to himself.

“Babe?” You tried to catch his attention.

Nothing. He didn’t reply to you.

“Jay…” you took a step forward to him as his back was shown to you.

When you realised that he wasn’t going to give you a response you gently put your hand on his arm. He visibly tensed up at that.

“Jay, I-“

“What? What do you fucking want from me, y/n?” He muttered through gritted teeth.

“I just that-“

“What, y/n? What?!

That I’m making you sad because we never go out on dates?

That I’m neglecting you and you want me to be more present?

That I’m always working and never spending time with you?”

You took your hand away timidly - seemingly lost at words.

Jay scoffed as he continued, “I was already working when we two met, y/n! You knew what my profession was and you knew how much I needed to work!”

“Are you saying it’s my fault now?!” You shouted in disbelief.

He put the knife roughly away on the counter and turned around, just to shout angrily at your face: “Yes, y/n! You should’ve asked yourself whether you’re willing to make this sacrifice or not before you decided to date me! You should’ve thought about whether you could adjust to my lifestyle or not!”

“Are you fucking serious?! When we started dating you always had some time for me! I never thought of this because you didn’t give me a reason to see it as an obstacle!”

“Too bad, y/n! This world doesn’t resolve around you! I can’t manage everything like I did 2 fucking years ago!”

“But WHY??!! WHY CAN’T YOU BE LIKE THE JAY YOU USED TO BE??!!!”

You gave up to fight against your tears and just sobbed loudly, holding your face in your trembling hands and letting them catch your tears. At this point your body was shaking like a leaf. You hiccuped, and cried and cried.

As you were still crying and sobbing you tried to calm down by taking deep breaths.

You straightened up your posture and looked him straight in the eyes, albeit you were still hiccuping and sniffling:

“You’re right. I- I made a stupid decision back then. Good thing we- we cleared this up.” You tried to sound as sternly as possible while tears were streaming down your face.

Jay continued to look at you in fury - or maybe it was confusion. You couldn’t tell the difference.

He shut his eyes in frustration and rolled his head back as he leaned back onto the edge of the kitchen counter - holding it with a firm grip.

“Baby- I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so-“ just as he was about to apologise to you for the nth time because of the same thing, the same fight, the same topic, you quickly interrupted him:

“Save it. You don’t have to apologise when you clearly don’t want to change anything.” You made your way out of the kitchen and wiped away the tears on your cheeks. But the tears continued to pour down the same path you just cleaned up.

You quickly made your way to Jay’s room and grabbed your belongings.

Phone, wallet- you hiccuped - no, it’s in my purse. Where’s my purse?

Your sobs didn’t stop.

Where’s my fucking purse?

You spotted your jacket in Jay’s bed and turned around too quickly with it when you grabbed it.

Crash.

With wide shocked eyes you looked at the frame you accidentally knocked down and broke.

A frame which contained a picture of you two on a random date. One of the many dates you used to have. It was a cute picture. You thought you looked okey in it but Jay swore that your smile was prettiest he had ever seen so he had to frame it and put it on his side table.

~ “This way I will never forget your pretty smile and will remind myself to always make you smile like this.”

He explained to you with a shy smile and rubbed his neck in embarrassment when you spotted the frame in his room and asked him about it. ~

This fucking bastard! Fucking liar is he! I should sue him for all these lies!

You angrily started to gather the broken glass and put it in his bin. Not even in the angriest state you could just leave it like that - he could hurt himself.

You didn’t even think about it. You were just doing it.

Your vision was blurry because of your tears so it didn’t really surprise you when you cut yourself. And as fucked up as it sounded - the pain of the cut was more bearable than the pain in your heart.

Lastly, you put the photo in the bin and with that the promise ring you received from him on your two years anniversary. Which was not even too long ago.

Maybe you were overreacting. You still loved and respected him after all so much. So fucking much that you felt your heart shred apart in several pieces.

And you knew he felt the same towards you.

But you also knew that he was having some own problems and didn’t know how to handle them which resulted in him taking it out on you - unintentionally or not, you had enough with these fights.

Thus, you needed to take this step to make a change. Either for the better or the worse. You just really hoped for the better as you saw the ring laying safely in the corner of the bin.

Hopefully he’ll find it and come back to his senses.

You were a little hesitant to leave the ring there, scared he might throw away his trash and not notice it.

No, it’s okey. If we make up, we’ll do it quickly. He won’t empty his bin till then.

The ‘if’ in the sentence lingered longer in your mind than you would’ve liked.

You then quickly made your way into the bathroom which was directly connected to his room and washed your cut clean. After you wrapped some toilet paper around it as a quick solution you walked back into his room, holding your jacket in your other hand.

Surprisingly, you spotted Jay there. Kneeling in front of the bin, he (fortunately) held the ring and the photo in both of his hands.

And when he turned his head around, showcasing you his misty eyes, all you could see was a small, hurt child. A child who didn’t know what to do with these adult problems and responsibilities, who was overwhelmed and just wanted to be held, who wanted to cry without feeling bad about it, without worrying his loved ones.

He looked so vulnerable in that moment.

You hesitated a little - you wanted to wrap him in his arms and tell him that everything is going to be okay. But you knew this wasn’t the right move.

Then, without a word, you marched out of his room.

Jay was startled: “B-babe!”

He quickly stood up after hastily putting the picture on his bed and stuffed the ring securely in his pocket.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

Of course, you didn’t respond to him as you firmly went to the front door where your shoes were put right next to his larger ones. You quickly went on to put on your jacket when you remembered that your purse was in the living room.

Just as Jay was about to grasp your arm you quickly escaped his reach and walked back right past him as if he didn’t even exist.

When you entered the mess of a living room you thought how clean Jay’s room always was.

Ugh, I don’t wanna think about him!!

“Baby, hold on!” Before you could react he held your wrist firmly: “Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself with the frame?” He carefully examined your hand and noticed how the toilet paper was stained with blood.

“Wait a minute! I think Sunghoon has some bandage in his room!” He spoke alertly as if you were in some kind of emergency.

Normally you would’ve giggled at his exaggeration but at this moment his reaction only made your eyes teary.

“Just wait a second, alright?” He put his hands on your shoulders and made you sit on the couch. Then he looked firmly in your eyes, assuring himself that you wouldn’t leave just like that.

But he was wrong. You can’t just wait and forget everything as if you never fought.

He’d come, patch you up, apologise to you and you’d forgive him because he means it. He truly does. But you wouldn’t talk about your issues. You’d just place a bandage on the wound instead of taking care and finding the cause of it.

When you heard him rummaging around in sunghoon’s room, you took your purse and went again to the front door. Just as you put on your shoes and were about to leave, you heard Jay:

“Don’t go.”

His voice was shaky and full of pain.

“You forgot your ring,” he spoke quietly, afraid to say the wrong thing.

We both know I didn’t forget it.

You didn’t say it out loud.

Instead, you reached for the doorknob when he repeated his plea:

“Please, y/n. Don’t leave me. I beg you.”

His words broke your heart. You took a deep breath as you tried to gather your thoughts.

“I think-“ you were interrupted with a slam in your face. Tuck. “Ah!”

“Y/N!” Jay exclaimed in horror as you dropped your bag and hold onto your nose in pain. He quickly pulled you into his arms.

“Oh my god! What happened?” Jake asked with a horrified expression.

“You slammed the door in my girlfriend’s face, you fucking idiot!” He gritted his teeth in anger.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry, y/n!” Jake wanted to approach you to make sure you were okey but Jay wasn’t having any of it.

He quickly stepped in front of you as he still held you firmly. His back was now blocking Jake from stepping any closer to you. Like a shield protecting you from any danger.

“Stay away from her, bastard.” He gave Jake a glare.

“It was an accident!”

“I don’t fucking care. You hurt her. If you ever get near her I’ll fucking kill you.” He spat back and then turned back to you.

He softly and gently cradled your face: “Baby, let me see if you’re bleeding,” he requested with so much love and care - the complete opposite from how he talked with Jake just seconds ago.

You hesitantly pulled down your hands from your nose to show it to him. Jay exhaled in relief: “it’s not bleeding, don’t worry.” You wanted to point out that he was the one who shouldn’t worry, but then you remembered that you were still mad at him.

“I think you should lay down a bit.” Jake suggested carefully.

“Why don’t you just shut up, fucking bitch?”

“Jay!” You scolded lightly, “it was an accident, don’t be so harsh!” You unconsciously put your uninjured hand on his chest to calm him down.

“Oh? What happened? Why is Jay hyung calling you a bitch?”

“I opened the door when y/n was just about to leave and it hit her face on accident. He’s acting like I tried to kill her!”

Jungwon shook his head - he was disappointed but definitely not surprised and looked at you: “are you okey?”

You nodded your head and tried to give him a smile but the expression hurt more than you expected. “Ow!” You clasped your nose with your hands and closed your eyes as tears pricked up from the pain.

Jay quickly cradled your face in his hands again and brushed your cheeks with his thumbs, “baby…” he cooed in empathy.

“What happened?” You had to stifle a laugh when sunghoon and Riki entered the dorms and asked the same question in sync.

“Jake hyung hit y/n in the face with the door.” Jungwon answered casually as he handed Jay a cool pad.

“On accident!” Jake grasped his hair in disbelief.

Riki whistled: “That’s how people die, Hyung!” He knew what he was doing. Fuelling the fire intentionally so that Jay would rip apart Jake in pieces.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re still alive, Jakey. Y/n is his queen - if I were you I wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He’ll definitely come for you!” Sunghoon joined the teasing.

But Jay wasn’t even listening to them. He was totally focused on carefully placing the ice pack on your nose. “Ouch!”

What a great day! Fight with boyfriend, injured hand and now this.

“I know, baby. Just a little more, okey? It will help soothe the pain.” He kissed your forehead, wishing he could take away your pain and to let you know he’s there for you. You held his hands, yet again completely unintentionally, as one was caressing your cheek and the other held the cool aid on your nose.

“Oh my god! Guys, you don’t know what just happened! The head manager was sooo pissed that Jay hyung skipped practice today but then, actually just now in the car, Heeseung hyung talked with Jiwoo Hyung about this whole dating ban-“

Sunoo began his loud chatter even before he entered the dorms since the front door was still widely open and he saw his members standing in the hallway.

Then he cut himself off when Jungwon gave him a stern look.

“What?”

He then looked at his surroundings only to realise that you were also there.

“Oh hi, y/n! You look so stunning today!”

The rest of the boys coughed awkwardly as they face palmed themselves.

You took away Jay’s hands from your face, but still hold onto them tightly, and softly greeted him back and thanked him.

What the hell was going on?

Dating ban? Skipped practice?

You had so many questions but you just stood there completely frozen. Then your world started spinning.

“I’m feeling dizzy…” you weakly informed Jay just in time before your vision turned black and you collapsed right in his embrace.

His arms are so nice and strong.

That was your last thought before you entered the world of unconsciousness.

—

“What if she’s really dead?” You heard a nervous voice.

“Don’t be stupid, hyung. She’s literally breathing as we talk, look at her chest moving.”

“I’m not looking at her chest! That’s the last thing I should be doing if I don’t want to die at Jay’s hand.”

“Why are you whispering his name?”

“Jungwon, please!” Jake gasped as if Jungwon’s question was absolutely absurd, “did you see how he looked at me?! I almost killed his girlfriend - if he hears me talking about him or y/n he’ll definitely end me.”

“That doesn’t even make sense… if he wanted to kill you he wouldn’t even allow you in the same room as her. And besides that, how on earth would he hear you?”

“I don’t know… he probably put a camera here to watch us. His obsession over y/n is a little concerning. But… hmmmm… now that you’re saying it… it is really weird. Why is he letting me stay near her…?

Oh my god! Maybe that’s just his psychotic game. He wants me to witness her death so I’ll live with this guilt forever. Wow, I have to leave this room quickly.” You heard the scratching of a chair.

“You’re not going anywhere, hyung!” Hit.

“Ouch! Don’t hit me there, my leg muscles are sore from practice.” He sulked childlike.

“Just sit down and wait until Jay hyung comes back.”

Where’s Jay?

“See, that’s what I mean! Isn’t it so weird that he went out himself and told us to watch over her?” Jake asked curiously.

“Definitely. Did you see his face when she fainted?I’ve never seen him like this. He froze just like that… he looked like he was about faint himself.”

“Right? And when he was in shock he was talking to himself something like ‘it’s my fault’.”

“Hm,” Jungwon hummed, “now that I think of it, it really gets weirder - usually he’s the proactive one. He’s always level headed and knows what to do. But back then we had to move him aside and handle the situation. He didn’t even move for a while.”

“Do you think they had a fight and that’s why he was so shocked? Like, why was she leaving the apartment in first place? He texted us that we should eat dinner outside because he’s cooking for her but did you see the kitchen? He didn’t even start cooking - his utensils and ingredients were laying around so randomly… like he got distracted or was interrupted.

This would also explain why he is making us sit here in case she wakes up - you know, so she wouldn’t be facing him first thing first. And it would also explain why he hadn’t knocked me out yet. He feels guilty.”

You could hear their tiny brains ratter as a moment of silence followed.

“Nah…”

“Nah!!!”

Both of them let out at the same time.

