#AN UGLY SNORT CAME OUT OF MY MOUTH

[snowy-vee]

ALL MINE Pt.1 (E.W ff)

oblivious loser bsf! ellie williams x posesive popular bsf!fem reader

n/a: English is not my first language, any misspelling will be corrected later on, also, please feel free to leave a comment and rb!!

Pt.2 Here

Inform yourself about what's happening and how to help! FREE PALESTINE, FREE CONGO.

“Bye, girls!” you waved to the cheer team before getting into Ellie’s car, greeting her with a small ‘hi’ and a kiss on her cheek. “Why weren’t you at cheer practice? I missed you looking at me from the bleachers like a little stalker,” you giggle, grabbing her phone to put music to your liking.

“I don’t look like a stalker... Do I? I don't,” she said quietly, and you laughed again. “Anyway, I was doing a project, and I didn’t notice how late it was until you called me to pick you up.”

She started the car and began to drive home. You were both roommates in an off-campus flat, and since Ellie was the only one with a licence, it was common for her to drive you everywhere and pick you up.

You kept looking for a good playlist while ‘Too Fast’ by Sonder was playing when a notification came in. You blinked twice, thinking you might have seen something wrong, but the message from Dina saying she had a good time was still there.

“Dina was your partner for the project?”

“Yes, why? She is very nice; I wonder why I’ve never spoken to her; she’s got a good vibe.”

“Yeah, but isn’t she kind of a loser? I mean, the only interesting thing about her is that she dated Jesse.” You scoffed. The ugly look she gave you after that was enough to make you stop laughing. “I don’t mean it in a bad way! Just saying that you might not want to hang out with her that much.”

“I am a loser too; shouldn’t I be hanging out with my kind of people?”

“You’re not a loser! You just have different interests than the rest of our friends—"

“Your friends"

"My friends, whatever, you hang out with me; that gives you some status and makes you not a total loser but a partial one.”

Ellie rolled her eyes as she parked the car, grabbed her backpack from the back seat, and got out without opening your door, as she usually does. You opened your mouth a little offended and got out too.

“Els! Come on, don’t get angry. I’ll cook dinner, yeah?” You tried to apologise, but she had already locked herself in her room. You snorted, throwing your bag on your bed and then throwing yourself off too.

You and Ellie had been best friends since middle school. You came in as the new girl and soon caught the attention of many, but Ellie was the only one who made you feel comfortable in every way. You were always together and inseparable until high school, when you decided to become a cheerleader, and that’s when the distinction between you and Ellie began.

Although you tried to make time for her or integrate her into the “Populars” group, it didn’t work out, and it was obvious that it made both parties uncomfortable, so the only times you shared space together were at parties or break time. Ellie had friends, not counting the online ones, but for her, they were more like classmates, so she barely spent time with them.

It doesn’t matter; you were going to sleep and apologise in the morning—that is, until, coming out of the bathroom after taking a good shower and changing into your pyjamas, you heard giggles and voices from Ellie’s room.

Was she laughing with Dina? How was it possible that they were already at the level of making video calls? Was there something else she wasn’t telling you? No, you were best friends; you told each other everything.

“Els, I’m going to make instant ramen; do you want the chicken one or?” You opened the door without knocking first to confirm your suspicions, and yes, it was Dina on the other side of the phone. You could see her face and how her smile slowly faded. “Oh, hi, Dina.”

"Hi,” she said softly. “Well, I’m going to have dinner too; talk to you later, Ellie.”

“Yeah, okay, bye, Dina." Ellie smiled, hanging up. She woke up from her bed and nodded in your direction. “I want chicken ramen; I’ll go shower real quick.”

She was still annoyed with you; you could feel it, so that meant you had to apologise tonight.

Your cooking skills were not the best; it was strange that you touched the stove burners, mostly because Ellie did. Talking about the Queen of Rome, there she was standing in her black pyjama pants and sports bra. She was drying her short hair as she watched you cook.  

"Can I help you with something?" She asked, but you refused. You were almost done; you just needed to put the food on the plates. You left the dishes on the table in the living room. "Actually, I was planning to eat in my room today."  

"Ellie, please... I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk like that about your  friends." You started apologising by grabbing her hand and leading her to the couch. "Forgive me, yes? I hate that we're upset about something so small."  

"Ugh, I hate that I can't be mad at you for too long." You squealed with excitement, and before you knew it, you both had finished eating and were now sharing a blanket on the couch while watching a movie.   Your head was resting on her shoulder, and although it was a comfortable position, it got on your nerves that Ellie was on her phone, sending messages and giggling from time to time. It was driving you crazy.

You cleared your throat as you got off the couch. "I'm going to sleep; tomorrow will be a busy day," you said.  

"But the movie isn't over yet," Ellie protested, looking at you with those beautiful eyes of hers. For a moment, you were about to stay, but Ding! Another notification caused her to divert your attention to her phone again.  

"No, I don't want dark circles under my eyes."  

"Wait, one thing..."  

"What?"  

"Tomorrow, where was that party?" you frowned at her question, confused that she's asking about a party.  

"Uh... at the same frat house where we went for the Halloween party, why?"  

"Yes, but can you send me the address?"  

"Yes, but why? You said you didn't want to come, remember?"  

"I know, but you're going to drag me anyway, and Dina said she wanted to come, so I won't be alone."  

"You're never alone; I'm with you," you replied. Ellie raised an eyebrow as she looked at you. "Most of the time, I'm with you, Ellie!"  

"I know! I appreciate it, but... I think I want to get to know Dina more, if you know what I mean." Her cheeks began to redden, and she had a shy smile as she looked at her phone.   That made your stomach churn.

You nodded and couldn't help but let out an incredulous chuckle that went unnoticed by her. "I'll send you the location tomorrow, Els."  

"Great, you're the best; I love you."  

"Me too, get a good night's rest," you said, walking down the hallway to your room. You looked once more at Ellie before entering, still hooked on her phone.   You definitely had to get rid of Dina.  

You didn't have a problem with sharing other things, but Ellie? No way; she was yours, all yours.

[coff33andb00ks]

Luxury - LN

Part 2 of Hopeless Lando Norris x fem!reader (mentions of reader x Charles Leclerc) Summary: and if they call me a slut, you know it might be worth it for once Themes: none just sex Song: slut! by taylor swift word count: 3949 Warnings: smut, minors dni!, cheating, lando's a bad friend, charles is a bad boyfriend even tho he's not there, reader is a bad girlfriend, honestly the only decent person in this mini series is Oscar, unprotected sex, heaps of praise, and proofreading? we don't know her Notes: again I'm not condoning cheating (unless it's Lando) thanks to those that encouraged me to write this from reader's pov, although I got carried away with the smut. Soooo there's going to be two more parts to this to finish their story <3

You love Lando.

Because he's… Well, Lando. He's become your very best friend. You can talk to him about anything, whether it's work or the shoes you're thinking of getting or the book you just finished, he's always willing to listen. He commiserates over bitchy coworkers, encourages you to just get the fucking shoes, and questions the decisions of the characters you're in love with. He's always up for a game, even if it's three in the morning and he's flying out at nine. He doesn't complain when you show up and bake enough pastries and cupcakes to fill a supermarket, warning you not to tell his trainer when he sneaks a few.

And he makes you laugh. Only he can bring out the ugly snorting laugh that you hate, but you kind of love it because it makes him giggle hysterically.

It's Lando. You don't know how you survived as long as you did before he came, screaming with laughter, into your life.

So, when you began having doubts about Charles, there was only one place to go. You've lived in Monaco with your boyfriend for six months and still haven't made a local friend. Lando's there, and he takes one look at you and lets you in.

And here you are, hugging him after pouring out your worries over Charles' behavior. Because he made you laugh, like he always does.

"If he is cheating, he's a fucking moron. You're not even my girl and I can't find anyone that compares."

Lando's words give you pause and you stare at him. You're used to him cracking jokes. Even if you're having a bad day he never fails to make you cackle until you're crying and snorting – like he just did. This time, though, he's not joking. His eyes aren't dancing with humor, he doesn't have that stupid grin that's not a grin like he does when he's trying to make you laugh.

Your eyes dip to his mouth.

Suddenly, you want to feel his lips. You've felt them on your cheek. Lando is a clingy friend, so it's not new to be this close to him. He's always hugging you, kissing your cheeks, resting his head in your lap, leaning against you when he's drunk. But you want his lips on yours. You're not perfect, you've wondered more than a few times what it would be like to kiss him. Lifting your gaze to his eyes again, you breathe in.

"Lando," you whisper. You can hear the longing in your voice and see it mirrored in his eyes.

You both lean in, meeting halfway, and—

Fireworks.

His breath stutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours briefly. "Y/n," he gasps. The fingers on your cheek slide into your hair and his lips are on yours again, fully this time.

It's gentle but wild, both desperate and calm. It soothes you and sparks a fire at the same time. Your hands cup his neck, hear his moan echoing yours as your tongues meet. The dance that's as old as time that has you craving more, your secret fantasies rising up while you picture his lips and tongue on your skin.

Lando's arm wraps around your waist and you willingly move closer, craving the tenderness and the heat. His mouth is still on yours and you settle in his lap, pressing as close to him as possible. He's the first breath of oxygen after being underwater. The first raindrops after a dry spell.

You never want this kiss to end.

You feel alive, and right now you can't think about what that means, you can only think of how invigorating this is. Pressing tighter against him you whine, feeling him growing hard in his sweats.

He tears his lips from yours with a gasp, eyes glazed with desire, his pulse racing beneath your fingertips. Digging his fingers into your waist, he presses his face against your neck, nuzzling and kissing. Breathing deeply, like you're his source of air.

"God, Lando," you whisper, wrapping your arms around him and letting your head fall back.

"Please," he moans, both arms around you now, and you can hear the faint whine in his voice. "Please, y/n…"

You nod, tugging on his hair and catching him in another kiss.

"Y/n," he whispers at the corner of your lips, and you can feel that he's holding himself back.

"Yes."

It's barely left your mouth when he's standing, holding you to him. You make a mental note to ask him when he learned to be graceful, because he always trips over stuff or walks into doorways. With your legs around him and your lips on his, though, he isn't, and you don't realize he's gotten to his bedroom until he's lowering you on his bed.

You drag him down with you, half fearful that if you break contact you'll think of a reason to stop. Or he will. And you can finally admit to yourself that you've wanted this for so long, now it's here you don't want it to end.