How can someone be so clever yet still so dumb?

Jay is only clever. He is really super smart.

Your heart melted at the thought of him.

“Oh my god! Are you seeing this? She’s smiling!”

You quickly made a neutral expression as you didn’t want to ‘wake up’ yet. You wanted to listen what they had to talk about. These gossiping aunts. And you wanted to wait for Jay.

“Hyung, now you’re just hallucinating. How can an unconscious person possibly be making any expressions?”

“I swear! She just made that smile! You know that smile whenever she looks at Jay!”

“Ohhh, you mean her ‘I’m so stupidly in love’ smile?” You felt your ears heat up in embarrassment.

“Yeah, yeah, that one!”

“Hm… maybe she’s dreaming about him.”

“Or about something that’s factually beautiful.”

Hey! You frowned internally. Jjongie is beautiful.

“Like a flower garden?”

“Or like rainbows and a sunny day.”

“Yeah, or maybe something cute like puppies.”

“Oh my god puppies! That’s so sweet, I wanna see them too.” You could hear Jake’s pout.

Then you heard a soft knock on the door.

Oh! Is that Jay? I should pretend that I just woke up when he comes in!

“I bought these flowers for y/n!” Sunoo exclaimed in excitement.

Oh… it’s just sunoo…

“Look hyung! I got this black plushy cat for y/n!”

And Riki…

Jungwon and Jake bursted out in laughter:

“BWHAAHAGAHAH- that looks exactly like jay hyung!”

“His angry eyebrows! They’re like Jay’s!”

“I’ll place it right next to her.”

Aww my baby Riki.

“And I’ll put these flowers on the nightstand then she’ll wake up to the sweet scent of them.”

Sunoo!!! He’s such a sweetheart, so cute.

“Hyung, you need to put them in water otherwise they’ll wilt too quickly.“

“Nah, she can do it herself when she wakes up. Ugh! How long is it going to take? I think I’ll watch the new episodes of our show so I can threaten her with spoilers and make her do my laundry.” He chuckled evilly.

Sunoo! You felt irritated.

“If she ever wakes up.” Jake corrected him in a matter-of-factly tone.

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

“There’s a high possibility that she’ll never wake up, Riki.” Jake muttered dramatically.

“What?” Stop scaring my son! Don’t worry, riki, I’ll wake up soon!

“Nice! I always wanted her beanies!”

Riki!! You tried to calm your anger down.

“Oh my god! You’re a genius! I’ll take her skincare!” You felt your blood pressure rise. Don’t you dare, Kim Sunoo!

Then you suddenly felt the weight of the mattress go down at the foot of the bed.

“She better not wake up anytime soon.” Sunoo mumbled as he put his legs under the blanket and made himself comfortable as he pulled most of the blanket towards himself.

“Hyung! Be careful!” - at least there’s one person in this room who’s worried about me - “Jay hyung will get mad when he sees you sitting there. He strictly forbid it.”

Right. Jungwon is not taking care of me. He’s following his Jay hyung’s instructions!

“Agghhh this is nice,” next you felt a heavy weight settle on your legs as Riki was laying horizontally on them.

Ugh, he’s so heavy.

“Hyung knows y/n likes us. We’ll just tell him she wouldn’t have liked it if he scolded us.”

Then he started to roll his back on your legs and used them as some kind of muscle roller.

“That’s right,” sunoo agreed with Riki.

After a few moments of silence - and after Riki moved around on your legs and ultimately decided to sit like Sunoo but on the other side (and stealing more of the blanket than he did) - you finally heard the door open again.

Jay!

“Oh you guys are back! Did you get everything for y/n?” Jungwon asked.

“Yeah, Jay went to her apartment on his own and got her necessities meanwhile me and Hoon went to a store.” You heard how Heeseung was placing multiple bags on the floor.

“Wow did you buy everything from the store?”

“Basically, yes. He gave us a list he quickly had written down during the car ride. That man knows his girl.” You heard Sunghoon and his rummaging to which you assumed that he also was setting some shopping bags on the ground.

Exactly, you agreed proudly.

“Or he didn’t know anything and just wrote everything down he once saw in a store.” You ‘accidentally’ kicked your feet and hoped you aimed any body part of Riki.

“Ouch! She kicked me!” Bingo.

But where is Jay?

“And where is he now?” Sunoo expressed the thought that clouded your mind.

After a few silent moments Heeseung sighed softly and finally spoke up: “In the car. He told us to take the stuff to his room and if she’s awake we should text him. He’s probably waiting in the car for the message.”

“I don’t know man. He was acting so weird. Like he was the one at fault. I mean I get it; to see your woman faint like this is probably not easy but… - i don’t know how to describe it- he just was out of it.”

Heeseung hummed in agreement to sunghoon’s observation.

My baby. Your heart broke at the thought of jay sitting alone in the car. What is he doing? He should sit next to you and wait until you woke up! Or even better! He should kiss you awake!

Just as you wanted to speak up you heard the door opening again and finally there was your boyfriend.

“She’s still not awake?” With panic in his voice he entered his room. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you guys! I’m calling an ambulance.” He announced suddenly.

“Don’t call an ambulance! You have to kiss me awake, you moron!” You shouted in frustration as you suddenly sat up, startling everyone.

“Babe…” Jay’s shoulders visibly relaxed and his eyes were shaky as he looked at you with so much relief.

He quickly made his way towards you and sat on the bed right next to you. Then he pulled you carefully into his warm embrace and nestled his head on your shoulder.

“I was so scared, honey. Don’t ever do that again.” He said with a shaky voice and pulled you as close as possible. And then he started to cry. Loudly.

And of course hearing him cry made you also cry. So you cried just as loudly.

“Why weren’t you here, Jay?! Everyone was in this room except for you! I- I was waiting for you but you were the last person who came into this room!” You wailed as you gripped tightly onto Jay’s shirt.

Jay’s heart broke at this, nevertheless, he started to caress your hair in order to calm you down.

“I’m sorry, princess. I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am.” He whimpered as his tears didn’t seem to stop. “Just please don’t break up with me. I’ll do anything. But don’t leave me.”

“I don’t wanna leave you either, jay! But I can’t keep going on with these fights! You never tell me when something is wrong and you have no idea how devastating that is! It hurts so much knowing you’re in pain but not being able to help you or comfort you in any kind of way! Why even have a life partner if you don’t want to share your life with your partner?!”

“I’ll- I’ll tell you. Alright, princess? I’ll tell you every little thing from now on. Just promise me you’ll never scare me like this again.” He pulled away slightly and cradled your face in his hands to wipe away your tears with his thumbs.

“O-okey.” You sniffled and nodded a little as your tears were slowly but surely stopping.

You patted his cheeks with the sleeve of your shirt to clean up his wet face when you suddenly heard a light sniffle.

When you looked over your boyfriend’s shoulder you caught sight of sunoo trying to hold back his tears after seeing such an emotional, heart-wrenching and romantic scene in real life.

The realisation settled in that you and your boyfriend shared such an intimate and personal moment with his 6 fellow members. But when you looked around, anticipating teasings and laughter, you were met with nothing but compassion.

They all looked like they were trying to hold back their tears.

When you looked back at your boyfriend he was already looking at you with so much love and regret. He kissed your forehead: “I’m so glad you woke up.” he mumbled against it.

“Of course I would wake up, idiot!” You giggled a little and it immediately melted his heart.

Then you pouted sadly and hold your nose lightly: “It hurts.”

He widened his eyes in panic, “your nose? I swear to god I’ll kill Jake…” he mumbled under his breath while he examined your nose.

Jake gulped.

“It doesn’t look swollen… but we should go see a doctor, princess.” he firmly decided.

“No, jjongie. I just wanna lay down a bit. Can you get me the cooling aid, please?” Jay hesitated a little as he wanted you to visit the doctor nonetheless he didn’t want to argue with you: “Of course, honey. Lay down and rest, hm?”

“Can you lay down with me, please?”

Jay felt butterflies erupt in his stomach, “of course, my sweetheart.” Then he turned around to glare at Jake: “what are you doing, clown? Get her the ice pack, will you?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Jake sprang up from his chair.

“Jay, don’t be so mean to him. He didn’t do it on purpose.” You spoke softly as you patted his chest. Jay responded with a sulking grunt.

Then you looked at Riki and Sunoo who were still sitting on the bed at the other end with squinted eyes: “You should actually talk to them.”

Both of their eyes widened in a comical way.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Riki stuttered with fear loaded in his voice.

“We- we didn’t do anything wrong, hyung!” Sunoo stammered.

“What’s with them?” He looked over his shoulder and then back at you.

“Actually, they were so nice talking about how they got me gifts,” you looked around and found the plushy and the flowers they were talking about, “see, Jay? They took good care of me.”

“Really?” Jay inspected the plushy with suspicion and was surprised at his little brothers.

“Mhm, I heard something - I don’t if I understood it correctly - but something along the lines how they’ll buy me beanies or just in general some branded clothes and accessories and of course some skincare! Oh and how they’ll go to my apartment and clean it up for me. They even want to do my laundry!”

“Wow that really doesn’t sound like them,” jay chuckled but then turned around to look at them again. Just in time the two boys switched their facial expressions from unpleasant to happy ones.

“Thanks guys. I really appreciate it.”

They gave him a forced smile. Jay rose his eyebrow: “her apartment key is in my jacket pocket- you can go now and clean it up. I’ll join you.” They started to climb out of his bed whilst rolling their eyes secretly.

“No, jjongie! Let them do it!” You gave him your best puppy look. Sunoo rolled his eyes harder than before.

“But-“

“No buts! We still need to talk.” You gave him a stern look.

Jay looked at your cute expression and he’d be an idiot if he refused you. “Of course, my love,” he pushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Then just go and I’ll check tomor-“ he looked around and realised that everyone left already and that the cooling aid was laying on the ground at the swell of the door frame, “-row…”

“When did they even leave?” Jay mumbled as he stood up to pick up the cool pad and closed his door. After wrapping it up in a thin towel he went back to the bed where you were already laying and made some room for him. He joined you in the bed and gently laid pad on your nose. You sighed in relief: “This is nice…”

Jay kissed your forehead and cradled you in his other free arm, “come here,” he mumbled. You took the cool pad from his hand to press it on your own when you asked curiously: “what did you buy for me?”

“Oh, that?” He looked over his shoulder where the bags were, “just some stuff for my princess.” He cheekily answered. You swatted at his chest but he quickly caught your hand and pressed a kiss on the palm before resting it on his chest and pulling you closer. You felt him caressing your ring finger when you heard him shakily breathe in: “babe…?”

Hearing his serious tone you put the cool pad away and looked him in his eyes, you hummed: “yes, darling?”

He squeezed your hand lovingly as he felt his stomach churn anxiously: “Can you please wear the ring again? It feels heavy in my pocket.” And in his heart.

You smiled at him softly: “Of course, my love.”

Letting out a shaky breath, he speedily and clumsily pulled out the ring from his pocket and immediately slid it on your ring finger.

He lingered a kiss on it, “I’ll make sure you never take it off again. Only if I replace it with an engagement ring.”

You grinned widely as you felt a blush on your cheeks: “I’d love that actually.”

Jay leaned in to kiss you but you quickly blocked him by putting your hand in front of his lips. “Why?” He tilted his head and looked at you with sad eyes. You almost caved in.

“First talk, then kiss. We’re not doing any kind of lovemaking - and you know what I mean by that - until you explain to me what’s going on,” you declared sternly, “and until then I’m still mad at you and won’t speak to you otherwise.”

“Okey, okey. I’ll explain,” he replied to you swiftly and wrapped his arms securely around you as if to make sure you won’t go anywhere.

And then he started to explain. And you didn’t say anything until he was done.

——

“So, just because of Jungwon’s dating scandal your head manager banned everyone from dating?” You summed up the whole complicated tension in the company, which had been going on for a few months now. You tried to process the information. “I can’t even comprehend this. That’s so unfair.” Your heart felt heavy.

“I know…” he agreed with a sad tone.

“Now I can actually understand why you wouldn’t tell me this. If I were you I probably also wouldn’t have.”

He sighed with a heavy heart: “but still… I failed miserably at hiding it from you. I mean it totally affected my mood. I should’ve just talked with you about it.”

You patted his cheek: “It’s okey, honey. It’s now in the past. We’re letting this chapter of our relationship go and are looking forward, alright?”

He gave you a cute little nod but one look in his eyes told you everything. How much he regretted these fights and his harsh words to you. It was impossible to express it with words.

“Babe… why are you looking like a sad puppy? It’s okay every relationship has its ups and downs. That’s actually a good thing. That way you can see whether a relationship is healthy or not. Whether the two partners are aligned with each other or not. Look at us: we’re talking about it and are going through this together. The important thing is that we’re making progress together, right? And that we’re learning from our past mistakes together. It’s also a testament to our commitment.“

He responded again with a nod, not daring to speak up as he was too afraid he might break out in tears. You pouted at him and whispered, “give me a kiss.” Without a word he leaned into you and met his lips with yours. And only after a few moments you started to taste his salty tears. “Babe…” you parted your lips from his, just to peck them several times. “Don’t cry, my jjongie. Everything is alright. We’re okey, baby.”