He moves up the bed, dragging you with him, kiss interrupted by his little chuckle. Pulling back a little, he cups your cheek and breathes your name. He stares at you, reverence bordering on worship, as though he can't believe you're there. "Y/n…" It's a whisper and a prayer and a plea and your racing heart twists and tumbles in your chest.

You say his name the same way, breath catching at the way he melts over you. The gentle wildness, calm desperation, is back, growing frantic while he seems determined to kiss you until you forget everything for him. His kiss grows feverish, breathless gasps whispering over your lips. His hands are everywhere, pushing and pulling at your clothes and you unknowingly mirror his touch, whining when he sits back and rips his shirt over his head.

His eyes are feral, branding each spot of your body he glances at. He squeezes your hips, dragging your shirt up with his blazing palms, his teeth catching his bottom lip as you arch towards him. Your shirt and bra slip away and he presses his face between your breasts, his breath pure fire. Holding you up, his lips whisper over your skin, hand clutching the back of your neck when his mouth closes over your nipple.

Crying out his name, you clutch at his shoulders, squeezing your legs around his waist. He licks and sucks, slow but needy, tightening his hold each time you tremble. Each tiny motion sends narrow flames of desire coursing through your veins, gathering in the pit of your abdomen, twisting and curling like his tongue, until you feel the ache of need. "Lando… Please, Lando…"

You're grinding against him, able to feel how wet he's making you, and you know he can feel it too when he moans harshly and releases your nipple. He shifts, groaning low in his chest as his cock presses against you. "Shit, baby…"

He guides you back down, lips crashing into yours, and his hands tremble as he briefly fumbles with the button of your shorts. His breath fans over your cheek and he deepens the kiss, both of you whining when he pulls back again. Dragging your shorts down your legs, he stares into your eyes, balling them up in his fist and flinging them over his shoulder.

"You're so beautiful," he says softly, staring at you in awe.

The way he said it, coupled with the look in his eyes, made you feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. There was something so heartfelt about the compliment that you felt the unexpected sting of tears.

Lando's fingertips trail over your skin, lips moving silently as he traces the dips and curves of your hips and thighs. An ode to you that was unheard but understood. He swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly before raising his eyes to yours again. Leaning down, he gives you a tender kiss. You cup his face then drag your hands down, memorizing his chiseled form, and when your fingertips reach the waistband of his sweats he hums, gently catching your wrists and guiding your hands above your head.

You gasp for a breath as he rains kisses down the side of your neck, scattering them over your chest, his destination clear when he moves lower, nipping gently at your skin. You lift your head slightly and find him staring up at you, eyes greener than usual. He's so beautiful it takes your breath away.

He hooks his thumbs in your panties and drags them down, scattering worshipful kisses down to your ankles. His lips slide into a playful smile and he lightly tickles behind your knee, grinning when you squeal. The brief lightheartedness eases the tension and you're able to breathe, but the foggy haze of passion doesn't fade one bit. It only increases as he gently spreads your legs, his eyes still on yours.

He's still staring up at you when his tongue drags up your slit, and maybe he kept staring at you but you couldn't be aware, your head falling back with a lustful moan at the sensation. You hear him swallow, his appreciative moan vibrating against your core. He does it again, delving deeper, a soft hum pulsing against your clit.

"Fuck," you gasp, feeling his grip on your thighs tighten when you tried to squirm.

"Lemme take care of you baby," he murmurs. Swirling his tongue over your clit, he teases over and over before giving it a noisy kiss. "You're so wet for me, y/n…"

You force your head up, breath catching because he's still staring up at you. Eyes locked, you can't look away, hands gripping at the sheets while his lips sweep along your slit. The ache inside you only grows, almost painful now as he lifts his head, lips glistening. He licks them slowly and you're in awe at the look of bliss on his face.

"Fuckin' knew you'd taste good," he murmurs before settling more firmly between your legs. He's gentle, hands making their way to your hips while he nuzzles and kisses your clit.

"Please," you whine.

He hums, somehow managing to look innocent, and you watch his eyes darken. Kissing your clit again, he pulls it between his lips, his hand sliding from your hip. Your back arches, his name a ragged moan as his finger teases your entrance and his tongue settles on your clit.

You want to know how he got so fucking good. How he knows what you like when you've never discussed sex with him before. And you think he may be a mind reader because he seems to know just what you want. He keeps his tongue on your clit, licking gently but rapidly, two long fingers inside you, curling and stroking slowly. You're gasping, trembling, hips jerking, heart hammering, still unable to look away from his eyes. The moans of his name turn into whines then whimpers and you feel your body tighten, pussy clenching around his fingers, your breathing stuttering and stopping completely when he curls them deeper, steadily rubbing your spot, and—

"Lando!"

You're cumming, harder than you thought you would. It takes your breath away and you're consumed by exhilaration, your vision going black then exploding with a galaxy's worth of stars. It's too much but you never want it to end, your voice breaking as you cry out to him.

You blink and try to catch your breath, weak but still wound tight. And he's there, softly licking you clean, murmuring sweetly while he crawls up, hands gentle on your trembling body. Shaking hands grab at his biceps and you feel tears on your cheeks when his fingers brush them away.

"It's alright, love," he whispers, lips brushing yours twice before he kisses you tenderly. He curls over you, almost protectively, his voice gently praising you. "Breathe, darling, it's alright…"

"Jesus," you hiss when you can finally speak, blinking rapidly to get your bearings.

"You're so gorgeous when you cum," he murmurs, tracing your cheek with his thumb. His eyes are so soft, practically glowing with admiration. Staring at you as though you're the source of everything good in his world. "You're always beautiful… Like, bathed in sunlight beautiful, you know?" He closes his eyes briefly, breathing slow as his lips return to yours in a kiss that leaves you weak. "But right now, right here…" He sighs. "You're breathtaking."

And you feel breathtaking. Stunning, gorgeous, beautiful, adored, worshipped, all the adjectives you'd use to describe the leading women in the romances you read. You never want to not feel this way again. "Lando?"

"Hm?" He's still staring at you like you hung the stars.

"I need you." Your arms still feel weak but you run your hands over his shoulders, leaning in for a slow kiss while your fingers trace down his sides. Long, languid moments pass while you kiss, so caught up in the feeling of being cherished you're distracted, enjoying the soft suppleness of his lips on yours. His palm cups your neck and there's a subtle change, your breath quickening as his mouth slants over yours. Nudging the waistband of his sweats down, you hear his soft hum, miss the touch of his hands when he reaches down to push them off, his hands bumping into yours when you both reach to ease down his boxer briefs.

He breaks the kiss with a little laugh but it dies as your hand cups around his cock. And the sound he makes is the sexiest sound you've ever heard. It's a gasping, whiny moan, and suddenly you need to know the sounds he'll make when he's inside you. Stroking him, you stare into his eyes and see the question burning. You nod, reluctantly letting go, anticipation stealing your breath as he nudges your thighs further apart. He sits back, lightly clapping and squeezing your thighs.

"God, you're hot," you say without thinking.

Lando smirks, squeezing your thighs again. "You think so?"

You roll your eyes. "Fuck's sake, look at you," you tell him, sweeping your hands through the air to indicate… him. Tousled curls, lean muscle, golden tan. You blink, focusing on the necklace he's wearing, lips parting in surprise.

It's the one you gave him for his birthday last year. You don't know why it makes you feel all soft and mushy inside to see him wearing it now. He's worn it plenty of times, but seeing it on him now, on a day you know he didn't plan to see you… It means something to you.

"You can take a photo if you like," he says.

Giggling, you're half-tempted to take him up on the offer, but he shifts, and his cock glides along your slit and your need is back in full force. "Later," you whisper, hips rolling upwards.

"Yeah?" He smirks again, eyes flicking from your face to between your thighs. His hands slide up, thumb whispering over your clit as he leans over you, his other hand gripping the pillow by your head.

Threading your fingers through his hair, you spread your legs wider, meeting his eyes as his cock slowly pushes into you. The stretch pulls a whine from your chest and you hear his gasping moan. He bites his lip but it doesn't muffle the whimper as he sinks into you and you arch, the sound almost sending you over the edge.

"Shit – fuck," he gasps, clutching tightly at your thigh.

"I know baby," you whine, digging your fingers into his scalp.

"Knew you'd feel good," he whispers between noisy kisses, holding your thigh against his hip as he presses as deep as possible.

"You feel better," you pant. It's like he was built to fill you, and when he's over you like this you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, thrilled that it's racing as fast as yours. It's almost perfect, the way he feels in and over you, but you need more. Your body craves all of him and you whisper a plea, feeling a shiver ripple through him.

He begins to move. Slow and tender, holding your thigh and cupping your neck. Breathless, almost sloppy kisses between echoing gasps and whines and moans. Your nails drag over his skin and you revel in the way he practically whimpers your name. His room is soon overheated, sweat beading on your skin and he inhales sharply, dipping his head to lick it from your throat then leans back, fingers dragging down your front.

You arch into his touch and it leaves goosebumps in its wake. So good. The words echo over and over in your mind, falling from your mouth like a fervent mantra.

"Look at you," he moans, resting his hand on your lower abdomen. "You're being so good, taking all of me."

"Fuck," you whisper, shocked that the phrase has you clenching and dripping around him. If he keeps that up you know you'll cum again—

"C'mon." It's a low, breathy groan. "Work for it, baby."

You grab at the sheets then at him, needing to feel his skin as you begin to roll your hips. He matches your pace, his hands keeping you steady when your back arches and you cry out his name.

"Yes, just like that," he whispers.

"Lando—"

"I know, I know…" He leans down, nipping at your bottom lip then kisses you, and you can feel his neediness. "You feel so good, y/n—"

"Gonna cum," you whimper, clutching at his sides then his back, your hips jerking now. Your head falls back, the heat in and around you almost overwhelming and in the split second before you break you hear him whimper.

He wraps his arms around you as you arch off the bed, holding you to him, his hips moving steadily, his voice coaxing you – let it out, baby, let me hear you. You shudder and scream, panting when he drags you upright with him, lips crashing against yours while he holds you. "Don't stop," he begs, an edge to his voice, and his hands slip on your skin, grasping tight enough to leave bruises. "Give it to me again, love."