“I almost lost you, y/n.”

“No, you didn’t, silly.“

He wiped his tears away and pouted a little: “you threw away your ring.”

“It was more of a symbolic gesture than anything else. You found it and we talked about everything, right?”

“What if I didn’t? What if I threw it away on accident?”

“Then we would’ve gotten a new one. But I knew you’d find it and we’d make up in time before you would even empty out your bin.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

You kissed his sulking lips again, “okey, I won’t, you little baby.”

As you were sharing another sweet kiss his nose bumped against yours and normally you would’ve chucked at the ticklish feeling but, unfortunately, your nose was really sensitive as you let out a painful groan.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he looked at you concerned.

“It’s okey,” you grabbed the cool pad again and held it against it.

Jay rubbed your waist to give you some comfort as he mumbled: “I really wanna punch Jake in the face.” He squeezed his eyes shut to calm himself down when all of the sudden he sat up from his laying position. “Give me a minute. I’ll just do it now.”

“Jay-“

“No, you’re right.” He took a deep breath: “I’ll slam his face against the door.”

“Honey,” you stretched out your arm and put your hand on his back, “before you do that just listen to me. Think about it: this accident brought us back together.”

He turned around to give you a look, “you’re not being for real, are you?”

“I’m 100% sure we wouldn’t have talked for at least one whole week. But looked at us now,” you wiggled your hand clad with the ring in front of his face. Jay laid back down next to you, now a little more relaxed.

“Sometimes I don’t like how you only see the good even in the bad things.” He was laying on his back and didn’t look at you as he stared at the ceiling.

“Why?” You giggled, “isn’t that a good thing? To be optimistic.”

“It is, I guess. It’s one of your traits I love so much. But it also makes me realise that I’m not worthy of your love. That you’ll probably leave me someday because you found someone who matches you way better than I do. That’s why I also don’t like it. It’s like a reminder that I’m not good enough for you.” He whispered the last part as he wanted to avoid a crack in his voice.

“Jay…” you were lost at words. In your eyes Jay was the most confident person to ever exist. Never ever did it cross your mind that Jay could also be insecure about your relationship. Just like you felt sometimes.

“Oh Jay…” you repeated emphatically and scooted closer to him. “Come here.” You wrapped your arms around him and pulled his head towards your chest. He immediately responded by embracing your waist and nestled his face in the crook of your neck.

“This was really stupid of you, you know? You always tell me to not speak such nonsense when in reality you also have these thoughts of insecurities.

I need you to know that there’s no person on this earth that can handle me as well as you do. There’s no person who loves me like you do and you show it to me in the most special ways. I know there’s nobody else who knows me like you do. So don’t ever think this again, alright?”

Jay only tightened his embrace around you as a response.

“So what if we fought? It only grew us stronger and closer. I got to know you better through this. And you’re acting like I’m some saint who’s never done anything wrong in this entire relationship. I think you’re forgotten that I always snap at you when I’m overwhelmed in the slightest. Or when I get my period I’m always annoyed with you. Or when I’m sleep deprived. I could give you sooo many examples from our life that we’ve been sharing for quite awhile now. You can’t tell me that you forgot all these instances.”

“Hm, but it’s not the same…” he mumbled against your skin.

“How so?” You exclaimed in a high pitched tone, “just like you don’t care about my bad traits I also don’t! I feel the exact same way about you. Believe it or not!”

“Promise?” He rasped with a sleepy voice.

“Promise.” You sealed it with a kiss on his head.

“You know, about this picture I told you I liked it because of your smile, right?”

You hummed.

“That’s actually not the whole story. I love this picture so much because on this day I realised I wanted to marry you. That you were the one for me.”

Your eyes widened in surprise: “Really?” You asked yet again in a high pitched tone, which made him chuckle lightly.

“Really.”

“But it was taken not even 1 month into our relationship! How could you possibly know it back then?”

He looked up at you and brushed away a strand of hair behind your ear gently:

“I don’t know what happened that day, princess. I just realised that my feelings for you weren’t - and obviously still aren’t- for someone who I’m dating casually. When you greeted me that day with your usual beautiful smile I immediately knew it. That’s why I love this picture so much. It reflects not only my feelings for you but also the importance of your smile- your happiness to me.”

He sighed sadly, “that day I swore to myself to never be the reason of your tears. To shield you from any harm and pain that could potentially make you sad. And I miserably failed at that…” he blinked his eyes harshly to stop the tears.

Slap.

“Ouch!”

“Stop it, Park Jonseong!” You frowned angrily.

“You’re only a human. You didn’t fail at anything. Do you really think I’d be laying here with you if I thought that? You always take care of me. Even when we’re fighting! You literally skipped practice today to spend time with me. So don’t ever talk like this about yourself.”

“That slap hurt…” he mumbled as he held his cheek with his hand.

“Stop acting like a child.” You rolled your eyes but nonetheless you leaned in to kiss his cheek where you slapped him.

“Better?”

“Here also.” He pointed at his other cheek.

“I didn’t even touch that side.” You laughed at his silliness. Nevertheless, you pecked it.

“And here.” He pointed at his nose.

“Mwuah.” You smooched his nose.

“And here also.” This time he laid his finger on his lip.

“Oh now you’re getting bold.”

“I was born bold.” He clasped your face in his hands and gently pulled you in for soft kiss.

The kiss was interrupted by a giggle of yours which you unsuccessfully tried to stifle: “bold or bald?”

Jay rolled his eyes with a smile and leaned in yet again to kiss you: “oh just shut up…”

After this chaotic day you were sure of two things:

First, the next time you’re taking off your ring it will be because he’s giving you another one - this time a diamond ring.

Second, from now on, whenever you’re with him, you’ll never have to open a door yourself.

—————————————————————————

Comment and reblog! Appreciate likes but tumblr doesn’t.

Feedback etc. is highly appreciated.

© youngheejay 2025 | do not repost or plagiarize.

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 20 - sweet time erasing you

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, angst, i recommend listening to sad beautiful tragic while reading this...

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the girls all arrived to your place as fast as they could, finding you in a state.

"oh my god" kie said, taking you in. all the girls did nothing but hold you as you fell to the floor, heartbreaking sobs escaping you.

sarah pulled you into her arms as you completely broke down. kie and cleo followed, wrapping themselves around you like they could physically hold you together while your entire world was shattering.

“it’s okay,” sarah whispered, even though it wasn’t. “we’re here. we’ve got you.”

but nothing felt okay. nothing felt real.

your chest ached like someone had physically torn it open, leaving you raw and exposed. sobs racked your body, each one more painful than the last, and no matter how tightly the girls held you, it didn’t stop the emptiness from swallowing you whole.

“i—” you tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, another choked cry escaping instead.

“i know, y/n,” kie murmured, rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles. “i know.”

but she didn’t. none of them did.

“i can’t-” shaking your head. “i can’t do this. it hurts. it hurts so much.”

sarah tightened her hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i know, honey. i know it does.”

this wasn’t just heartbreak, this was losing him, losing everything.

"i don't know what to do." you cried.

"there's nothing you can do." cleo said, wiping your tears.

"i have no right to be upset, i broke up with him." you mumbled.

"you have every right to be upset." kie started, "this is raw, this is painful. you're going through heartbreak. allow yourself to feel this."

you swallowed hard, your breath still coming out in uneven gasps. "but what if he never loved me?" the words felt like glass in your throat, cutting you open on the way out.

sarah pulled back just enough to look at you, her brows furrowed, eyes filled with something close to anger. "don’t do that to yourself, y/n. you know he loved you."

"did he?" you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "because it sure as hell didn’t take him long to replace me."

kie let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. "that doesn’t mean what you two had wasn’t real. but you were the one who walked away. he was always going to do something reckless after that."

you wiped at your swollen eyes. "well, congrats to him. he fucking won. he destroyed me."

sarah cupped your face, forcing you to look at her. "no. you ended it because you knew you deserved better. and that’s the strongest thing you could have done."

kie squeezed your hand. “ heartbreak is messy. it doesn’t make sense. it tricks you into thinking you need someone who hurt you. but you don’t, y/n. you don’t need him.”

but you did. at least, that’s what it felt like.

rafe had been your everything. your home in a new city, your comfort, your person.

and now?

now, he was just someone kissing another girl on your phone screen.

fresh tears welled up in your eyes as you pulled away, wrapping your arms around yourself like you could physically hold in all the pain. “i hate him,” you whispered, but the words felt hollow, not believing yourself.

because no matter how much you wanted to, you didn’t hate him. you hated how easily he seemed to let go. you hated that he got to be the one moving on while you were stuck here, picking up the pieces of something that had already shattered.

sarah sighed, running a hand through her hair. “you don’t have to be okay right now. but one day, you will be. and when that day comes, you’re gonna realise that you deserve so much more."

maybe one day, you’d believe that, but not today. not yet.

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a/n: i am very sorry about this one

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy  @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldorf

[littelovelunette]

Helloo, I was wondering if you could do a sevika x reader but Reader got back from a mission and was just so tired that they fainted and Sevika takes care of reader. Thankk youuu i love your works so muchhh💗💗

Dizzy Love

Thank you so much for readingggg mwah <333

You were so exhausted by the end of your mission, legs wobbly and hands tired from carrying the heavy loads and bags.

Your shoulders hurt too and you would kill for a peaceful massage. As you stalked to the door, your body felt like it'd fall apart any moment. You grabbed the doorknob, heaving a sigh and opening it with your key.

The moment you stepped passed the threshold, Sevika scrambled to her feet to greet you. Not really with words, just a silent stare at you as she checks you out and assess whether you have any injuries or not.

"How was it?" Sevika finally grumbled. She didn't miss the way your head swayed a little as you closed the door behind yourself.

"Baby..." You began but then your body gave away and the darkness crept into the frames of your vision. Your body hit the floor with a thud, Sevika rushed forward.

Her eyes were wide but she didn't say anything. "Fuck." She cursed under her breath as she picked you up bridal style with no strain.

Sevika got you to the bedroom and started peeling your clothes off slowly to let your skin out and help you breathe better.

She propped a pillow up under your legs to elevate the blood and massaged your body simply to ground herself.

"You'll be okay." She mumbled more to herself than you. Sevika pressed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your hair as she waited for you to wake up.

You stirred a little, eyes fluttering open slowly as you scrambled a little. Sevika squeezed your shoulder reassuringly. "Baby, are you okay?" Sevika whispered.

"I'm okay..." You tried to get up but Sevika pushed you down, shoving a glass of water in your hands. You smiled weakly and took a few sips of water. "Did I pass out?"

"Yeah. Guess you pushed yourself too hard." Sevika stroked your hair, taking the empty glass away and settling it on the bedside table. "Just let me pamper you, 'kay?"

You smiled up at her and nodded. "I love you."

"I love you too, angel."

[seungkw1]

sugar sweet in a million ways — lsm

💿 birthday - ten 🎶

♡ pairing: lee seokmin x afab!reader ♡ theme: smut, pwp [18+ mdni] ♡ wc: 2.9k ♡ warnings: sub!seokmin, (very)softdom!reader, but lowkey also switch!seokmin and switch!reader oops, unprotected piv sex (fr do not do this), mutual masturbation, fingers in mouth, cowgirl, breast/nipple play, oral (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), creampie, size kink!!!, dk nose appreciation!!!, LOTS of whining sorry i wrote it what do u expect, seokmin is down BAD dude, excellent aftercare, fluff at the end | petnames (m. receiving - good boy, pretty) ♡ a/n: happy birthday @miniseokminnies!!!! figured my first dk fic should be dedicated to the world’s biggest cuties g hehe. hope u like and hope i did your mans justice, i did my very best <3

Seokmin is - and always has been - a sweetheart. The man who steals kisses then runs away giggling, who gets excited every time he gets to tell you about a dog he met that day, who buys you flowers for no reason other than to see you smile. He simply would walk to the ends of the earth and back for you. 

Seokmin is the epitome of the ideal lover - always treating you tenderly, checking in every step of the way to make sure he’s loving you exactly the way you want him to, prioritizing your pleasure above all else. And goddamn does he know to touch you in all the right places. His hand resting on the back of your neck as he draws you into a deep kiss, his soft lips kissing your breasts as he navigates your body with ease, his tongue dancing across your pussy as he savors your taste, his cock filling you to the brim - not just fucking you, but thoroughly loving every inch of you. He is everything you could ever want in a partner - and so much more. 

Seokmin loves you dearly - but three months into your relationship, you find out he’s been harboring a secret. Without a doubt, he absolutely adores showering you with affection, treating the bedroom as the altar upon which he worships you. But, beyond the confidence and gentle masculinity lies a man who wishes, sometimes, that the roles were reversed - a man who yearns for you to take control.

“Ready, love?”

Seokmin nods, the expression on his face already pathetic, and you haven’t even started yet.

You flash him a sweet smile from across the room. Seokmin sits on the bed, back resting against the headboard, legs outstretched over the sheets, wearing nothing but a pair of soft gray sweatpants. The outline of his cock stands out against the light fabric - with no underwear on either, his bulge is practically on full display. You can already see him getting hard. 

“What’s the rule again, baby? Tell me,” you instruct.

You see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, anxious but excited. 

“No touching myself until you say so,” he answers. It comes out barely more than a whisper. 

“Good boy.”

His cock twitches. You smirk, pleased with how easily you’re able to get a rise out of him.

You recline comfortably in your chair, still fully clothed. Your hands reach to your breasts, lightly squeezing them through your sweater. Seokmin takes a deep inhale, exhaling steadily in a futile attempt to mellow his accelerating heart rate. Reaching for the hem, you begin to lift your top, taking your sweet time as you peel the sweater from your torso. As you reach your chest, you tug the knit fabric up and over your bra, taking a moment to caress yourself once more through the cute lacy undergarment. He shifts slightly upon the mattress. Pulling the sweater over your head and off your body, you toss it aside, letting one hand slip downwards. You spread your thighs, letting your dainty skirt drape across your lap enough to showcase a great deal of skin, but still covering your core. 

“Should I keep going?” you ask, fiddling lightly with the skirt’s hem. 

“Please,” he begs immediately. 

You lift the skirt up, revealing your bare pussy.

“Oh,” he utters, his voice deepening. 

You grin, shifting so you can lift your legs, swinging your calves over the chair’s arms to give him the clearest view. You drag your fingertips up your cunt, collecting the arousal that has pooled there and bringing it up to your lips, leisurely licking it off. Seokmin’s cock has quickly grown in his pants, forming a sizable tent in his own lap.

Your hand drifts back to your clit, stroking it gently, evoking a low hum resonating from your lips. You close your eyes as your fingertips work the bud, caressing it delicately with a practiced hand. When you open your eyes again, Seokmin is squirming. Despite his attempts to remain still, his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, his jaw clenched, the bedsheets crumpled in his palms as he grips onto them tightly.

“You like watching me, baby?” you coo at him.

“Mhmm,” he mumbles pitifully with a fervent nod. 

“I bet you want to touch yourself right now, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” his voice wavers. “Can I…”

“Not yet,” you decline. “But take those pants off for me, would you?”

He obeys, gripping the waist of the sweats and lifting it over his thick, fully-erect cock. He shimmies out of the pants and lets them plop onto the floor. You gaze at him longingly, mouth watering at the sight of him before you, fully nude and painfully hard, utterly losing his mind over you. This is agonizing for you both - you’d love nothing more than to leap out the chair and throw yourself at him, but you know the delayed gratification will be well worth the wait.

You let out a soft whine as you slip two fingers inside of your drenched, aching cunt, eager to be filled. Slowly you begin to fuck yourself, letting low hums of pleasure drift from your lips; it feels good, but you know this is nothing compared to how good Seokmin is going to feel inside you. Growing restless, you quicken your pace, squirming against the seat as excitement swells in your gut. Seokmin’s head falls back against the headboard, eyes glassy as he watches you. His white-knuckled grasp upon the sheets has only tightened, the fabric furrowed around his fists. His cock stands tall, its head bumping against his stomach as it pulses wantingly, desperate for relief. 

“Oh my god, I’m gonna die,” he groans, his chest rising high and falling deep with each labored breath. “Please let me touch myself.”

You nod, gazing at him through heavy eyelids. 

“Go ahead, baby.”

His hand flies to his cock, gripping it tightly in his fist. He lets out a sharp, loud moan.

“Oh fuckkkk.”

He begins to steadily stroke his length, fighting against the urge to jerk his cock at breakneck speed lest he cum all over himself in three seconds. As badly as he craves release, it needs to be in your mouth, in your pussy - anywhere, he doesn’t care, as long as it’s for you.

Slowly you retrieve your fingers from your cunt - any more, and you risk cumming far too soon. Swinging your legs to the floor you rise, sauntering over to Seokmin. He gazes up at you, hopelessly pathetic, hand rhythmically rising and falling as you approach. Leaning over him, you bring your fingers to his lips; eagerly he accepts, sweetness gracing his tongue as he savors your juices - a taste he can never get enough of. With an abrupt release he lets go of his cock, leaving it throbbing against the air, desperate for relief. You draw your fingers from his mouth and wrap them around his girth. He whimpers as you drag the mix of spit and juices up and down his length.

“Does it feel good, love?” you coo at him.

“So good,” he exhales breathily. 

“You know what I want?” you mutter softly, leaning in, your noses brushing as your lips hover in front of his. 

“What is it, baby?”

His breath is hot on your lips, his eyes gazing up at you from under thick dark lashes, ready to give you anything you desire. 

Slowly you climb onto the bed, swinging one leg over his lap, resting your knees against his outer thighs as you straddle him. You grip his cock in your palm, guiding it toward your core, running the head along your slit.

“Ohhh my god,” Seokmin whines as his cock throbs in your hand. “So wet…”

He reaches for your skirt, lifting the fabric up so he can see. Your pussy glistens as you grind against his cock, the stickiness of your arousal spreading over its length. You align his tip at your entrance, lowering yourself slowly, the head pressing against your hole for the briefest of moments - but your cunt is too eager. It slips inside you with ease, causing Seokmin to let out a pitiful moan as your walls swallow his cock. You rest your palms against his chest as you slowly accept more of his length, groaning softly as he bottoms out. You sit there for a few moments, letting yourself adjust to the stretch - because no matter how many times you’ve fucked him, his size never fails to overwhelm you.

Breathing heavily, your chest rises and falls right in front of Seokmin’s face. He gathers your skirt in his left hand, keeping it lifted as he slips his right hand around your waist, reaching up your back and undoing the clasp on your bra. He practically yanks the garment off your body, chucking it across the room before grasping onto your breast. He kneads the soft skin in his hand, giving your boob a few good squeezes before guiding it to his mouth. The tip of his tongue flicks across your nipple, licking it delicately, before suddenly latching on. Your head falls back, soft moans escaping your lips as he starts to suck on the bud. Reflexively your hips grind back and forth, and you begin to ride him.

“Oh my god, Seokmin…”

The sound of you moaning his name sends an electric shock through his body. His mouth glides to your other breast, sucking the nipple as your pussy wraps around his cock so deliciously. You begin to bounce faster, and faster - he releases your nipple, grabbing onto your hips and pushing your skirt up again to watch his cock disappear into your cunt. His thumb reaches for your clit, easily locating the sensitive bud, making you cry out at the gentle pressure - heat rising in your belly as your body begins to tense up. 

“Fuck that feels so good,” you whine as you sink onto Seokmin’s cock over and over again. “Make me cum, baby.” 

He increases the pressure upon your clit, making you moan his name again. You clutch onto his chest, fingernails digging into his tan skin as you ride him, tears running down your cheeks as his thick cock fills your pussy with each stroke. Finally, the sensations become wholly overwhelming - your orgasm takes over, pleasure pulsing through your body as you cum on his cock. He rubs your clit perfectly, just the way you like it, guiding you through your climax as your body shakes atop him. The high is incredible, and you savor every lasting moment of it. 

He slows as your body starts to relax, releasing the bud and wrapping his arms around you as you collapse onto him. You cling to his torso, burying your face in his neck as you catch your breath, deep sighs filling the room as you come back down to earth. Seokmin rubs your back softly, kissing your cheek lovingly as you lay there entangled with him. As you recover the ability to form coherent thoughts, you realize just how hard his cock is, throbbing against your walls as it rests inside of you. You sit up, smiling as you see your partner’s face - he gazes up at you, desperation off the fucking charts. As if drunk off your orgasm, you can’t help but let out a giggle, 

“You look so pretty like this,” you coo as you run your hand through his hair. He gulps, using all of his willpower to not just cum in you right this moment. He groans as you shift, slowly letting his length slip out of you. He looks down, the sight of your drenched pussy dripping onto his wet cock making his mouth water.

“You’ve been such a good boy for me,” you praise. “Where do you want to cum?” You stroke his jawline with your fingertips, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he mutters.

“What? What do you m- whoa!” you yelp as he flips you over onto your back, rolling himself on top of you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, but you start to giggle as he kisses your neck. His kisses trail down your body, across your breasts and over your stomach as he scoots down the bed. Finally, he reaches your core, his lips hovering above your still-pulsating clit. You nearly shriek as he grabs your thighs, shifting your hips as he lifts your legs up, knees just about meeting your chest as he practically folds you in half. He begins kissing your inner thigh, making his way down to your core - he sticks his tongue out, nearly licking your pussy, but instead he starts kissing your other thigh.

“Stop teasing me,” you laugh as he nips at the tender skin with his teeth. He grins, giving you a wink. 

“You got it, babe,” he replies, before burying his face in your cunt.

“Oh FUCK,” you cry out as he sticks his tongue into your hole, his nose rubbing against your clit deliciously.

“Tell me what you want, love,” he mumbles into your folds. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Oh god, keep doing that,” you beg. “Feels so fucking good.”

Your body begins to wriggle beneath him, chest rising and falling as he fucks you with his tongue, hips grinding your clit further against his nose. You stroke his hair, running your fingers through the dark locks as he eats you out hungrily. You grip onto the sheets with your other hand, trying to still yourself, but to no avail. He knows exactly how to touch you to drive you fucking crazy.

“Want your fingers in me, please,” you whine breathily.

Seokmin looks up at you, brown eyes normally so soft and kind now overtaken with pure lust. His fingertips flutter through your folds, touching you gently, tracing circles around your clit before slipping two fingers inside you. You cry out as he pushes them deep into your pussy, curling his long fingers upwards to reach your g-spot with ease. Electricity jolts through your body as he latches his lips onto your clit, suckling on the bud as he fucks you. His tempo is slow at first, easing you toward another orgasm; but as you squirm against the bed he begins to quicken his pace. His fingers pulse in and out of your hole as his tongue dances skillfully across your clit, making you see stars as your eyes roll back into your head. You cum again, even harder this time, a powerful shockwave pulsing through your body as your cries of pleasure ring through the air. Seokmin’s name escapes your lips between the otherwise unintelligible babbling; he holds as still as possible, not letting himself grind his cock into the mattress - because he’s so fucking turned on right now that any amount of friction against his dick would make him cum all over the place. He yearns so badly for release, but he knows exactly what you both want.

Retrieving his fingers from your cunt, he crawls back up to you, his leaking cock pressing against your core. He brings his fingertips up to your lips; you eagerly put them in your mouth, tasting yourself as you suck your juices from his hand. He slips his cock inside you once more, your soaking pussy gratefully accepting his size. He slides his hands to your wrists, pinning your arms above your head as he starts fucking you. He doesn’t go slow this time, he can’t - it doesn’t even matter, because he’s already about to cum.

“Oh my god, baby, feels so good, so perfect…”

You wrap your arms around him, pulling his body into yours with a tight squeeze - and with that, he releases.

He moans loudly as he cums, his cock pulsating into you as hot ropes of cum spill against your walls. The overwhelming sensation of fullness makes you let out a string of whimpers into Seokmin’s ear. 

“Fuckkkk, baby,” he groans, his cock still releasing inside you. After every last drop of his cum fills your pussy, his body relaxes, squashing you against the bed. 

“Hey!” you squeal with a giggle as you sink into the mattress. “You’re squishing me!”

Seokmin raises his head, looking at you lovingly through heavy eyelids. 

“Sorry, love,” he tells you with a big cheesy grin. He lifts himself up, shifting his weight off of you, slowly retrieving his cock from inside you. As his length leaves you, you feel his cum spilling from your pussy. You sigh at the sudden emptiness, reaching up to grab his face, drawing him in for a kiss. 

“I love you,” he mutters softly into your lips. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you mutter back, before kissing him a dozen times more. 

Quickly but gently he gets you cleaned up, heeding great care to your comfort - but always with Seokmin, you could never be more comfortable. He smiles to himself as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open; you always get so sleepy after sex, and he finds it incredibly endearing. Crawling back into the bed, he pulls the sheets over the both of you, tucking you in as he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tight. You giggle, snuggling yourself deep into Seokmin’s embrace. Neither of you had bothered with clothes; the warmth of his body radiates against your skin as he holds you - it should be too toasty, given that both of you are covered in a thin sheen of sweat, blood pumping and endorphins rushing. But, as everything always is with Seokmin - it's perfect. 

taglist: @kyeomiis, @tinycatharsis, @hannieween, @smiileflower, @exomew, @seventeenhot

[klausysworld]

Human Highschool Playboy Klaus x Virgin Reader

Reader has a crush, klaus is a player, she is in love he doesn’t care, they have sex (one night stand and he‘s gone in the morning) it’s her first time

Then later e.g: on a party she a little drunk

They talk she cries and tells him it was her first time

He feels guilty and takes care of her

Then they have sex and he’s extra soft

Love your work xoxo❤️

The Softness Within

High School was easy for Klaus Mikaelson. 

He could breeze through it with a smirk on his face and a bunch of guys patting him on the back as he made his way through the hall with another girl on his arm, always different from the week before. 

For Y/N it was a little more difficult.

People would shove past her, let her stumble into the nearby lockers or purposefully smack the top book from her hands to the floor, laughing as she just watched it slide down the halls that haunted her day after day. 

There was only really one thing that she looked forward to each day and that was seeing Klaus. 

She knew he probably didn’t even know who she was but he wasn’t cruel to her like other boys were. 

He didn’t shove her or tease her. A few times he’d even smiled at her.