"C-can't," you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck. And even though you say it you move, trembling and panting, stars blinding you.

Or maybe it's just the pure desperation in his eyes.

"Yes you can," he murmurs. One hand slips between you and there's giddiness in his smile when his fingers strum your clit and you let out a shout.

"It's—" You curl your fingers in his hair, feel the sweat, hear his heavenly moan. And words you never thought you'd say tumble from your mouth. "It's never been this good – I love it."

His arm tightens around you and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Me too," he whispers, other hand dancing up your spine and cupping the back of your head, his fingers still steady on your clit. "Love it, y/n."

"Don't stop," you beg, rocking harder in his lap.

Lando whines softly, tongue darting over your lips. "You're gonna make me cum."

You slow, enjoying his little growl. Invigorated by his eagerness, you have a split second of panic because he's not wearing a condom but it's immediately forgotten, your toes curling as his fingers rub harder. And for a nanosecond you imagine being pregnant with his child. "Lan…"

"Need it. This. You." It's nonsense but not really, mumbled against your lips, his eyes drifting closed. "Love it. This…"

"You," you breathe.

His eyes snap open and he gasps, panic flashing then disappearing when you nod. "Not supposed to."

"Can't help it," you moan.

He hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. "D'you want to not?"

"No," you cry.

He kisses you, guiding you back down, and it's bliss, it's heaven, it's pure ecstasy, it's everything it's supposed to be. Euphoria wrapped in blazing heat and vivid light. He's whimpering and moaning against your lips, hips flush with yours and straining, and another orgasm crashes through you at the feel of him cumming, his body your new temple, his name your new prayer.

When you can breathe again you wait for the awkwardness. The weirdness. But it doesn't come. He's still tender and sweet, murmuring even more praise. His hands are gentle where they'd been rough, his lips soft on your cheeks. When he pulls away there's a mutual hiss, and you see the smirk of pride when he looks down to see his cum trickling out of you.

"You can take a photo if you like," you joke, watching his cheeks darken as he grins at you.

"Don't tempt me." He leans to give you another kiss. "Be right back."

You nod, humming as he drags the covers over you before he leaves. He goes into the bathroom and you lie there, surrounded by his scent, feeling his sweat dry on your skin, body still tingling from the best sex you've ever had. You sigh, wondering when the guilt will creep in.

It doesn't yet but you know it will eventually.

Lando returns, washcloths in hand, and you're both silent while he clears the drying sweat from your body, eyes locking when he gently cleans your slit. He flings the cloths towards the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bed, fixing the duvet over you.

"Y/n?"

You sit up, recognizing the vulnerability. It's rare that Lando's like this. He confesses to weaknesses but rarely ever bares them, and it almost breaks your heart, hearing the worry in his voice. Waiting for him to speak, you watch his fingers pleat and twist then smooth the fabric of the duvet.

"What happens now?" he whispers, slowly lifting his head at the same time as you.

"I don't know," you admit.

He nods, swallowing, and looks away.

"I'll go," you say. Because you can't do this. You can't be awkward with him. Better to just pull away even though it's too late for that. Ripping the bandage off will leave a scar but it's for the best. You'll only hurt him more if you stick around.

You're nearly off the bed when he finally speaks again.

"Stay." It's barely a whisper. The sound of him stretching across the bed is louder, and his fingers grasping at yours are loudest of all.

You know what will happen if you do. You can't even let yourself think of what's already happened, how you're no better than the boyfriend you allegedly love, or how everything has changed.

"I meant it," he says, his voice stronger now.

You look from his hand to his face.

"I wanted this. But… I need you." His voice shakes a little but he says the words and you know how much it means that he's doing this.

Lando doesn't discuss his feelings. Ever. You asked him once and he shrugged, eyes shuttering as he'd explained he'd been hurt too much before. Turning your hand, you let your fingers twine with his.

"I wanted this." He draws in a shaky breath. "I know I wasn't supposed to, but I…"

You wait, knowing he has to work through it. He hates for anyone to put words in his mouth. So you give him the time, unconsciously pulling your legs back onto the bed.

"I like this." He gestures to the twisted sheets. "More than I dreamed I would. But… I love us, y/n."

"I love us too," you whisper.

His sigh trembles the air around you. Looking at your joined hands, he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. "Stay."

[oceantornadoo]

toxic but in love fwb!simon with some hurt/comfort

“i know your gala is important, si, but can’t you come? just this once i just want-“ you were wringing your hands, twisting them into unfamiliar shapes as you argued with simon, your situationship. you two were always like this, pushing and pulling at the boundaries of your relationship. moon and tide, destined to move each other but never close enough. “we’re not dating an’ i have a work thing. can’t come.” he shrugged nonchalantly, turning his head so he couldn’t see the pleading look on your face. instead, he pushed himself off your couch and reached for his jacket by the door. the silence in the air turned sour, some dark ugly thing created by him. his heart was a dead thing inside his chest, unable to muster a beat or two for you. he wanted to. a want so deep it ran in his blood, turning him cold. “fine. see you in six months or whatever.” your voice was stony, bitter. you reached for the tv remote and unpaused the show you two were watching, trying not to care about the sounds of him lacing his boots and grabbing his keys. you were done, done with this tug of war. you felt his stare drill through the side of your head as he put on his mask, the final bit to his ensemble. he might think that’s what got him named ghost, but it was really this, this act of playing human when he just didn’t care. he was a poltergeist in your life, knocking things out of order but refusing to show when it mattered. you were done.

one night later and here you were at your first art show, the debut of your career. dressed in your fanciest attire, second glass of champagne in your hand as you tried to network your way through the room. your feet ached from your shoes and there was an itch in your back you couldn’t quite reach, but you put on your best smile as another potential buyer went on and on about their summer in the hamptons. simon wasn’t here but it was fine. the tears you had been swallowing back for the past thirty minutes were just tears of joy at your accomplishments, nothing more. you thanked the buyer and turned the corner, finishing off your glass as you took a much needed break. suddenly a hush went over the crowd, a slight silence broken by a small quip. the room went back to normal but you went to check it out anyways, hoping it wasn’t someone making a bad comment about your work.

you arrived at the entrance and almost passed out at the sight before you. four men-no, machines, dressed in full military regalia stood in front of you. soap and gaz were already working the crowd while price was entertaining one of your donors, but your eyes were focused on ghost. ghost, who traded his balaclava for a more crowd-friendly medical mask, stood in front of you with a bouquet of carnations and a bottle of wine. you approached him slowly like you would a skittish animal, taking patient, methodical steps. “read carnations are for celebrations.” he said, almost sheepishly, as he mechanically thrust the bouquet towards you. you took it out of instinct, eyes still focused on his. “you came?” you said unbelievingly. simon was here, simon brought his friends, simon brought you gifts? he had to have been drugged or something. there was no way. “you called.” he answered, breaking out of his awkwardness. “‘m sorry for yesterday. knew i was coming, jus’ gave you a hard time. had to celebrate my girl’s first show.” your mouth dropped at that. my girl. “but…but we’re not dating?” you took a step forward, the rest of the room falling away as his gloved hand touched your cheek, brushing back the wrinkles on your forehead. “d’ya want to, lovie? was at this gala all night, thinkin’ bout how fun it would’ve been to have you there with me. makin’ fun of all those puffed up generals.” you let out a small chuckle and his back straightened, encouraged by the sound of your laughter. he loved the sounds of your laughter, your drunk giggles and your loud snorts. most especially he loved the sharp barks of surprise you made, the ones you gave when something or someone made you happy without expecting it. like now. “yes. if you’re sure.” the foggy emotions in your head were finally clearing, letting in the sun. his warm eyes caressed your face, pride evident in his face. “‘m sure.” he sealed it with a kiss to your forehead, not wanting to be unprofessional at your work event. simon felt something in his chest. maybe a heartbeat. maybe he had one after all.

—

thought of the “you came? you called” tiktok audio with this one. currently on my period so y’all will only be getting emotional stuff for the next couple of days 🫶

[aventurineswife]

Can you do a swap au of pressure Sebastian x reader?

“Good Luck Out There”

The cold, damp air pressed against the walls of the makeshift shop. The flickering light from the overhead bulb cast eerie shadows across the piles of strange and dangerous items that lined the shelves. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

A muffled, distant thud echoed through the corridor outside. Another prisoner, probably desperate for a scrap of hope, was about to stumble into your shop. The constant flow of new faces, always grim and weary, had become a tiresome routine. Your tail twitched, flicking slightly at the sound, the pouches on it jingling as they shifted.

You opened the vent.

Sebastian, clad in a dark prison jumpsuit, crawled inside, the weight of his knees scraping against the vent, echoing louder. His expression was as hardened as the man you'd once heard about—a criminal—no, a prisoner—who had been wronged in the eyes of the system, even if you weren’t certain whether he actually deserved it or not.

You eyed him, your eyes narrowing. "Another one." you muttered, a smirk playing on your lips.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. He stood still for a moment, scanning the dimly lit room, eyes betraying no hint of fear. "I need supplies," he grunted, his voice heavy but cold, betraying nothing of the deeper pain he'd no doubt buried deep inside. "If you can help with that, I'll make it worth your time."

You snorted. "Worth my time? Now that is a laugh." You uncrossed your arms. You were irritated, but you didn’t exactly mind helping him, either. "What’s it this time? Looking to arm yourself or something?"

Sebastian hesitated before replying, his eyes flicking over your tail before meeting your gaze once more. "I need anything that'll help me get out of here." He clenched his fists, a subtle tremor betraying his words.

You snickered. "Trust me, I get it. The feeling of betrayal... the promise of freedom that never comes. It eats at you, doesn't it? What I don't get, though, is your apparent faith that this little shop of mine will make all your problems go away."

Your gaze swept over the various items laid out for purchase: Batteries, Hand-Cranked Flashlight, [Name]'s Document, Medkit, Flashlight, Code Breacher, Flash Beacon, Lantern.

"Alright," you grinned, tail swishing. "You’ve got yourself a deal. But remember," you added with a cold, toothy smile, "don’t flash me, or I won't hesitate to kill you myself."

Sebastian tensed, his brows furrowing, but he didn’t respond right away. You could see the wheels turning in his head, weighing the situation carefully.

Then, he spoke again, his voice low, almost like a whisper meant only for you. "You should know, I've got my own enemies here."