It was rare for her to even bother showing up to a party, for some reason she had. Maybe because she actually liked the girl who was throwing it.

But for whatever reason that she was there, she ended up flush against the wall, music blaring as her mouth moved with Klaus’s desperately. 

His hands tugged at her dress roughly and she pulled back, a little anxiety in her eyes. 

Both Klaus’s hands cupped her face as he pulled her back into a kiss. 

“I want you.” He murmured to her, his voice so low that it made her fold almost instantly. 

They ended up at her house, Klaus pushing her down into the mattress as he groped roughly at her thighs. It was clear that his body was hungry for her, almost as starved as her heart was for him. 

The night wasn’t as blissful as she’d imagined it.

He was a little rougher than she’d have liked for her first time, it stung more than she’d been prepared for. Hurt.

Eventually the ache dulled and it started to feel better, she started to cling to him. 

Klaus’s fingers had slipped between her legs whilst his hips rutted to hers.

Her little moans fueled the heat between them until she couldn’t breathe. 

Time had somehow crawled and raced by all at once until sleep had taken them both.

When it came time to wake, Klaus must’ve done so long before her for the space where he’d been was already cold. 

There was no stopping the tears from slipping down her soft cheeks as she clutched her pillow between her hands. 

For the first time in a long time Y/N missed a couple days of school. 

Her body was exhausted, her heart humiliated.

Still, eventually she went back to school.

She ignored him in the hall, not that she thought he’d notice her anyways, and made sure not to sit anywhere near him in any classes. 

Y/N didn’t plan to go to any party ever again but one of her friends ended up dragging her to one, she was already reluctant so her friend decided not to tell her that it was at Klaus’s house. 

She only realised when she bumped into his older brother, he’d scoffed under his breath and muttered about having too many teenagers in his house. 

Y/N felt sick in an instant.

Which was how she ended up in his upstairs bathroom, too many people were fucking in the ones downstairs that she had to go to the third floor to be in a quiet room where she could freak out and be sick. 

That was how Klaus found her, sobbing over a toilet seat and trembling as the occasional gag shook her body.

“Y/N?” He questioned gently, kneeling down beside her and rubbing her back gently. “Did you drink too much, love? You didn’t take anything right?” He asked with a concerned frown. 

Her head shook as she moved back, her back resting against the edge of the bathtub, the coldness making her flinch as she sniffed. 

Klaus grabbed some tissue to wipe her mouth and settled in front of her.

His head tilted a little, trying to catch her eyes which were now glued to the floor as her eyes struggled not to let anymore tears fall.

“You need some water, sweetheart?” He asked and she wanted to just say no and walk out but her throat was sore from the crying and retching. He softened when she nodded and disappeared for a minute or two before coming back with a glass of ice cold water. 

His arm slipped round her shoulders with ease as he helped the glass into her hands and watched her drink it, mumbling encouragement. 

“I’m sorry,” She whimpered, her tears dripping into her water making him wince a little and pull the glass from her. “I didn’t know it was your house- I didn’t even wanna come.” She cried and he frowned, shushing her gently.

“Hey, hey. What’s wrong, love? You don’t need to be sorry, I don’t mind you in my house.” He smiled, stroking her back gently. She sniffed and fell silent.

He probably didn’t even remember that they had slept together.

She was probably no good, utterly forgettable.

Klaus watched her expression sadden, a look of hopelessness. 

“You didn’t want to see me again.” He realised after a moment. His hand kept rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay, most girls get a little embarrassed after one-night stands. You usually avoid people for a while? That’s okay, I get it.” Klaus nodded, trying to be understanding but it made her cry harder.

“I don’t- I-” She sniffed and choked a little on her words. “I’ve never slept with someone before- I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

His entire face shifted at that.

“Oh.” He whispered, nodding slowly. 

The deep realisation that he’d taken Y/N’s virginity was one thing but remembering how he’d been that night, it was no wonder that she’d been avoiding him. 

“I’m so sorry, love.” He muttered, his arms circling her a little tighter to try to offer solace. “I should have… I should have…” His voice died off as he looked down at her, the stains across her cheeks and the redness in her face made his stomach twist.

“Did I hurt you, Y/N?” He murmured, frowning as he looked her over. The dress she was wearing this time covered her arms too, she didn’t want anybody to see her skin, to see her or touch her. Klaus. It was so Klaus didn’t want her. 

“The bruises are gone now.” She mumbled, using the tissue to wipe her eyes and her nose. “It didn’t hurt that much after a bit. I liked some of it, I just didn’t expect…I don’t know.” 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I would’ve been gentler if I’d known.” 

Klaus sighed to himself, ashamed.

“Come on, at least let me look after you know.” He helped her up and brought her to his room, kissing the top of her head and telling her to sit on her bed. 

“You can sleep here tonight, you’ve been drinking. I’ll get you some pajamas, okay?” He pet the top of her head gently.

Klaus couldn’t believe he’d left her room in the night, letting her wake up hurt and alone.

Didn’t even realise she hadn’t been in school until he really had to think about it.

She looked a little stiff when sitting in his bed, in his shirt and the plaid pajama pants he’d gotten at Christmas but never wore. Klaus smiled a little at the sight of her, he knew she wasn’t after the same thing the other girls in his bed had been. She was just upset, hurt and yearning.

Someone should have been looking after her and that night it should have been him so for tonight he’d make up for it.

Klaus got changed in his bathroom, for the first time since he was a kid he put on actual pajama pants, like the ones he gave Y/N, but after consideration decided against wearing a shirt too. 

When he stepped back into the room, she was settled under the covers, sniffling quietly.

The heat from his body mingled with hers as he climbed in behind her. His arms gently pulled her away from the edge of the bed and to his chest. She melted quickly, the firmness of his chest felt protective. Klaus helped her roll to face him, guided her face to his bare chest. 

“Let me look after you, love.” He murmured, his fingers massaging her head slowly.

“How?” She mumbled sleepily and his lips twitched up. 

His head dipped to taste her lips, but this time she pulled away. Klaus nuzzled into her ear gently. 

“I want to make you feel good. Let me show you what I should have last time.” He pleaded with her, his hands stroking her back and his arms. Her head nodded subtly and he pressed his lips to hers again, this time being able to savour the feel of her.

So soft and warm.

Klaus rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him with her legs either side of him. His hi;s gently rolled against hers, his hands held onto her waist and rubbed her back slowly.

“You’re so sweet, love.” He muttered to her, pulling his lips from hers and kissing down along her neck and gently sucking to find the spot that made her squirm. 

“There it is.” He mumbled when her breath got all cough in her throat and her body pushed back against his. Klaus grazed his teeth over the spot, leaving a dark mark in her skin whilst his hips ground up with a little more need. 

The quiet little half sounds she was making weren’t enough for him, he needed her to feel what she deserved.

So he trailed his mouth down, his hands lifting the shirt to reveal the beauty beneath. She was rolled back onto her back, him hovering over her. Both his hands followed the shape of her hips up to her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples whilst she panted and whined. Her face blushed red and her hands shook as she tried to push his hands down.

“It’s alright love. Just feel it.” He murmured as he gently pinched her, chuckling softly at the way her body arched. “Such a good girl.” He praised, smiling when her pussy rubbed up against him through their clothes in response. 

The heat from his mouth on her stomach made her fingers tangle into his curls, following his movements as his head lowered down. 

He could hear how fast she was breathing, nervous probably.

Still he tugged the pants back down her legs so he could settle between her thighs. He eyed her core as he kissed along her inner thighs gently, gradually getting rougher and sucking red marks. 

A moan of desperation left her when his tongue delved to taste the sweet wetness that had gathered. His mouth nuzzled in, his eyes closing as he teased her clit, his tongue nudging over the hood to encourage her to swell. 

“Klaus..” She whimpered, her thighs already shaky. He hummed softly, the vibrations making her squeal and tug on his hair. “I can’t-” She gasped but Klaus only grinned into her as he circled her puffy little bud.

“You’re such a good girl, should’ve done this last time. Just got too desperate to feel you on me.” he mumbled as he lifted his hand to tease her entrance with his forefinger. A loud moan left her when he curled it inside her and he groaned, his other hand going down to slide beneath his pants and soothe himself. 

“Ah…” She cried as he grunted into her clit, his lips still sucking her in as he stroked himself teasingly. 

Klaus slipped his tongue down to taste as she fell apart, her cum like heaven in his mouth as he squeezed himself. 

His body shifted up, mouth leaving a litter of wet marks up her legs as he knelt between them. “So beautiful.” He mumbled, looking down at how her skin glistened as she panted. “I’m gonna take you slower this time, okay?” He nodded to himself, crawling over her.

“W-wait…” She whispered, her skin still flushed and her features anxious.

He looked down at her, a look of understanding in his gaze as he leant down to kiss her cheek. 

“It’s okay.” He assured quietly, nuzzling into her jaw. After a moment of listening to her breathing and resting his head down against hers, he felt her nod against him.

“I’m ready now.” She uttered and he nodded back before kissing her lips. 

Her body was a little tense as he pushed into her, slowly edging himself in. Klaus needed to keep reminding himself that he needed to take his time for her.

His hips rolled so steadily, giving her time once he rested inside her. 

“Are you comfortable, love?” He asked and she nodded, her hands shaky as she reached up to hold onto his back. Her hands lay flat against his shoulder blades, feeling the strength he possessed as they flexed beneath her touch. “I’m gonna move now” He whispered, his brows furrowing as her nails pressed into his skin. Her body fluttered around as he drew his hips back and then forward again. 

The whimper that left her made him groan, his hands slid to her hips, trying to pull her closer so he could get as deep into her as possible. “You feel so good.” He mumbled, “You felt good last time, I should have told you. Should’ve worshipped you-” 

His words were abruptly cut off as he moaned.

Klaus’s head fell down as her whines filled the room whilst her hips rutted up against his. “I need” She whimpered and he grunted softly.

“I know, sweetheart. Bloody hell you’re desperate.” He groaned faintly and bucked into her. His mouth left a stretch of wetness across her skin, encouraging a pattern of goosebumps whilst her body twitched and tightened with his. 

The faint thump of the music merged with the knock of his bed frame against the wall.

Her sounds stroked something inside him, drove him.

Klaus’s head went back, a pant leaving him as he clung to her. 

His head nuzzled down against the side of her neck when she clamped down around his cock, effectively bringing him over the edge with her and milking him with every last pump of his hips. 

The warmth of her skin stuck to his as she held onto him, he could feel her sweet face damp with tears as he tilted to kiss her forehead. “I’ve got you, love.” He murmured quietly against her hair. “Gonna look after you” He mumbled as he gently pulled out of her and carried her over to his bathroom, flicking his shower on. He kept her in his arms, he could feel her tense as if she thought he might drop her but he knew well enough how strong he was.

Her head rested against the side of his, soft sounds leaving her as his hands cleaned her gently. “Such a good girl.” He mumbled with a small smile. “Relax against me.” 

Y/N obeyed with ease, her body exhausted and her heart craving.

The softness he used on her as he dried her off and changed her back into clothes, laid her out in clean blankets and held her in his lap.

“Gonna be here when you wake up okay?” He whispered, cupping her cheek. “Goodnight my love.”

From that day things were different.

Klaus would throw his arm over her shoulders in the hall, his buddies knew not to go shoving her unless they wanted at least one black eye and Y/N felt a whole lot more confident in being herself. She felt safe knowing Klaus was there and that he chose to be there. That he could be gentle even if he sometimes seemed a little rough around the edges.

[100vern]

how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh

FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.

pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending. smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be? wordcount: 22k credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you. note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you. this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.

The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.

And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.

(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.

And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own—and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.

Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.

Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.

He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.

“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”

“Tragic,” you deadpan.

“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”

Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”

“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”

From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.

He swallows hard.

“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”

Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”

“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”

Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.

No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.

“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”

“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.

Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—

“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”

Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?

“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”

“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”

Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.

Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.

He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.

All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.

“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.

“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”

You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.

“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”

“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”

“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”

Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”

He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.

“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”

Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.

Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.

“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”

“Um—”

“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”

Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.

“Actually…”

Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.

Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.

Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Jun doesn’t know what time it is.

It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.

He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.

But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.

At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.

Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

There is a man in his apartment.

There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”

The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”

Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.

He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”

“Ew, no.”

“What are you, then?”

The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”

“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”

“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”

“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”

The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”

“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”

“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”

“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”

Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”

Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—

“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”

Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”

“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”

“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”

Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”

“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”

Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.

He’s asleep within seconds.

It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.

“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”

Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.

“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”

Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”

Famous last words.

Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.

“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”

Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.

“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”

“They?”

Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”

Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”

“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”

Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”

“Wasn’t I—”

“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”

“But I spilled seed.”

The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”

Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”

Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”

“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”

“What did she look like?”

Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”

“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”

“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”

Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”

“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”

Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”

“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”

“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”

Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”

The specifics are thus:

Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)

Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.

Which, speaking of retirement—

In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)

They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.

(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”

Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”

“I barely passed law school!” he protested.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.

Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.

Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.

He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.

Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction (Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)

He swears.

The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.

Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”

“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”

Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”

The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”

And then he’s gone.

Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:

General facial appearance

Eye and/or hair color

Penis, breast, and/or butt size

Height and/or weight

Others TBD

Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.