You chuckled darkly, your voice smooth as it slid from your throat. "Enemies? Who in this hellhole doesn't have enemies?" You leaned in, your eyes gleaming with an eerie, unsettling glow.

The moment hung in the air, thick with tension between you two. Sebastian regarded you with that unreadable expression, his own thoughts veiled as well. Despite your differences, there was a shared sense of betrayal in the air. You had both been cogs in Urbanshade’s hands, you both had been manipulated by them.

Before Sebastian could respond, a noise came from the corridor, signaling an entity awaiting him.

"Get ready," you said softly. "Things get ugly around here."

Sebastian took a step back, eyes alert. He nodded, his mouth set in a hard line. "I can handle myself."

You smirked again, this time more genuinely. "We'll see. We'll see."

"Hey," you called out just before he made it to the vent, "you missed the keycard. Don’t bother trying to leave without it. You won't get far."

I need to freshen up my memory because I clearly have forgotten everything about pressure :')

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): crime scene clean-up, swearing, grief & difficult conversations, discussions around canon-typical violence, smoking, brief suggestive themes, brief drinking, angst

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Three of Ink & Needle

Price and Simon make a pact. Simon talks to Evie and Amelia. Walsh dispenses a clue.

Chapter Twenty-Two // Chapter Twenty-Four

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Come and find her. – KW.

Come and find her.

Come. And find her.

Find her.

Simon stares at the little piece of paper in his hands. It’s so small. Confetti in his palm. Something that could be easily overlooked like trash that collects near a storm drain.

But it’s not trash.

It’s a taunt. A warning.

And it’s all for Simon.

Instinct tells him to crumple the note in his fist—to dismantle by destroying. Burn it. Maybe. Shred it into even smaller pieces until it truly resembles confetti.

But what party would he throw to sprinkle the remains? There will be no cake or gifts. No sunshine or clear skies. It will be a funeral, and the shredded paper is the dirt tossed by the mourners.

Dust, really. Like the soul. Smaller than dust. Insignificant.

“You need to go home, Simon.”

Captain Price’s voice used to be a balm to Simon—a place of safety. The words from Price’s mouth do nothing but drag Simon back to reality even as Simon attempts to claw back to the darkness that are his thoughts.

“Go home and do what?” replies Simon, not looking in Price’s direction.

Come and find her.

“It’s not healthy to stay here,” sighs Price.

Simon snorts. “What part of my life as ever been healthy.”

Price flinches, and Simon immediately regrets his words. Captain knows every horrific detail, every open hand and closed fist, of the fangs and masks and gore and screams that are Simon’s history.

It is ugly and foul.

Price used to fuss over it, trying to drive Simon to talk to someone about it all. He did—once. More than once, but it didn’t do much but reaffirm everything Simon already knew.

That life can be cruel, and we are only defined by our choices.

And Simon has always chosen to be different.

“Staring at that note won’t help things. It won’t help us find her faster,” says Price, his voice low and soothing like it always is when he’s trying to be gentle.

Simon takes a deep inhalation, calming the raging desperation thudding around in his chest.

It’s a torrent. A downpour.

“I want to help,” is all Simon says in reply.

Price takes a step closer, and leans in a bit, lowering his voice. “I know you do, Simon. And I value that help. But trying to figure shit out here isn’t the place.”

Simon stares into Price’s face, frowning. He lingers there a moment before glancing over Price’s shoulder.

There are new people in the room. Price called them up after Johnny found the note and presented it to Simon. They move about the space like phantoms, their eyes cast downward, minds geared toward the task of cleaning up the mess that is Evie’s home.

Evie, who came to Simon’s door rain-drenched and desperate. Simon is glad she didn’t try to seek out the authorities. What the fuck are police going to do about this? Nothing. That’s what.

But Price will do something. And so will Johnny and Kyle.

They have his back. They fucking care about you because they care about Simon. He has people in his corner.

“Excuse me.”

Simon and Price glance toward the man addressing the two of them. He’s a little younger than Simon. In his hands are a broom and dustpan. Beside him stands another man holding a trash bag. Simon scowls and the man blanches slightly.

“The glass,” he mutters, nodding at Simon’s feet.

The glass. The broken patio door. Blood.

Simon clears his throat and steps back, glass crunching under his boots even as he and Price move to a different part of the room. The two men start sweeping it up while two others lift and deposit the bodies of the estate agent and her assistant into body bags.

All the color from their faces have melted away, leaving behind a grayness that only comes when there is nothing left to salvage. While neither of the women currently being placed in body bags are you, Simon is grateful that you’re not one of them. That is enough to hope even if everything inside him doubts.

Positivity isn’t Simon’s thing. But the fact that you’re not here could only mean that Walsh wants you elsewhere. He wants Simon to come seeking. He wants Simon to have hope, and for that reason alone, Simon still clings to the idea that you’re not gone.

But maybe you are.

Time is crucial. It is scare and fleeting and slipping away as the seconds tick by.

“This is my fault.”

“Simon,” chides Price, ready to defend him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” growls Simon. “Walsh is after me, and I know that. I kept—” Simon stops, his unoccupied hand forming a fist.

Price frowns. “You kept what?”

Instead of shutting down, Simon trudges forward. “I kept seeing him. Or thought I did.” He glances down at the note and then at the darkening pool of drying blood. “Should have trusted my gut.”

“You can’t linger in the past, Simon. It happened. You made choices. Walsh made choices. That control is gone. We can only move forward.”

Simon remains silent. Price is right, even if Simon doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Shit happens. Plans go wrong. You can’t always predict what the enemy will do or how they might deviate from the information you have. You have to go in with the knowledge that things might change at the last second.

Adjustment is crucial.

Adjust and survive or stay stagnant and die.

“By moving forward, that means I go home,” says Simon slowly.

Price inclines his head. “It is.”

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t accept it.”

“And what will you do, Simon? Search every building in the country? And what will you do after? Head for the continent?”

“I’d destroy everything and everyone if that means I get her back safely.”

Price’s jaw twitches. “Or you might just get her killed.”

Simon’s head snaps in Price’s direction, venom on his tongue, but it’s Price’s glare that stays his harshness. Even though he’s no longer under Price’s command, the training doesn’t leave. Instead of lashing out, Simon takes a calming breath, but it does little except settle the sharpness that wants to emerge from his lips.

“I’m helping with this. I won’t budge,” affirms Simon.

Price nods. “I know, Simon. Didn’t say you wouldn’t be.”

Simon turns toward him fully, lowering his voice. “You told me to go home.”

“For now,” corrects Price. “We need to clean up here, and then we can talk. This isn’t the place.” Price shrugs. “Not like I have all the information in front of me.”

True, but Simon isn’t happy. His body desires movement. It desires action. The storm inside him wants to be released, and its target is Walsh.

“I have to talk to Evie,” murmurs Simon, almost absently.

Price clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Want someone to go with you?”

“I can.” Simon and Price glance up as Johnny comes to a stop in front of them. “I’ll go with you, Lt.”

Simon nods as Kyle approaches with a couple of binders. “She might want this. It’s all paperwork.”

Kyle holds the stack out to Simon but Price reaches for it. “We should make copies. Take a look just in case.”

“I’ll do that now,” nods Kyle. He turns toward Simon and lightly punches his arm. “We’ll find her. Bring her home.”

Kyle departs with a brief nod toward Johnny.

Price clears his throat. “Go home. Take Soap with you. I’ll call when we’re ready to meet.”

“You got it, Captain,” says Johnny, all confidence.

Simon appreciates it. He does, but his heart is close to exploding—a volcano in his chest that he isn’t sure is heartburn or an incoming heart attack.

Price says goodbye by giving Simon’s shoulder another squeeze before walking away to chat quietly with the woman supervising the cleanup.

“Come on, Lt.”

Simon used to correct Johnny after retirement, but he no longer has the heart to. It almost feels normal—like Simon is back in the field and not a tattoo artist with awards and accolades. It is a strange sensation, and Simon is surprised by how his mind and body are at odds with the feeling.

They step around shattered glass and overturned furniture. They walk around the darkening blood that’s starting to congeal. Simon doesn’t even glance at the hammer or the gloved hand that lifts it from the floor.

And it’s not Simon who drives. All the control he likes to have his gone, and it is Johnny that takes the wheel, guiding them back to London as if they’re just two mates on a weekend holiday.

It’s not until Simon is stepping into his flat and Bravo greets him that reality comes crashing into him like a hollow point on impact.

Johnny sighs heavily and drops onto the sofa. Bravo doesn’t go to jump into Johnny’s lap or to seek belly rubs. The German Shepard takes up post next to Simon. He sits rigidly, one paw tapping at Simon’s thigh as the dog tries to get his attention.

“I’m ace, Bravo,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

The dog whines softly but he drops his paw, accepting the scratches before padding over to Johnny. He jumps onto the couch and starts stomping all over Soap until Johnny is laughing and aggressively rubbing Bravo’s belly.

As Bravo settles, Johnny turns his attention to Simon. “You good, Lt?”

Simon shifts in Soap’s direction. He glances around, realizing that he hasn’t moved away from the door. He lingers like a ghost who can see everyone but no one sees them.

“Yeah. I’m good,” coughs Simon, his legs moving mechanically. He plops down onto the sofa next to Johnny and then sighs heavily. “I need a smoke.”

“Have some sitting around?” asks Johnny.

“Nope.”

Soap nods. Keeps nodding. “I’ll go grab some. There a shop around here?”

“On the corner,” answers Simon, eyes closed as his head tips back to rest against the top of the sofa.

“Up for a walk, Bravo?” asks Johnny.

Bravo barks and then jumps out of Soap’s lap, padding over to his leash.

When Johnny returns, the two of them sit on Simon’s balcony facing the back street between the buildings. Bravo is below them, sniffing the little stretch of grass there. He’s a dark spot amongst the green, moving back and forth as if he smells something interesting.

Johnny bought enough packs to give them both lung cancer. Soap isn’t one for smoking, but he joins Simon in it anyway. The two of them sit in the cold silence, the chilly air unable to penetrate the inferno that burns within Simon.

“When do you want to talk to the friend?” asks Johnny, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Tomorrow,” sighs Simon.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say to Evie. Looking her in the face is going to be difficult enough, but explain? No. Fucking no. That shit is a mess.

Johnny’s foot taps absently like he’s listening to a song in his head. “You want me to talk? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” replies Simon immediately.

This is his mess. You are his woman. And you are Evie’s friend. This has to come from Simon or no one at all.

Johnny inclines his head and takes another drag on his cigarette. He grimaces. “These are fucking nasty, Lt. How do you do it?”

“Rage,” replies Simon dryly.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and then bursts out laughing, falling onto his back as he clutches his stomach. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with amusement.

Coughing, Johnny turns on his side in Simon’s direction. Bravo comes to a stop in the grass, his noise pushed into the dirt like he’s stumbled upon a scent.

“What is it, Johnny?” asks Simon as Soap stares at him but doesn’t speak.

“She cute?”

Simon blinks. “Who?”

“The friend.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I’m only asking,” replies Johnny, all innocence.

Simon shakes his head, this time smiling naturally. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You know I like a pretty face,” says Johnny, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t make me blush, Johnny,” teases Simon.

The fire beneath his skin dims from an inferno to a small campfire. This banter is comforting to him—a reminder that there are people out there who care for Simon as more than just a previous coworker. Johnny cares. Kyle cares. And fuck—Price cares to the point that sometimes Simon thinks he has a loving father.

“Oh, aye, Lt. Been lusting after you for ages.” Simon glances at Johnny before snatching his cigarette from his fingers. “I’m smoking that!”

“You hate cigarettes, Johnny,” chides Simon, taking a long drag and finishing it off. “And you’ll have it off with anything that moves.”

“Not anything,” mutters Soap, sitting up fully.

Simon puts out the cigarette and takes another from the pack. “When did you last get your dick wet?”

Johnny’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Johnny,” says Simon, almost sing-song.

Soap mutters something and Simon punches him in the arm.

“Fuck, Lt. Yesterday.”

Simon shrugs. “Knew it.”

“If you’re gonna fucking ask about it, you’ll listen.”

“I’m good, Johnny,” replies Simon, holding up a hand for silence as he goes to light the new cigarette.

“Kyle and I were—”

“Not interested.”

“This beautiful blonde cornered me and I couldn’t say no. Lips like that—”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“She pushed me up against the wall. Dropped to her knees—”

“Johnny—”

“Never finished so fast in my—fucking hell Simon!”

Johnny clutches the back of his head where Simon lightly swatted him. “Said I didn’t want to know.”

“Then why’d you bloody ask!” exclaims Johnny, this time grabbing Simon’s cigarette from his fingers. He tries to puff on it but promptly grimaces, offering it right back to Simon.

“Absolute wanker,” mutters Simon.

“Favorite wanker, Lt.”

Simon snorts and reaches behind him, grabbing the whiskey bottle and setting it down between them. There are no glasses, but it’s not necessary. Johnny grabs the bottle and removes the screw lid, taking a swig directly from the bottle before holding it out to Simon. He takes the offered whiskey and Simon gulps down more than he should in one go.

He offers it back to Johnny. “Don’t fucking flirt with the friend, Johnny.”

Soap inclines his head and raises the bottle in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Simon.”

The two of them sit on the balcony until the whiskey is gone and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. Bravo stays in the living room, curling up on the sofa with Johnny.

Simon stares at his empty bed. It’s still unmade from when he hastily got out and answered the door.

Sighing, Simon heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He cranks it until it’s scalding. The heat is a nice distraction, and for a while, Simon pretends that you’re not gone. That you’re with him underneath the spray.

From memory, Simon plucks out his favorite moments, lingering in your sweetness. It’s not just the physical Simon smolders in. Everything about you is like a drop of lifeblood. Simon lingers on your smile, and on the calmness you bring him when you’re nearby. He dreams of your touch and the way you wrap your arms around him. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils.

That only leads to lustier thoughts, and Simon has to pull back before he goes too far.

When the water grows cold, and your hands are not there to warm his skin, that is when Simon breaks.

Everything is a flood. Everything fractures.

What are dying stars but beautiful confetti. Dust. Specks bursting outward to settle in forgotten places.

Simon is dust.

No—less than dust.

Atoms.

But lesser than that.

Nothing.

Infinite nothing.

His tears become one with the cold water. His shaking becomes one with the icy chill that makes his skin shiver. Simon’s nails dig into his skin. Blood blossoms in the moons. Drip onto the tile.

Simon sits on the floor of the shower until every tear is down the drain.

He doesn’t recall falling into bed. Or when he drifts to sleep.

It isn’t until Simon wakes that he’s realized he slept at all.

There were no dreams. Just blackness. Hardness.

But he hears Johnny, and Bravo’s nails against the wood floor.

It is reluctant duty that drags Simon from bed.

“Made breakfast. And tea. And coffee,” shrugs Johnny, offering a greasy piece of bacon to Bravo.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” sighs Simon, loading his plate with a little bit of everything.

Johnny ignores Simon and talks to Bravo like the dog is human baby. Bravo eats it up like it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Simon drops into a chair. His stomach grumbles and then he’s eating. The eggs are still warm, and the coffee is still hot. He zones out, grabbing seconds and then thirds.

“Have appointments today?” asks Johnny.

Simon shakes his head. “I rescheduled everything back a week. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

Usually, Simon hates leaving his shop and moving bookings around, but it can’t be helped.

Johnny nods and inspects the empty skillet that held scrambled eggs. “Still planning on chatting with the friend today?”

Simon swallows down a half-chewed piece of toast. “That’s what I said.”

“Just checking, Lt.”

Simon’s fork pauses. His tone was harsh. “You still coming with me?” asks Simon, softening his tone this time.

“Aye. I’ve got your back.”

Simon clears his plate and finishes off the last of the coffee before he and Johnny head over to Amelia’s. They decide to walk, bringing Bravo with them. Simon fiddles with a cigarette the entire way but never lights it.

“You still want to do this today?” asks Johnny, lingering at Amelia’s door.

No. He’d rather turn tail. Be a coward in this.

Instead of answering Johnny’s question verbally, Simon knocks three times on the door. It’s mid-morning, and Evie’s daughter should hopefully be up by now.

For a moment, there is no sound on the other side, but then Simon hears footsteps—then the turning of a deadbolt.

The door opens, and Simon’s heart falls into his stomach.

Evie stands there, Lillian in her arms. When she sees Simon, her expression changes from neutrality to hopefulness. Her gaze lingers on Simon before shifting to Johnny. That brightness—that joy—fades as time passes.

She is looking for you. And you are not there.

The whites of Evie’s eyes redden, and Simon knows what comes next. As if sensing her mother’s changing mood, Lillian begins to squirm, her own tiny face bunching with a coming tantrum.

“Oh shit,” mutters Johnny, reaching for the baby just as fat tears begin to slide down Evie’s face.

Evie surrenders Lillian to Soap immediately as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs. She deflates, one hand grasping the doorframe like she’s about to faint. The baby starts to whine, and Johnny panics, holding the infant out before him like he’s never held one before.

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Support the head,” mutters Simon as Evie takes a step back, her other hand pressing to her chest.

“Evie?”

It’s Amelia. She comes rushing forward, grasping the woman’s shoulders. She glances at Simon. Then Johnny. Then little Lillian.

“Give her here,” instructs Amelia, reaching for the infant.

Johnny passes Lillian off and sighs with relief. Amelia cradles the child in one arm and uses the other to support Evie.

Evie is gasping for breath. Chest heaving. Nearing a panic attack.

“Is she…” but Amelia trails off.

Simon understands.

“We don’t know,” replies Simon, because it’s true. And the truth is best, even if it cuts deep like sharpened steel.

Evie chokes and Simon continues on, wanting to crush the rising panic on Evie’s face. “She wasn’t there. Which means that she’s probably still alive.”

Evie is shaking her head. Amelia’s face reveals nothing.

“Go on,” prompts Amelia.

Lillian still wiggles and whines but she’s not nearly so loud now.

“Your estate agent and her assistant are dead. Nothing appears stolen.”

Except you.

“But she’s gone?” asks Evie. Her voice is so strained Simon is surprised the woman can talk at all.

Yes, is what Simon wants to say. It’s what he should say. But all of his words are stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” answers Johnny for him, and Simon could sigh with relief on not having to say the words out loud. “But we’re looking for her.”

“She’s alive?” asks Amelia. She places a hand on Evie’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Until we know otherwise,” replies Johnny. “Yes.”

Amelia and Evie both relax even if the tears remain. Johnny was always better at talking to people than him. It’s why Simon rarely did it. He was either too blunt or didn’t know how to comfort. Johnny knew how. He always has.

“We should tell them,” murmurs Amelia to Evie.

“Tell us what?” asks Simon, curious.

Evie shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Then I will.” Amelia steps back and gestures for them to come inside.

Bravo stays next to Evie’s side all the way to the couch. When the woman sinks down on it, Bravo rests his head on her knee. Soap remains standing, as does Simon.

“British Intelligence came,” begins Amelia, and Soap’s eyes widen.

Simon doesn’t look at Johnny, but from his peripheral, he notices the slight turn of Johnny’s head as his friend glances at him. Price has to know by now. Simon didn’t tell him, but he’s likely putting all the pieces together once he looks at the documents Kyle is making copies of. Archie’s name is probably all over them.

There isn’t any hiding now.

Amelia sighs. “They were asking about Archibald. The circumstances around his death.”

“When did they arrive?” asks Simon.

Johnny remains quiet, his gaze still darting between Simon and Amelia.

“Yesterday,” answers Amelia.

Evie slouches forward, dropping her head into her hands.

“Is that it?” asks Simon, cautiously.

Amelia glances at Evie, her mouth turned downward into a frown. It’s not one of disappoint. It’s stress that’s creeping into her features. With a sigh, Amelia places Lillian into a rocker. Amelia grabs the edge and lightly presses down, the contraption moving in a slow bounce that quickly soothes Lillian’s irritation.

“Asked about potential enemies.” This time, Amelia’s sigh is much deeper. “It’s a strange question. Archie is incredibly kind. There isn’t anyone I know of that holds any ill will toward him. Everyone liked him. Everyone admired him.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t understand.”

Evie sniffles. Rubs her hands over her face. Glances up. “Why her?” she rasps. “What did she ever do to anyone?”

She didn’t. It’s all me.

The muscles in Simon’s shoulder tense. Walsh likely killed Archie because it suited his goals. If anything, Walsh executed him and moved on without another thought to the bloke. Walsh might have no idea that you are Evie’s friend or that Evie is Archie’s widow. The connection might not be there for Walsh at all.