“Hoshi!”

At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”

Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”

Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”

“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”

Jun’s face flushes hot and red.

“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”

Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”

“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”

Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—

“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.

Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”

He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”

Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.

With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.

Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”

Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”

“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”

There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.

True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”

Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”

Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”

“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”

Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.

…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.

He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.

You look completely different.

Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.

Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.

“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”

“Oh. What happened?”

You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”

“I’m assuming he got arrested?”

“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”

Right.

Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.

You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.

“I’m not Joshua.”

Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”

“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”

He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”

Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.

“Is it poison?”

You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”

Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.

Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.

That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?

“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”

You’re gone before the fear can even set in.

Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.

He doesn’t—

He can’t—

No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.

“Did you change?”

Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.

“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”

Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.

Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”

Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”

Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.

After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.

He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.

Another one.

Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.

So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.

For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.

But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all… strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.

Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.

Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”

Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”

Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.

Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.

“She said something interesting to me—”

“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”

Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”

The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.

And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.

Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”

Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.

When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?

Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.

A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.

None of it takes away the ache in his chest.

None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.

He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.

There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.

He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.

Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.

Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.

Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”

Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”

“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.

A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.

He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”

There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.

Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.

“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”

You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”

He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”

“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”

He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.

No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.

Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.

He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”

You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”

“Do you feel like you were?”

You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.

“What the he—”

It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”

The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”

“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”

He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”

“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”

“Predestination.”

“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”

“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”

Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.

And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.

Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.

He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.

Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.

“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”

What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.

How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.

Which, now that he’s thinking about it—

Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.

“That’s not—”

“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”

He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.

“Are you an idiot?”

Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”

It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.

“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”

“No.”

He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”

“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”

A pause. Another beat of silence.

“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”

A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.

A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.

“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”

“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.

“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”

Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”

You blink. “I am literally the devil.”

“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”

“Out with it,” you repeat.

“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”

“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”

“Try me.”

You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”

“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”

“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”

“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”

Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”

“Maybe you should write it.”

What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.

How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.

But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”

“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”

“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”

Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.

He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.

As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.

You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”

It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.

Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.

All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.

Immediate searing heat.

Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.

But you’ve got plans of your own.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.

And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.

Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—

Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.

But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.

He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?

“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”

He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.

He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.

“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.

He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.

You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.

Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.

So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.

Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.

He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.

You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.

…Like something he’d hear in church.

No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.

Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.

Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.

He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.

But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.

“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.

He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.

Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.

“Jun, I’m gonna—”

Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.

Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.

He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” comes your easy answer.

Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.

He feels the loss immediately.

Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.

But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.

If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.

He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.

It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.

Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.

“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”

(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”

“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.

Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.

He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.

A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—

He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.

All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.

Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.

He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.

Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.

“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Jun glares. “Why are you—”

“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”

Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”

Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.

“Did you like the show?”

“Wen Junhui—”

“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”

The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.

“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”

Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”

“No.”

“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”

“I said no.”

“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”

Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.

All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.

He says as much.

“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”

“You don’t like my shirts?”

“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”

Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.

Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.

He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.

He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.

“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”

Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.

Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”

That last bit comes out more like a demand.

Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:

Board Room 17 Pearly Gates Wing

“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”

Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.

Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.

Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.

From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.

The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.

Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)

You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.

Something you have to be, he figures.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”

Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”

“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”

“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.

“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”

Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”

Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”

“HR? None of you are human.”

“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”

You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.

“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”

“Yes.”

He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”

Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”

“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.

“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.

Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”

“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”

“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.

Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.

All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.

He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”

Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.

“I—well, you see—”

“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”

“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”

“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”

Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“Per-permits…?”

Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”

There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.

“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”

“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.

Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.

“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”

Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.

“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”

You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.

And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”

Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”

Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”

Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”

Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”

“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”

Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”

Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”

“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”

Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.

The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”

At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.

Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”

Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.

“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”

The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.

It evens the playing field—

“Which was the original intention, was it not?”

More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.

“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”

(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)

After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”

You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.

(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)

Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”

“It is,” Mingyu confirms.

“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”

Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”

Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”

No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.

“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.

Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”

Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.

After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.

Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.

“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”

“Oh.”

Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.

Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”

“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”

“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.

Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.

Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.

“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.

“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”

“If he’s not, I am.”

A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.

Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”

Then you’re gone.

In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.

He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[kumkaniudaku]

The Lady in Pink

Summary: Terry realizes his feelings run deeper than he though.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 2,006

Warnings: None

Take a seat in pairs. Put away your books and notes. Prepare for a game of Pop Quiz. 

Instructions rattled off in Mr. Turner’s patented Kentucky drawl sounded more like an auctioneer’s ramblings than anything remotely coherent. Still, Terry settled into a stool behind the high black countertops in the back of their 5th period forensic’s lab. 

If Terry were honest, he hadn’t cracked open his textbook in days despite a looming chapter test at the end of the week. He’d get to it eventually. Between trying to impress scouts every Friday, another year of book club, and college prep, finding the time to study fingerprinting was low on the priority list. If not for Patrice, he’d be hovering around a measly D+ instead of his modest B-. She kept him steady, especially in impromptu group quizzes. 

Sliding into the seat beside Terry, Patrice pushed a perfectly curled tendril behind her ear and adjusted her glasses, unaware of the chain reaction she’d set off. Ear perked like a dog hearing its name roll from the lips of its owner. Eyes scanned her from head to toe, taking in every detail from her gold hoop earrings, to her pink strawberry printed cardigan and skin tight jeans. Terry watched her in a haze of teenaged longing and romantic feelings starting to change his brain chemistry in ways he hadn’t prepared for. The more time they spent rubbing shoulders during weekend hang outs and talking about the future, the more some unidentifiable emotion blossomed in his heart. 

His mother said he liked Patrice a few weeks back. “Close,” he thought to himself though he vehemently denied it to maintain his privacy. Whatever this new thing was extended far past surface level ‘like’. He ‘liked’ Theresa Allen sophomore year. She was a cool girl, but she didn’t make him happy the way a Saturday at the mall with Patrice made him happy. 

He ‘liked’ golfing with his dad on occasion. Though the sport was too slow for his taste, smelling fresh cut grass in the breeze and drinking bland sweet tea along side the man he looked up to most was always fun. 

He ‘liked’ a slice of apple pie sometimes. It wasn’t his favorite, but he could go for a piece if the mood hit him. 

Liking Patrice was long gone. This new thing, complete with uncontrollable thoughts and a newfound desire to know how her lip gloss tasted on his lips, was something else entirely.

“I like your sweater,” he complimented before she could greet him. “It’s nice. Where’d you get it?” 

Patrice giggled. “Thanks, TJ. My auntie made it for me. She’ll be your biggest fan when I tell her what you said.” Her attention flittering to chatter on the other side of the room gave Terry another opportunity fox his daily fix of silent admiration. Yeah, this wasn’t like. This something all consuming and entirely overwhelming. 

When she’d had her fill of observing her surrounding, Patrice looked back at Terry to speak.

“You ever get to chapter five,” she asked, looking over at her best friend. Ogling turned into a black stare and a twinge of guilt forcing him to look away from her expectant gaze. She kissed her teeth. “TJ…” 

“I know, I know,” Terry groaned. “I’ll be caught up when we study Wednesday, I promise. You want me to bring your favorite?” White chocolate covered pretzels always did the trick. Minor disagreements, his own absentmindness, and everything in between could be cured with her snack of choice. He watched her break into a slow smile and nod. “Yeah, I thought so. You got it. Hand to God.”

“You better. Especially after I carry us through this quiz.” 

“Oh you mean like how I carried us through the calc assignment last week?” A friendly nudge to Terry’s shoulder from Patrice pushed them both over the edge into a pit of giggles. 

Like two parts of a whole, Terry and Patrice made up the slack where the other lacked. Number crunching and complex math theory was like child’s play to Terry. He enjoyed the grueling process of combining letters and numbers to come to a finite conclusion. As he put it one evening over the phone, math came with logical conclusions. Even if you had ten ways to get to it, there was only one right answer. Patrice let him drone on and on most nights until he provided the solution for her to work her way out of a maze of erased possibilities into whatever would get her the coveted check mark and passing grade she was chasing. 

Patrice took over the words and menial task of remembering facts. If Terry needed to know a summary of To Kill A Mockingbird’s core themes or what exactly John Steinbeck was trying to get across in Of Mice and Men, he knew he could ask one question to send Patrice off into a winding tangent. Her ability to simplify colorful language was one of his favorite things. His second, was watching her adjust the satin ribbon in her ponytail before one of Mr. Turner’s famous pop quizzes. 

As she gave the pink bow a firm tug, Mr. Turner passed around buzzers for each group. “The rules are simple folks. One spokesperson for the group. You get five seconds to answer after buzzing in. No answer loses points. First group to 25 gets their lowest grade bumped up by 15 points. Any questions pupils?” 

“Can Patrice and Terry split up this time? I really need these points.” 

Mr. Turner shook his head as his finger wagged in the air. “No easy wins in this class! Earn it!” 

Low chuckles rumbled throughout the classroom at the tandem’s expense, earning a quiet eye roll from Patrice. Three school years in and she still hadn’t made much progress with some classmates through no fault of her own. 

Terry shot daggers across the room to the culprit before leaning over to offer comfort. “Forget her. She could get as many points as she wants and still wouldn’t pass.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Patrice shrugged. “I don’t lose. Only answer if you’re sure.” 

A smile crept across Terry’s face while he watched Patrice settle into her seat, cracking her knuckles before delicate fingers settled on the big red button between them. Competitive Patrice was one of his favorite version of his best friend. Typically, she didn’t involve herself with the taunting, name calling, and brute force of competition. She thought football and boxing were barbaric despite Terry convincing her to spend more time with his two hobbies. Physical battles were never her thing. But mental warefare? She loved demoralizing her opponents with with wit, finding great pleasure in brain games regardless of reward. Diamond Presscott had unfortunately put herself into Patrice’s sniping scope. Doomed. The girl was doomed. 

Question one. Mr. Turner shuffled through notecards and settled on the first opportunity for five points. “What is the purpose of cranial features?” 

“They allow the skull to grow!” Their shared buzzer could barely light the blinker on their station before Patrice was off to the races with an answer. 

“Correct! Way to be quick.” 

Terry offered his knuckles for Patrice to pound, receiving a light push away so she could focus. “When we win,” she muttered without looking in his direction. 

“My bad, champ. Go ahead.” He chuckled.

Back and forth she and Mr. Turner went as if they were the only two people in existence. Terry observed in awe, mouth slightly ajar at the beauty sitting beside him. 

“The size of a shotgun is described by?” 

“Gauge.” 

“Handwriting’s individuality is classified as?” 

“Class evidence.”

“What are the three types of forgery?” 

“Blind, simulated, and traced!” 

Each question met with a correct answer and beaming smile from Mr. Turner earned assorted groans from students well aware that the points they needed were firmly snatched from their grasps before they truly had a chance. 

Patrice didn’t care. Call it an unfair advantage or being a teacher’s pet – it mattered not to a young girl intent on reaching the highest academic heights possible. She’d do it all again the next day and the one after for the thrill of seeing smug smiles turned into tight frown. 

Terry was more than happy to be on the other side. Being in her orbit was gift from God himself and, as he found himself fully engrossed in every soft bounce of her ponytail and glint of light reflecting off shiny, full lips, he couldn’t help but to send a quick thank you to the man upstairs. 

He liked Patrice when he met her. Every moment spent side by side in book club meetings and study hall sessions left him giddy once he returned home. He liked her smile and her sense of humor. He like the deep dimple in her right cheek. He liked how she wore her hair, the vanilla body mist she wore, how she tapped her pencil when she was thinking, and her way of infusing smart sarcasm in every conversation. 

He  liked her yesterday and two weeks before. He liked her when he woke up that morning and took extra time moisturizing his hair and patting careful sprays of his father’s expensive cologne on his neck. He liked her when they passed each other in the hallway and made silly faces en route to separate classes for first block. He even liked her when he sat down in Mr. Turner’s 5th period forensics class, waiting for her to join his side. 

So what was this new phenoment? 

What was this tightening in his lungs and quickening of his heart? Why did he feel so safe and seen without her ever acknowledging his presence in her pursuit of total domination? Was the absence of everyone but her a sign of something deeper or the result of sitting too close to the TV like his mother had warned about all those years? 

As big feelings overtook a starry-eyed young man discovering new information during his favorite science course to date, Patrice quietly pumped her fist and looked to him with a wide smile that rivaled the sun. “Light work,” she boasted while looking for his approval. “Isn’t that what you say during your sports ball thing or did I get it wrong?” 

“That was right,” he chuckled as nonchalantly as he could before raising his hand for a high five. “Good job, Treece. I really like being on your team.” 

Screwing her face, Patrice placed the back of her hand on his cheek. “Terry being nice before lunch? You must be sick.” Her knuckles searched for heat on his face, softly lulling his eyes closed for a moment to revel in her attention. “You ain’t warm. Maybe you finally realizing who’s really in charge over here.” 

Her snickering sounded like a symphony in the ears of a young boy slowly wading into grown man feelings. Terry smiled back at Patrice, totally ignoring lab instructions rattled off and children shuffled pages and prepared for 40 minutes of instruction. 