The only person Walsh cares about is himself. The man has goals, and he fulfills them to whatever ends necessary. If that means taking out one or many, Walsh will do it without thinking twice. Evie might not even be on his radar.

But you?

You are.

All because of Simon. Not because of Archie and his connection to Evie. Walsh wants revenge. He wants Simon to suffer.

It is Simon that betrayed Walsh. Because of Simon’s actions—because of everything he did to take the man down—Walsh only wants you to for the simple goal of getting back at Simon.

When Johnny says nothing, and Simon remains silent, fresh tears fall from Evie’s eyes. “Maybe we should call the police, Amelia. We can’t handle this.”

“The police—” interjects Johnny but Evie continues on like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you for going. But we need to get the authorities involved.” Her hands are shaking even though she tries to hide it.

“No,” says Johnny sharply, one hand slightly raised.

Amelia and Evie both jump, turning toward him.

Johnny closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. When he opens them again, his tone is softer. “Simon called the right people to handle this. Local police can’t do anything.”

Both women frown, but Johnny continues.

“Simon,” begins Johnny, lingering for a moment before continuing, “used to be military.”

Amelia nods. “I’m aware. Known for years.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you know what he did?”

Amelia blinks. Shrugs. “A bit.”

She doesn’t know much. In fact, Amelia knows very little. What she does know is that Simon sustained a bad enough injury for them to force his retirement. Amelia doesn’t know why or how.

“Johnny here used to be on the same team as me. We were sent all over the world on international missions. Our targets weren’t grunts on the ground. We went after those who wanted to do terrible things to a lot of people in the worst ways possible.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate. Amelia and Evie don’t ask for clarification.

“I’m no longer in, but Johnny is. I called our captain, and he’s the one handling this.”

“Why?” asks Evie. “Why would you need to call someone like that for this?”

“Does this have to do with Archibald?” asks Amelia.

“No,” says Simon sharply before Johnny can answer.

He has to put this right. He needs to speak the truth even if it pains him. “It’s someone from my past. Someone I made an enemy of.” And then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

An apology is all Simon can offer. He has no comforting words for them because he has none for himself.

Evie glances away, her hand a fist that she presses against her mouth. There are no words spoken after that. She places her head on Amelia’s shoulder and the four of them lapse into silence.

It is Johnny that eventually wanders into the kitchen. He makes tea—poorly—but Simon accepts it anyway. He sits in an armchair, staring out the window as Bravo comforts Evie.

The two women don’t ask or tell Simon and Johnny to leave. Simon doesn’t know if Evie blames him. He wouldn’t mind. It’s deserved. But Amelia? That might hurt. Simon is loath to ask so he stays quiet.

Johnny carries the conversation. He speaks quietly to Evie and Amelia, asking them all sorts of questions that he’ll take back to Captain Price. Simon wants to suck it all in, to absorb the questions and trauma and hold it in his stomach to digest.

He’s seen worse. Done worse.

It is late by the time Simon and Johnny depart. It’s not true night but the sun is lowering, the sky awash with a reddish-purply glow. The walk back is utterly silent. Johnny and Simon linger with the sounds of passing cars and the occasional bark of a nearby dog.

Simon’s thoughts are elsewhere. Everywhere but his own head. His mind is there—processing, but there are no connections. It’s spinning static.

But Johnny is present. He is a solid presence beside Simon.

And it is Johnny that grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt before they reach the exterior door to Simon’s building.

Frowning, Simon glances up, scanning the street, muscles poised for action. He expects someone to fall from the sky or for Walsh to appear with weapon in hand. Simon will take that if it means getting you back.

“Stay here, Lt,” murmurs Johnny from the corner of his mouth.

The crease in Simon’s brow deepens but Johnny is already moving, leaving Simon on the pavement as he approaches the door. Simon’s gaze follows every step, and when Johnny reaches out to grab something white off the door, Simon doesn’t know he’s moving until Johnny turns toward him, a bit startled.

“I told you to stay,” snaps Johnny but there’s no venom in it. Only concern. Pity. And Simon hates that.

Simon’s response is not to speak but to snatch the thing out of Soap’s fist.

It’s another envelope. White like the last one. No postage like the last one. And there on the front in handwritten scrawl is Simon’s full name.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home.

Was Walsh here? Has he been watching Simon all this time? Is he here even now, lingering in a nearby building to watch Simon’s reaction to whatever is inside?

“Simon,” warns Johnny, but he’s not listening.

He needs to know—to fucking know.

Simon tears open the envelope and withdraws the small piece of paper.

It is thin. Wispy. Almost translucent.

The words are even thinner—as if the paper was kissed by smoke.

There are seeds that cannot sprout unless they are burned first. A friend told me that.

Simon told Walsh that—when Walsh thought Simon was an ally and not an enemy. When Simon was a plant and gaining information that would turn Walsh’s entire operation upside down.

I think of it often. I think of you. Isn’t it interesting that some living things must first burn before they can grow? What a gift that friend gave me. What a garden you and I are.

“Simon,” comes Johnny’s voice, but he’s not listening.

Everything is narrowing down to a point. He is fracturing all over again.

It rained that night. I burned like the seed. The sky watered my skin. I germinated. I flowered. I grew. What a gift. We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Call Price,” whispers Simon.

“Lt?”

“Call Price, Johnny.”

Simon knows.

He knows.

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[whatifyoulivelikethat]

peppermint gum, m | jjk | and burst forth

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

It’s impossible to fall in love when you’re already in love. And Jeon Jungkook was in love. Helplessly. But what could he do? Time passed. The world became tasteless to his eyes. All he could do was hold onto the crisp and intense color of those memories, remember her words, and wonder where she was now. Savor, and burst forth.

click here for part i | this is part ii | total wc: 25k

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; this story contains parental child abuse - child neglect and abandonment; sloooow burn; mild alcohol consumption; hardcore pining JK; angst and fluff and feels; (in part ii) smut (fem reader, slight D/s dynamic, so much kissing, hair pulling, scratching / marking. grinding, choking, m-receiving oral, finger sucking, fingering, nipple play, m-masturbation, thigh riding, edging, penetrative sex, doggy, multiple orgasms); shifts back and forth between Jungkook’s POV and your POV; from lovers-to-strangers-to-lovers again :)

non-idol!AU; pining!Jungkook x noona!reader — ft JK’s helpful? friends Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin; reader’s close friend and talented guitarist, Kang Hyungu (ONEWE’s Kanghyun if you want to see his appearance, hehe, same personality); JK has all his piercings and has hair (lol)

--

Jungkook woke up with crusty eyes and on top of the love of his life.

Sexy.

Not.

He woke up with a start, the last dregs of an icy and panicked nightmare clawing at him. He couldn’t even remember what happened. The only way he could describe the sensation was that it was as if the color blue had become an emotion. Which was crazy talk, but honestly at this point what was new? After all, Jungkook was peeling his eyes open with effort and seeing the most beautiful sleeping face under him, even with the dark circles under her eyes.

He froze.

Oh, shit, what have I done?

A frown flitted over her features.

Her eyes opened a crack.

He squeaked and immediately ducked. Shoved his face into her chest, hurriedly wiping away at his face with the cuffs of his sleeves. I can’t show my face like this, I look so stupid and pathetic, I–

“Jungkook?”

Her voice was low and unused.

“What… What the fuck are you doing?”

He could still feel the residual ache between his eyes from crying so much, but at least he had cleaned up his eyes and felt a little less like a crispy bun left in the oven too long. “I…” Pausing, but the truth came tumbling out anyway. “I didn’t want you to see me ugly…”

He mumbled into his hands.

She snorted and Jungkook jumped as her hands settled in his waist, squeezing him, only now realizing that his sweatshirt paws were on top of the curve of her breasts. Thankfully, she was clearly wearing a padded bra under. How she slept in it was beyond him. Then again, she managed to sleep with a whole ass man on top of her, although his lower body was in between her legs.

She held onto him.

“Believe me, I’ve seen ugly. You’ll never be close to ugly in my eyes.”

She said it sleepily and with her head tilting back to stretch her neck. He couldn’t say anything. How could he? Oh, sure, if he was unserious, and he opened his mouth to joke back but nothing came out. He almost wanted to cry again. Instead, he shut his mouth and trembled, trying not to put too much weight onto her. She either didn’t care or had enough grace to not comment.

“You still snore pretty bad.”

“S… Sorry.”

She cracked her neck and exhaled over his head.

Her hands relaxed and slid over his lower back.

His eyes widened, overwhelmed by the cool, heady rush swirling through his body at her touch.

“I got used to it then, so I guess it’ll just take time,” she murmured.

For a second.

For a fleeting, perfect second, Jungkook was held by his most precious memory.

Then, she patted him in the back and her hands retreated. A soft groan and her palms planted onto his chest, lightly pushing him away, wiggling under him. He promptly backed up, turning his head away and hiding his disappointment, but she didn’t look in his direction, stretching and yawning, pointing towards the bathroom, go ahead and get washed up, I’ll get you a towel for your face, and he latched onto the suggestion to scurry away, trying not to seem too hurried, his large black parka carelessly falling onto the floor with a heavy thump.

It was suddenly cold and far too bright.

But he couldn’t run back to her.

His head snapped towards the mirror the second he burst into the bathroom.

I look like shit.

The pink flush on his cheeks deepened to red as he approached the sink, dropping his head and turning on the water. Splashing his face and gasping at the cold. Fuck, I am such an idiot. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be cool, calm, and collected and sweep her off her feet with his newfound coolness. Instead, he had broken down and cried like a child in her arms until he passed out from all the emotional energy he expelled. Great. Way to look dumb, Jeon Jungkook. He scrubbed at his face with his palms, hoping to peel off a layer and reveal a better man, as if he was some kind of golden onion and not a fractured, incomplete, whiny little bitch.

“Hey. Hey! Maybe you’ve heard of the term facial peel, but what you are doing is not what the term means.”

Jungkook jumped at the interruption, and was greeted with a plop to the face from a fluffy white towel. His reflexes caught it right away, pressing it to his cheeks, embarrassed again. All he could muster out was a t-thanks, and then he started again as he felt her crouch and open the cabinet under the sink, accompanied by sounds of clunking.

“Here. Pick a toothbrush. Pink or purple?”

He yanked the towel off his face and saw himself in the mirror, his half-wet black hair sticking straight up, and then he looked down, startled and wide-eyed. She raised an eyebrow at him, down on one knee and prosing the choice of a light pink toothbrush in one hand and a lavender-colored one in the other.

She shrugged. “Sorry. Last ones in the multipack are these colors. I save the fun colors for guests so they can distinguish themselves.”

He glanced at the one in the holder and it had a black handle.

“Uh… I guess I’ll take the purple…”

He took it, careful not to made skin-to-skin contact.

She disappeared under the sink again.

“I have a travel toothpaste if–”

He jerked his head, his mouth full of suds.

“Or you can just use mine,” she said slowly, lowering her hand. She shoved the travel toothpaste back under the sink, presumably in its previous hiding place. “Not like we haven’t swapped spit before, I guess.”

He tried to apologize, but she stood up, waving it away.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she asked, taking her toothbrush and starting her own routine.

It felt…

Normal.

Shockingly, unbelievingly, scarily normal. Her and him, in close quarters, standing beside each other and sharing the mirror and the space. Similar to his small apartment back then. Similar to the tiny hotel rooms they sometimes visited when his previous roommate was there. These days Jungkook had a bigger apartment and lived alone. Just like her, it seemed. She had was a clean and modern bathroom, but he saw her touches all around it. The black cherry scented lotion. The large dark gray bath towel with a matching fluffy hair towel wrap hanging on a hook beside it. The black wire basket above the toilet held neatly stacked white rolls. They looked soft and plush.

Her toothbrush holder was matte black glass.

Sleek and elegant.

He leaned down and used his hands to cup some water, the used towel around his shoulders. Rinsed and spit, trying to be efficient. And not disgusting. He continued staring down at the sink bowl.

Unable to lift his head.

“You… You must be tired of me…” he mumbled, exhaling as evenly as he could, the mint flavor cooling his tongue and the inside of his mouth.

She answered slightly muffled.

But dead serious.

“You can stop pretending you are inconveniencing me and simply accept what I’m doing for you.”

Jungkook raised his head.

There was a brief heartbeat exchanged in the mirror. Seeing each other in reflection. Somehow it was more honest than being eye to eye. Well, of course, because he had been having trouble all morning making any real eye contact, but in that brief moment, in that second of time that felt like hours, in that gum bubble right before the jarring pop moment, she saw right through him. He let himself be seen, and it seemed as if she knew and accepted what his true feelings were, despite his fear of his wants being too ugly to admit. Knowing him better then he knew himself, just like how it always was.

Had been.

What?

She kept brushing her teeth absentmindedly, and then moved past him, picking up the other cup to rinse her own mouth and spit. He backed away, but not too far. Wiped his hands on the towel given to him. The unspoken intent lingered, do you still not understand what is happening here, and he did, but he was afraid to be wrong.

He was so very afraid.

And yet.

Her head was right there, soft hair and all.

His hand lifted.

She rose quickly and his hand retreated immediately. She was speaking and opening the mirror, revealing the hidden cabinet and an array of crammed skincare. All higher end brands, along with an onyx gua sha stone with its own stand, and a lip balm she plucked off the edge and applied.

“I have bread, eggs, cheese. Can make eggy toast topped with cheese and have kimchi on the side. Extra butter to make the bread crispier. You’ll like it.”

“I… wuh?”

-

You make the eggy toast and ate breakfast with Jungkook.

A big chunk of butter slapped into the hot pan. Then pan-toasting the bread on both sides until golden brown before pressing down the center of the bread slice with a ladle, creating a shallow bowl to drop an egg in. You had let the egg cook for a bit before sprinkling a little salt and white pepper, then added shredded cheese on top and covered the pan, giving it a few seconds to melt before removing the eggy bread from its warm home and onto a plate. Added some kimchi on the side for some prickled freshness and handed the meal to Jungkook, who had hovered around you the entire time, providing various oohs and aahs with your every action.

Your one-man hype squad.

It wasn’t the most Korean meal, but he had been drinking the night prior. A hangover meal of sorts.

You didn’t talk much.

You had already done enough. It was pretty obvious what was going on here. The real question was whether or not to let it happen. Still, you couldn’t let Jungkook cry himself to sleep in your arms the night before and not send him off with a full belly. Even if he never spoke to you again, it wouldn’t have sat right with you. It felt too heartless to straighten up and tell him to get out right after waking.

And, anyway.

You had missed him.

It made no sense. It wasn’t like you had deeply invested into those few months with him. You had been too caught up in your endless cycle of self-destruction to truly appreciate how much Jungkook liked you. It was obvious, of course. He followed you like a puppy and never wanted to leave your presence, but you had chalked it up to him being young and not knowing better. In fact, you had originally thought he was still chasing a fantasy up until last night, but no amount of your denial could explain away his words or those tears. He had grown up, at least enough to understand that reality and dreams weren’t one and the same. And yet he had clung onto those memories of you, even if he thought that the future he was heading towards was tasteless.

That took a certain kind of stubbornness.

Well, you must be stubborn to stay in love, no?

You paused mid-bite.

Jungkook was stuffing his face. You had made him two pieces. He had seemed very hungry. You spooned more kimchi onto his plate distractedly, your mind wandering. Devotion was stubbornness. Wavering was lack thereof. Stubbornness was often an act of selfishness and that was still true in love. It just depended on how one imposed that selfishness onto another.

You felt a tap on the back of your hand.

You started, blinking out of your thoughts.

He was staring.

“You didn’t finish eating,” Jungkook gulped, tilting his head. “Something wrong? I thought it was really tasty.”

This was coming from someone who would eat basically anything. Still, you took it as a compliment. Not because you needed to be complimented, no, because you saw his black-brown eyes sparkle when you half-smiled at his comment. Just for that. Just to give him the small happiness of knowing you valued his praise. You could be humble about the culinary skills you had acquired over the years simply so you didn’t look arrogant, but, then again, the result would be that Jungkook would feel as if his words weren’t worthwhile and that was not the truth.

Even if your mind wasn’t so sure, you still smiled for him.

No matter the result, you loved me back then, in the only way you know how. You taught me about your love, whether I believed in it or not. Very ox-like of you, Jeon Jungkook.

“Do you think we should go on a date?” you suddenly asked.

His big peepers popped open wide.

“A d-date?!”

-

“What should I wear?!”

“Nothing.”

Park Jimin and Kim Taehyung high-fived each other with a simultaneous maniacal giggle as Jungkook stood next to his open closet door with his eyebrow twitching. So much for having older friends giving their mature opinions.

“Very funny,” Jungkook muttered under his breath.

“Isn’t that how you get ‘em, JK?” Taehyung teased, grinning with all his teeth. Typically, Kim Taehyung gave off a mature, elegant vibe. He was the kind of handsome that could elevate any look with his strong features and cool demeanor. The deep baritone voice only added to his manliness. “Just rip off your shirt and bam!”

With close friends, though, Taehyung was an idiot.

“What if he walked into the restaurant and tore open his shirt?” Park Jimin snorted behind his small hand, trying to be polite but failing miserably with the nonsense coming out of his mouth. “Do you think his date would notice first or do you think he would get arrested first?” The epitome of cute and airy, Jimin was the type that ended up being social because he looked so approachable with his soft features and endearing eye smile. He always drew in a crowd with his genuine emotion behind his carefully considered words.

Which meant that Jimin was also the type to rub in the teasing until he really, really grated those nerves.

Sigh.

“You’re not helping, guys,” Jungkook growled, thumbing through his very monochrome closet. Black, white, gray, classic blue denim. Not much color. Shit, was he really this boring? Honestly, he ended up selecting basics mostly for the reducing decision fatigue when picking out an outfit for every day. It did not, however, help when he needed to impress.

Especially because Jungkook rarely wore or owned any formal wear.

Was a dress shirt too much? Too little? Not a good indication of the kind of man he was now? He didn’t want to portray like a better or false version of himself. But he had to look good. Fuck. This was way easier when his only goal was to get laid and not to have a relationship.

“You still haven’t told us who it is,” Taehyung piped up, still sitting on the end of Jungkook’s bed with Jimin. One would think the fashion model of the two would get up and start pulling things, but he didn’t budge.

“Yeah, we need deets,” Jimin chimed in. “We can’t suggest anything without context.”

Jungkook responded flatly. “It’s a girl.”

He could practically hear the eye roll in Jimin’s response. “Wow, what an underwhelming gender reveal. Next time bring those poppers with pink confetti while you’re at it.”

“Uh, well, do you know her personally or is this blind date status?” Taehyung asked, sounding confused.

“I know her.”

Jungkook knew precisely why Taehyung was confused, but didn’t address it. Jimin, however.

“Why are you being so cagey? By now you would have shown us a pic.”

Yeah, by now, he would have shown a face photo or even the dating profile. To be honest, Jimin was the most useful on pinpointing perfect outfits that screamed “fuck me now” even with only a few pics or a limited text exchange. He was some kind of wizard at that. Personal experience? Who knew. Taehyung ended up being emotional support and occasionally the voice of reason.

“Ugh, is it that stuck-up bitch from a couple months ago?” Taehyung suddenly stood up, coming up behind Jungkook. “I don’t like her.”

“I told you I didn’t even sleep with that one,” Jungkook mumbled, moving away as Taehyung thumbed through his jackets, took out a fitted light denim one, and put it on himself, modeling in the full-length mirror for who-the-hell-knows-what reason. Too casual, right?

“Good, because nobody liked her,” Jimin tutted.

Yet she did look similar to a clean someone.

Not as pretty, though, Jungkook knew.

Sometimes he had to take what he could get. Not that time, because they were both right. That woman’s personality was awful. Had been best to run right away. Jungkook frowned as Jimin stuck his hand out right in front of his face, waving it around.

“Give me your phone.”

“No.”

“We need pics!”

Jungkook offered one detail. “She’s hot.”

“No shit?!” Jimin gasped sarcastically. He staggered back with a fluff of his bleach blond hair. “That’s so out of character for you!”

Jungkook glared and thought about biting him.

Did not.

For now.

“Ah!”

Jungkook froze. That was the type of exclamation Taehyung let out when he realized something important. The kind where Taehyung pointed upward and popped his fist into his open palm, about to say the very important thing and blow everyone’s minds.