Dark pupils dilated inside green irises. The morning’s previous problems floated away into the ether to make way for unexplained happiness. Stress slid from newly broad shoulders, down his back, and out of the door to know him no longer. His cheeks flushed while the tips of his ears turned a new shade of red. Sweaty palms nearly left handprints on his jeans. Bright red strawberries knitted onto a pretty pink sweater filled gave way to perfectly smooth brown skin as Terry examined Patrice from head to toe once more. His heartbeat quickened to the beat of a thousand flutters in his belly at the sight of her small frown while she sat deep in thought. A beauty like no other.

This wasn’t like, or infatuation, or some thing called lust that his grandma often blamed for the sins of man. Something stronger had taken up residence in his heart. 

For the first time in his young life, he could call love by its name. Patrice.

—————-

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[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

My last alternate prompt for Fluffebruary is: Anniversary! This is set around July 2028, so about a little over a year after the Baby Fever prompt. It's time to give these boys a baby, and we're going to pretend this all lines up with California's regulations. You can read this on AO3 over here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

There were disagreements about what counted as an anniversary for them. Was it their first kiss? Their first date? Maddie and Chim’s wedding? The day they got back together?

Buck liked to joke that the reason they got married so fast was to settle the argument once and for all and give them a single definite date to celebrate.

“That's why?” Bobby asks without looking up from the baseboard he's painting around.

“Yep. Only reason,” Tommy says, pouring more paint into the pan next to Buck's elbow. He drops a kiss on his hair before he disappears out of the room to hunt down the new pack of paintbrushes he swore he'd bought.

“Also taxes,” Buck adds, standing so he can stretch out his back and legs. He's been folded up on the floor while he paints under the window, but there's not a drop of paint anywhere but the wall. “Why'd you marry Athena?”

“Because I couldn't live without her.”

Buck smiles. “Yeah, that, too.”

He surveys the room, formerly the office. It's going to be a nursery for their baby, because the second Bobby had come upstairs with a safe surrender baby in his arms, he'd known. He'd held him and looked into his tiny little face, and he'd known in his heart that he was holding their son for the first time.

He'd called Tommy and asked him to come to the station on his break, and they'd sat on one of the banks and held him and soothed him and fed him and burped him and changed him and talked quietly and cried and fretted over logistics and realized the state’s regulations around safe surrender babies was against them in this case.

“We're not certified to foster.”

And like an angel, Hen poked her head in and pointed out that she was and had already spent forty minutes on the phone with her wife. She also sat down and explained how adopting from foster care worked. By the end of her explanation, the three of them were in tears and sitting on a bunk together and watching every little thing Robbie did. Once he was medically cleared, she and Karen took over legal custody as emergency fosters until the adoption could go through, and they're only a few weeks away from everything being finalized. In the meantime, Buck and Tommy have put in parental leave requests, started the process of filing for FMLA to cover them beyond what LAFD pays for, and they’ve been able to spend as much time with Robbie as possible. Except for today, because today involves a lot of paint and nailing things and putting together furniture and only FaceTiming Hen twice to see him.

“Got ‘em!” Tommy calls from down the hall. When he enters the room, he's got a fistful of paintbrushes so they can deal with the trim and baseboards.

“After this, I'll head home,” Bobby says, dipping the brush in one of the smaller cans of paint. “Give you two some time alone.”

Buck smiles and takes the can when Bobby offers it. “Thanks for helping.”

“Well, it's my first grandkid,” Bobby points out, squeezing the back of Buck’s neck and giving him a shiny-eyed smile.

“Yeah,” Buck agrees happily, reaching up to hook his hand over Bobby's elbow and giving it a squeeze before they return to their respective tasks.

It had taken them sitting Bobby down to talk about the baby's name for Bobby to really understand.

“Italian families normally name the firstborn son after the paternal grandfather. I don't want him to be named after my father, who wasn't even Italian, and Evan—well.”

“Robert. Robert Gianni. Gianni was his Nonno’s name, he's kind of the closest thing Tommy ever had to a real dad. And you're the closest I'll ever get. I-is that okay?”

Bobby had pushed away from the table, come around, and yanked Buck into a hug. All he'd been able to do was nod. After that, he'd stopped rolling his eyes whenever anyone would call him “Grampa Bobby.” Instead, he's taken to teasing Athena with progressively sillier sounding options for her until she had threatened to cuff him to her bumper after they were all done with lunch. She'd told Buck and Tommy to just have her go by “Gramma” and hit them with a stunner of a smile when she said it.

“I like this color,” Bobby comments as he swipes paint across the door trim. The room is a pale green, and Buck had agonized over it for days until Tommy had swooped in and pointed to the one Buck liked more anyway.

“It's supposed to be calming,” Buck says, and Bobby snorts. “Yeah, that's what Tommy said.”

“Whatever helps,” Bobby says dryly.

When the room is done being painted, Bobby heads out with the promise to come back to help hang shelves and artwork the next day.

“Get some sleep, boys!” Bobby calls over his shoulder as he descends their porch steps. “You'll need it.”

Tommy barks out a laugh. “Like I haven't been getting woken up out of a dead sleep by alarms for almost twenty years.”

“Yeah, we've been practicing for this,” Buck agrees.

“Whatever you say,” Bobby says, opening the front gate.

They go back inside, and Buck stands in the middle of the nursery to survey the space, satisfied that they won't need another coat of paint. As he contemplates what color rug they should get, he hears a board creak behind him. Two strong arms snake around his waist and a chin rests on his shoulder, and Buck relaxes into the familiar embrace.

“Want to order something?” Tommy asks. “I don't know if I'm up for cooking.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Buck replies, leaning back against him. “You know, this isn't how I pictured our second wedding anniversary going.”

“Mm, me either. But this is perfect.” Tommy kisses the side of his neck. “What's the traditional second year gift?”

Buck tilts his head and lets his eyes flutter shut as Tommy's lips keep pressing against his skin. “Cotton,” he sighs.

Tommy chuckles and nuzzles his neck, sending pleasant tingles along Buck’s spine. “Hey, we got plenty of that. Crib sheets, onesies, burp cloths, bibs—I think we nailed it.”

Buck turns in his arms and wraps his own around Tommy's neck, smiling at his husband’s beautiful face. “You're totally right.”

“Am I?” Tommy teases, ducking in to kiss his neck and eliciting a laugh out of Buck when his stubble tickles him. “Then I guess I can return your gift—”

“No!” Buck howls, laughing harder when Tommy’s arms squeeze him tighter as he tries to half-heartedly struggle away.

“Okay, okay.” Tommy concedes, rocking them gently side-to-side. “You'll get your gift.”

Buck slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats to grope his ass. “Is it in cotton?”

Tommy growls against his shoulder and lifts Buck, which he never gets sick of. He lets out an undignified squeak as he wraps his legs around his husband.

“Okay, I got you two gifts,” Tommy admits, kissing him as he walks them out of the room. “Which one do you want first?”

“The one I get to unwrap right now,” Buck murmurs, grinding against his belly. “Especially since this will be a lot harder to do in just a couple weeks.”

Tommy grins and nuzzles his nose against the underside of Buck’s jaw. “Yeah? Big plans?”

“Thought I might give fatherhood a try,” Buck says as Tommy draws his face back to maneuver them through the hall. “You in?”

“With you? Absolutely,” Tommy replies, his grin softening around the edges. “Completely and forever.”

Buck can't hold back his giddy grin, and he hugs Tommy tightly as he's carried across the threshold to their room.

[bucksaiga]

Love Punch

@bucktommyfluffebruary day 27: affectionate bantering/teasing

Mornings were weird.

Buck and Tommy had just moved in together. Sure, they've spent nights sleeping in the same bed, but now...

Mornings were weird.

It started Saturday morning. Buck woke up after Tommy and was greeted with a cup of coffee, a kiss and...a nickname?

"Morning, slugger." Tommy would say with a wink and a gentle back rub as he'd leave the kitchen, softly chuckling to himself.

Okay...whatever.

Sunday morning was the same. Coffee, kiss...nickname

"Good morning, Creed." Tommy would laugh and hand buck some breakfast.

Buck just laughed it off. They loved to tease each other.

Monday morning, it happened again. Coffee, breakfast, kiss...

"Hey, morning, Right Jab." Tommy's smile was wide, folding those lovely crinkles by his eyes.

Which was cute but...what the hell...

"He-hey, Tommy...why have you been calling me by all these random nicknames for the past few days?"

"Oh, you've been hitting me in your sleep." Tommy responded passively, waving a hand. "Pretty hard too. You've got a hell of a hook."

Buck's heart plummeted. For the past few days he's been punching his loving boyfriend in his sleep and he'd still get up each morning and make him coffee and breakfast like nothing had ever happened?

"Tommy I-I am so so sorry." Buck profusely apologized.

Tommy shook his head. "You don't need to apologize, Evan. You were asleep. The worst it did was wake me up. That's why breakfast is always ready."

"But I-I've been...depriving you of sleep and...I hit you!"

"In your sleep." Tommy emphasized, placing a hand on top of Buck's. "Evan, it's fine. I know you've had a lot of crazy calls and you've been restless. It's not a big deal."

To Buck, it was a big deal.

That night, Buck swaddled himself in a blanket.

When Tommy joined him in the bedroom, he broke out into a fit of laughter. "You...you look like a burrito!" He said through his laughter.

Buck pouted. "I don't want to hit you again."

"We can't cuddle if you're a burrito."

"I'll turn this way and you can be the big spoon." Buck suggested, rolling over.

Tommy sighed and joined Buck in the bed, holding his swaddled boyfriend. Or at least trying to.

"Evan, this is silly. Just unwrap yourself."

"Not happening."

"I'll start calling you buckrrito if you don't."

"That's better than Mike Tyson. Wh-what if I bite your ear off next?"

"If you bite me, we'll end up doing a lot more than cuddling."

"Stop!" Buck laughed, wriggling around under his blanket.

"How about...you unwrap yourself, and I'll hold you real tight."

"Hmm..." Buck hummed. "Then we can be a burrito together."

"A mega burrito."Tommy agreed.

"But! I-if I hit you, you have to promise you'll wake me up."

"No promises." Tommy began to unwrap Buck and pulled him into his arms.

Buck stayed completely still, safe and comfortable in Tommy's arms.

[cosmowgyral]

"Lover's Contract: A night of immoral deeds"

▪︎ Nica Schwartz

This is a fan translation, not 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. Expect grammatical inconsistencies.

Since Nica is not yet out in the EN server, there might be terms that will turn out different than what I have used here when he is finally released. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

A big thank you to Ciele (@.judesmoonbeauty) for providing me with the video of the epilogue. ♡

Epilogue

Kate: Ni-Nica, stop.

He licks the red bite marks repeatedly, proving I’m his.

He leaves peckish kisses down my neck again and again.

Even though it was just a little stimulation, after it was repeated multiple times, I started to feel hot and my entire body began to shake.

He gave me an exaggerated blow, and laughed a little as he saw me writhe.

Nica: What? Are you feeling it?

Kate: That’s not it.

Nica: Then why are you staring at me with such a flushed face?

He strokes my cheeks with the back of his fingers, twirling the ends of my hair and playing with them.

Nica: If it feels that good, I want you to do it too.

Kate: Huh, ah!

A hand reaches under my armpit and I am lowered from the railing. Nica then switches our positions.

Nica: Come now, put it on me too.

I hesitated when Nica pointed to his neck——

Nica: The Crown—

Kate: I-I’ll do it! It’s okay to do it, right?

Feeling threatened, I hastily placed my lips on his neck.

Despite its slender appearance, his neck is well-defined, with muscles that are normally invisible, now appearing and disappearing.

The aroma of ylang-ylang wafts from his Adam’s apple, which rises and falls with each breath, almost mesmerising me, but—.

Kate: Mmph, uh

Pursing my lips, I sucked again and again changing my angle, but the red mark never appeared.

Kate: Mm?

(I’m not good at it at all.)

As I struggled, I heard a voice coming from above my head and looked up.

Then I saw him with his eyebrows lowered and a happy smile on his face.

Nica: You’re no good at all, Robin.

He said the words while wiping away tears from too much laughter.

I couldn’t respond as my eyes were drawn to him.

Nica: Giving up?

Kate: Huh, oh, I’m still going.

I hurriedly tried to make a mark, but the colour was faint and it didn’t turn out as I had expected.

He then touched the side of my neck that didn’t have love bites.

Nica: Let me show you how it works.

Kate: Mmm

Red marks form on my neck once more.

Neck, collarbone, nape..

The slight pain that accompanies the sound of lips causes the red marks to become more noticeable.

Kate: Ni-ca

(What should I do? I know I’m not supposed to like it.)

As the number of bites increases, I can feel my excitement rising.

He finally parted his lips and licked them with his tongue.

Nica: See, now do it like this.

He puts his hand around the back of my head and presses my face into the crook of his neck.

I tried to imitate him but failed again.

(If this goes on….)

I bared my teeth and bit into his beautiful neck.

However, it seems that I bit harder than I intended.

Nica: Nngh!

Kate: I’m so sorry! Did that hurt?

Startled by the bite, Nica put his hand on the bitten spot with a shocked look on his face.

He touched the area where the bumps are clearly visible with his fingertips.

He then grinned and stroked the love bites on my neck—.

Nica: Mm, matching.

My heart was pounding loudly.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ㅤ𔘓 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Kate: Excuse me.

A few days later, Nica called me to the reception room.

Nica: Here you are. I’ve been waiting for you, Robin.

Kate: You needed me for something...w-whoaa!

I couldn't contain my amazement when I saw the vibrant boxes of sweets on the table.

Kate: What is all this?

Nica: Do you remember the husband from when we infiltrated the lover’s club?

Kate: Yes.

Nica: The man actually owns a sweet manufacturing company. So I received a lot of sweets as a thank you.

Nica: I couldn’t have these all by myself, so I want you to take some too.

Kate: Is that okay?

Nica: Consider it a reward for going on the mission with me.

Stacks of biscuit tins and glittery chocolates.

Cute looking candies and sweet-smelling caramel.

(Which one should I choose…?!)

Choosing one is fun, so I started selecting and analysing each one.

Nica: If you’re that interested, you can have them all.

After hearing Nica, I shook my head sternly.

Kate: No, I can’t. If I eat them all, I’ll get fat.

Nica: You’re slim enough for me to lift you up easily.

Kate: That’s….

Suddenly remembering what happened a few days back, I stopped examining the sweets and looked at him.

Kate: Oh…

As he was sitting on the sofa and resting his head on the backrest, I could see the teeth mark on his neck and I couldn’t help but let out a cry.

Then, noticing my gaze, Nica opened the collar of his shirt to show it off.

Nica: This has hardly faded.

Nica: That goes for you too, right, Robin?

I had unconsciously placed my hand on the spot where the love bites were on my neck, but I quickly removed it.

Nica: There’s no point in doing that. They’re clearly visible once you look up.

Feeling embarrassed, I tried to look away, but he pulled me by the arm and brought his lips close to my neck.

Nica: Hey, Kate.

Nica: Should I renew our contract?

It seems I still can’t escape from him.

[Premium End] [Masterlist]

➽──────────────❥

Note: The hickeys were referred to as "red flowers blooming" here, but it sounded plain weird, so I changed them all to red marks.

[tinylilacbun]

hii if your requests are open could you please do one with daddy!rafe calming down little!reader after she has a nasty fight with her father? like her father always acts disappointed in her and she thinks rafe might feel the same thank you so much 💕💕

What on earth did you do to deserve being treated like this? You've always been good at school, never acted out, not once have you touched any drugs or got into fights.

So why, why is your father still treating you like a disappointment? You can never seem to do something right in his eyes and it sits heavy on your heart, always just trying to get his approval even though he treats you the way he does.

Today's meet up and having some dinner at a restaurant had ended like every other, in a fight. He tried yet again to get you to take over the family business, which was never your dream to begin with.

When you said that out loud he started spewing insults at how you should start to get your life under control instead of living out of your boyfriends wallet.

Before he could continue his rant you simply stood up and stormed out of the restaurant, trying to push back the tears to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you so distraught.

You promised to call Rafe after your dinner, so he could come and pick you up, but you couldn't think of that right now and continue walking all the way back to his house, your arms wrapped around yourself as you replay the conversation with your father in your head over and over.

Maybe he's right. No, he's in the wrong. Why should you stress over something as taking over a business you never wanted in the first place? Just because your father built it doesn't mean you're forced to manage it one day.

But you do live on Rafe's costs. He pays everything for you, food, clothes, any toys your little self desires, your spa appointments, and he does it with a smile on his face because you're his girl that deserves anything you could want.

What if Rafe starts thinking like your father? That you're just a burden for him and should find a job. You could never live with it if he thinks too that you're a disappointment.

Soon you're unlocking the front door to the condo, closing it behind you with a long exhale, taking off your shoes and shrugging off your jacket.

"Baby? That you? I thought I was supposed to pick you up." Rafe questions, coming down the staircase, his eyes fixated on his phone as he makes his way over to you.

When you didn't answer he pockets the device, lifting his head and furrows his brows at the look on your face. "Hey, you okay?"

At that question you instantly start to tear up, your vision blurring and before you can start talking you feel him pulling you into his arms.

You grab the back of his shirt in your fists tightly, sobbing into his chest as all the anger and sadness pours out.

Rafe doesn't say anything, simply holding you and letting you get everything out, swaying you both a little until you calm down again.

"Your dad?" He asks and you nod against him, your grip getting firmer on him. "Shh, it's okay, I got you."

In one swift movement he lifts you up, carrying you upstairs to your shared bedroom, carefully sitting down with you comfortably on his lap.

He should have gone with you. He knows how your dad is, hell he knows exactly how you feel given how his relationship with his father was. It always infuriates him how someone can treat a person as wonderful as you this bad.

"You wanna tell daddy what happened?" He asks softly, reaching for your stuffed bunny that's neatly placed on your pillow to place it in your arms.

You shake your head, not wanting to talk at all at the moment, even less about your father. You're in the arms of your favorite person and that's all you need in this moment.

"That's fine." He assures you, lifting his hand to wipe the remaining tears from your cheek with his thumb, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. "Just know that I'm really proud of you, yea? I always am, and always will be."

Your body heats up at his praise, feeling safe and appreciated, something you wish you would feel from your father.

Screw him. As long as you have Rafe, who never fails to reassure you that he loves you and will take care of everything for you, you'll be okay.

"I luv you, daddy..." You mumble, nuzzling your face into his neck to inhale his scent, sighing out in relief.

"I love you too, bunny. So much." He whispers, resting his cheek on top of your hair as he adjusts his hold on you.

[ffleurist]

🕸️ 029 . a delicate balance

synopsis you confront him about his hidden identity as spider-man, leading to a vulnerable moment where he admits his struggle with love. as the emotional connection deepens, a strange unease fills the room when the nurse lingers with an unsettling gaze. wc 1667

the hospital room hums quietly under the dim lights. kaiser leans against the pillows, mask discarded, revealing the exhaustion etched into his face. you should leave, visiting hours ended long ago but you can't. not when his usual cockiness has given way to something softer.

"you should go home," he murmurs, but his hand finds yours. his grip is weak, but the warmth sends a flutter through your chest.

"not a chance," you say softly, brushing a strand of blonde hair from his face. "you'll start climbing walls again the second i’m gone."

he huffs a weak laugh. "tempting."

for once, he doesn't fight your care. when you adjust the bandages, he just watches you, quiet and unguarded. it's that silence that pulls something raw from him.

"you really stayed," he says after a pause, voice softer. "even after everything."

"of course i did," you reply. "what, you thought i'd leave you to flirt with the nurses?"

a ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. "jealous?"

"don't push your luck, kaiser."

“mihya.” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“what?” you ask, not sure if you heard him right.

“earlier... you called me that. please, say it again.”

you pause, your heart suddenly racing at the vulnerability in his voice. “mihya,” you repeat softly, unsure of what’s happening but feeling an unexpected pull.

his gaze softens, and for a moment, it feels like the world around you fades. he looks at you, eyes wide with something raw and unspoken, as if he’s just let down a wall he’s been holding up for so long. “nobody has given me a nickname before.”

“well then mihya, let me be the first.”

his smile fades, and something more serious lingers in his gaze. "i'm not used to this. someone staying."

your heart aches at his honesty. without thinking, your fingers curl tighter around his. "well, you better get used to it. i'm not going anywhere."

his eyes soften in a way that makes it hard to breathe. "good," he murmurs, head tilting slightly toward you. "because if you left, i'd probably do something reckless."

"like what?"

"like this."

before you can respond, he leans in, brushing his lips softly against yours. the kiss is light and hesitant, like he's afraid to break whatever fragile thing has settled between you but when you don't pull away, his hand moves to the back of your neck, deepening it just enough to make your heart stutter.

"you're a terrible influence, spider-man."  you whisper, your forehead resting against his and just for a moment, the danger outside the hospital walls feels a little farther away.

“but how did you know? what gave it away?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“your tattoos, mostly,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady. “and your injuries. you weren’t as careful as you thought. i’ve been thinking about it a lot, and everything started to fall into place. it all makes sense now.”

he looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. then, he exhales slowly, the weight of the silence settling between you. “you always were sharper than i gave you credit for,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before meeting your eyes again, the tension in the air thickening.

“i didn’t want you to know,” he admits, his voice quieter now, raw with unspoken fears. “i didn’t want to drag you into this mess.”

you stood away, your voice soft but resolute. “i’m already in it, whether you like it or not.”

he looks back at you, a mix of uncertainty, something softer, yet equally dangerous. "and what if I’m not the person you think i am?” he asks, his words heavy with something deeper.

“not this again, but then we’ll figure it out,” you reply, your gaze unwavering. “but i’m not walking away. not now.”

a flicker of vulnerability passes through his eyes, and he’s silent for a long beat. then, his lips curl into a faint smile, though it’s more weary than anything else. “you’re stubborn, you know that?” he says, almost in awe.

“maybe," you say with a small grin. "but i don’t mind being stubborn about this."

“i was bitten by a radioactive spider, and ever since i saw you at the stadium, i knew i had to get to know you better. when you caught me with the hoodie soaked in blood, and i watched you rush an injured man to the hospital, in that moment, i just… fell for you. i let myself get too close, too attached and i was already in too deep. but knowing the kind of man i am, one without the love of a family, one who finds solace only in soccer, i had to pull away. when i was spider-man, i felt invincible, like i could do anything. i felt reborn. i thought that with spider-man, i could love you and protect you. but instead, i just ended up putting you in danger.”

his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of his confession. you’re speechless for a moment, absorbing everything he’s said. slowly, you step closer, your voice quiet but steady. “you’re not the only one who’s afraid of getting someone hurt,” you reply, your eyes meeting his. “but running away, pushing me away, won’t keep me safe. it’ll just keep me distant.”

he looks at you, his eyes searching, as if trying to gauge whether he can trust what you’re saying. “to be honest with you,” he begins, his voice raw with vulnerability, “i don’t know how to love. i’ve been searching for it my whole life, and when i finally get close, i just push it away, and i—”

“mihya,” you interrupt softly, stepping closer. “stop rambling. i told you, i’m here. i’ll teach you how to love but only if you’ll let me.”

he stares at you for a moment, a mix of disbelief and hope flickering in his eyes. he opens his mouth, as if to say something, but the words seem to get stuck, as if there’s something holding him back.

then, suddenly, a third voice cuts through the silence.

“ahem.” the nurse clears her throat, and you glance up, the sound sharp in the otherwise still room. there’s something unsettling about her tone—too calm and too composed for the situation. “miss, you should really head home.”

you feel an odd chill in the air, a slight shift in the atmosphere, but you push it aside. still, the nurse's eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though she’s studying you, almost calculating.

you glance over at mihya, who seems equally taken aback, his eyes flicking between you and the nurse, a frown forming on his face.

“righttt,” you mutter, trying to shake off the odd feeling, but the weight of the moment hangs in the air. “i’ll let you rest. we’ll finish this conversation later.”

he gives a small nod, his eyes still locked on yours, but there's an unspoken weight between you now. as you turn to leave, you feel his gaze follow you, the tension lingering in the air. “take care on your way home, mein Schatz.” 

the nurse watches you leave, her gaze too steady, too sharp.

you pause, turning to face him, the sound of the german term of endearment catching you by surprise. his gaze is gentle, almost tender, as if he’s offering you a piece of himself he’s rarely shown.

"don’t think this is over," he adds, his voice carrying both a promise and a hint of vulnerability. “i’ll be waiting for you once i recover.”

you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, a promise you want to believe, but the eerie feeling from the nurse’s gaze still lingers. you give mihya a small nod, trying to push past the unease. "i’ll be careful," you reply, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you.

even as you stood outside the door, the nurse’s eyes remain fixed on you, too steady, too sharp, like she's watching you leave for a reason. you turn to walk down the hallway, but with every step, that unsettling feeling grows, gnawing at you.

you pause, the weight of the moment pulling you back. something doesn't feel right.

turning back around, you find yourself walking back towards mihya’s room, feeling a strange pull to go back. when you step inside, the room is empty—mihya’s bed is untouched, the nurse gone as well.

but there’s something else.

the window is wide open. the cold night air rushes in, making the room feel even more hollow. you step toward it cautiously, noticing the curtains swaying slightly as if someone just left.

your eyes flick to the window, and that’s when you see it—a faint green flicker from below, glowing just beyond the edge of the building. you freeze. it’s almost imperceptible at first, like the shadow of a lightning strike without the thunder. another flicker—this time brighter, stronger. a green light cutting through the darkness.

your breath catches in your throat. the air around you feels heavier now, the chill from the window mixing with a rising sense of dread. you step closer to the window, peering out carefully, but the light vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the dim, cold streets below.

was it just a reflection? a trick of the light?

no. there’s no mistaking it. the green flickers came from the direction of the alley behind the building—too controlled to be random, too deliberate to ignore. your mind races, the pieces clicking together. it’s him. the green goblin.

what just happened?

your mind races, but you can't quite piece everything together. and yet, the echo of mihya’s words remains, a quiet promise hanging in the air.

 “i’ll be waiting for you once i recover.”

despite everything, you feel like you can’t walk away just yet. not when you just got him back.

series MASTERLIST

notes from lily ❦⋆ : i have no words.. lol

TAGLIST

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