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

He could sense Taehyung was facing him now. Jungkook couldn’t raise his head to look. His abrupt muteness was enough of answer. He felt Taehyung’s strong hand on his shoulder, but he continued to stare at his clothes as if they could magically answer in his stead, chewing on the left side of his lower lip nervously.

“Am I right, Jungkookie?” Taehyung asked again softly. “I thought you said she disappeared.”

It’s impossible to fall in love when I have always been in love with you.

There was a pang in his chest, sharp and intense.

“Guess… Guess nobody disappears forever,” he finally muttered.

Jimin jerked back, stunned. “Woah, wait, wait.”

Taehyung knew more than Jimin. Not really for any other reason than gut feeling. Somehow, after he had finished moping and feeling sorry for himself, Jungkook had felt that Taehyung would understand the intensity of it all. Taehyung had a grounded personality, but there was certain je ne sais quoi about the dark-haired man. Call it a hunch from the partial truths of described rendezvous in Paris and his occasionally off-the-cuff viewpoint on things. Taehyung had always been inseparable from Jimin ever since they met, so Jungkook had to tell the other male too, but back then Jimin was kind of a…

Well.

A slut.

Safe and consensual, but dude had been going through his hoe phase. He hadn’t been in a place to understand how profound those memories had been for Jungkook. Therefore, Jungkook had just said he really loved her despite the short timeline. Jimin had told him he was an idiot to believe that. Taehyung had whacked Jimin in the back of the head for that. He did apologize right away, but it wasn’t until years later that Jimin really comprehended the depth and apologized. By then, though.

It was all too late.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jimin worriedly chittered. “She broke your heart last time. Bad.”

Jungkook looked up.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Taehyung persisted. “Come on, don’t act like we haven’t noticed you have a type. You think Jimin and I are cross-eyed and blind? Not to mention you usually drop girls like hot potatoes with your weak-ass excuses.”

“Yeah, for instance, you randomly stopped seeing one girl because she liked sweets,” Jimin pointed out.

“She likes sweets,” Jungkook interrupted. “But only sour candy. She would always give me any chocolate she received.”

Taehyung rubbed his forehead, his tan skin glowing under the overhead lights. “Dude.”

“This is not good for you.” Jimin sighed, expression apprehensive. He resembled the skeptical emoticon with his rounder and more animated face. “Setting aside if she has become a better person or not… why now? And could she really be as great as you think she is or are you trying to make her live up to an impossible fantasy?”

“It just happened,” Jungkook snapped. “We ran into each other the other night.”

Jimin frowned. “A little fast, isn’t it?” He was slipping into his Busan satoori with his frustration. It often came out around at the same time Jungkook’s did since they were born in the same area.

“Did you at least talk to her for a long time?” Taehyung playing devil’s advocate in this case. He loved a swift romance, as unlikely as it could be. Red string of fate, soulmates, the works. “What was it like?”

Jungkook would never call himself a poet.

He simply answered exactly how he felt.

“It was like I was able to finally come home after a long journey,” he breathed out.

Jimin and Taehyung exchanged a look. But Jungkook didn’t care anymore, lost in her smile, her touch, her smell, lost in that night. It didn’t make any sense, of course, because she was vibrant as she was calm, but that was how it was. Coming home. Like bursts of color back into his desaturated world. From the mundane to the extraordinary, even from something as basic as standing beside each other and brushing their teeth.

He had just liked knowing it was her.

“Did you guys sleep together?”

Jungkook gave Taehyung a side-eye. He got a shrug in response.

“No. We… went home.”

What?

Was he supposed to say, no, I ended up at her place and I cried myself to sleep in her arms? Hell no. Some things were meant to be secrets. Even Jungkook had good enough sense to leave well enough alone. Couple white lies here and there weren’t going to condemn him. Sex before marriage might, but, eh, in that case he had been damnned for long before now. Whoops.

“Uh huh,” Jimin mused. “Alright then. Let’s pick an outfit.”

“What about this?”

“Taehyung, you would wear that,” Jimin scolded, pulling out an olive-green bomber jacket.

“Aren’t sweater vests are outdated? I saw that on TikTok.”

“They’re not outdated!” Taehyung scolded Jungkook, putting back the black sweater vest with white trim. “Also, real life is not TikTok, dork. I was thinking without an inner shirt, anyway. Show off the arms.”

Jimin hummed, considering. “Something lighter. Do you have something similar in cream? Or beige? Plus some medium wash blue jeans and a studded belt. She was kinda edgy, I remember.”

“Uh, lemme look…”

“Beanie?”

“Yo, the hat hair?” The Busan dialect was coming out again due to Jimin’s agitation.

“He looks cute in them!”

“We’re not serving egg even if he is over easy.”

It took a moment for Jungkook to register the scalding degree of that burn.

“Hey!”

-

“What should I wear?”

“Clothes?”

You turned around to see Kang Hyungu with his raised hands and a clueless expression. “Normal people wear clothes to a date,” he reasonably stated.

You answered dryly.

“Very funny.”

You were not amused. The cerulean-haired guitarist struggled and turned away from the video call, rummaging around in his kitchen and making a lot of noise. From this angle you could peek the bottom of his dark purple undercut and his cutesy Pingu t-shirt. Hyungu was a very manly looking guy, but he never hesitated to wear graphics that he found adorable. Too secure not to.

“You didn’t order take-out again, did you?”

He made a noise that was neither affirmative or negative, which meant he definitely did. “I’m not in the mood to cook.” The word cook was being used generously here.

“Which means you made melodies all day, huh?” you interjected.

Hyungu stuck his big eyes and handsome (yet generally expressionless) face back onto the screen. “It’s such a burden to be so talented and hardworking, but someone has to do it.”

You ignored his plight. “Should I wear a dress?” you asked, pawing through your hanging articles of clothing.

“Duh.”

You frowned and looked over the dresses one by one. None of them felt right though. The date was a meal and then who knows. There was a variety of shops around the area, so it might be fun to look around and talk, perhaps. Tight dresses out, probably. You weren’t about to freeze your ass off for the vibes.

“Maybe I should wear pants?” you wondered out loud.

“Nah, noona. You look way better in dresses.”

Despite not having much expression around strangers, Hyungu had strong opinions when asked. In fact, he was so quiet that he often faded into the background before chiming in at the most random of times. He was one year younger than Jungkook. Upon first glance, he looked older, but anyone who knew Hyungu personally was subject to his seriously unserious nature.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Somebody I used to know,” you replied absentmindedly, pulling out a high-waisted black skirt with silver hardware and pleather suspenders. Hm.

You heard the frown in his voice. “Someone I know?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anybody I go on dates with,” you shot back, pulling out a white ruffled shirt and a black velvet one. The skirt was designed to sit right under the bust so some type of undershirt was a must. The white seemed too contrasting. You could unbutton a few buttons of the black velvet dress shirt, or maybe go for a fitted red-and-black striped top to make it more casual. Maybe more casual was the move. The sushi restaurant wasn’t upscale. But, also, you didn’t care about being overdressed. A loose t-shirt might be a cool vibe too. Choices.

“They like you for the wrong reasons,” Hyungu scolded, ramming noodles into his mouth.

“Who cares?”

Nah, black velvet shirt it was. More comfortable and the mixing of textures made for a good monotone outfit. Plain black knit thigh-high socks were a no-brainer too. Plus, then you could wear black boots which was better for the colder weather.

“I do! They’re lame and disrespectful.”

You hunted for your sterling silver guitar pick necklace. “I keep telling you that I’m not looking for a relationship with them.”

“Well, you should look for a relationship with someone.”

You upturned your lips and raised an eyebrow at the screen of your phone propped up against your perfumes. Hyungu’s face still hadn’t changed much from his baseline neutral, other than one cheek bouncing up and down with each chew. At least he had the decency to keep his mouth shut. “This again?”

“You deserve to be happy, noona.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused.

Then you rolled your eyes. “Some guy isn’t gonna make me happy.”

“The guy will make you happy.” And then Hyungu shoveled some rice in his mouth. He was a man of equality. All carbs were his friends.

You let out a silent, heavy exhale. “You’re so sure about that.”

“Yeah, I am,” he continued with a munch. “Even if you’re delusional about it.”

You puffed one cheek. “I’m not delusional about anything. I’m very rational.”

“I might have been drunk but I wasn’t blind, noona.”

You froze.

“I’ve never seen you act that way around a guy, ever.”

You tapped your fingertips against your dresser drawer, out of his field of view. The long seconds ticked by. Fuck it. “What do you think of him?” you questioned.

Hyungu made a scrunched face as he fought with the lid of a container that seemed to contain cucumber salad. His mother must have made it for him. “What was his name again?”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

“Oh. Yeah, he was with the group that was friends of the band, right?”

“Yeah.”

He paused, twisting his lips to one side. “Mmm, can’t really remember that well. It was kind of noisy and you know how it is for me when there’s a bigger group and I’m not super close with anyone there.”

Your shoulders slumped. “I thought you said you were fine.”

He waved a hand, debating for a moment before simply eating out of the container. “Gotta keep trying to get used to it. Anyway, I was more focused on getting along with the band since we have five more shows. But he did help us in getting home. He must not be a bad guy.” He looked up at you. In some ways, Hyungu was the most honest when he was playing guitar. People not close to him found him hard to read.

He was no mystery to you, though.

“Can’t you tell that he really likes you?”

You broke his gaze, almost guiltily.

“No one is supposed to like me. I’m scary on purpose.”

Hyungu laughed.

“You’re never been scary, noona.”

In the silence that followed, you and Hyungu had a silent conversation in words unsaid. You didn’t look towards the screen, preferring instead to turn around and look through your jackets, pretending to search for something. You had been told before that you were unapproachable. That was by choice. You didn’t need nosy loons talking about shit that they didn’t know about. Thankfully, Hyungu had never done that. He simply told you what was what. Again, he was highly observant and, apparently, he had paid attention to Jungkook’s obvious signals.

“I don’t know the history between you two, but you would be crazy not to go for someone who looks at you like that, noona.”

You turned around halfway, cocking your head. “Have you ever known me not to be crazy?”

He shot you one of those looks of his. The fed-up-with-your-shit look. “Then you would be stupid. And I know you’re not stupid,” he warned, as if it was a threat. “Wear your long black fur coat. My mom is calling. Have fun.”

And then you saw him reach over and end the video call.

You stared at the phone screen as it faded to black.

Then you scoffed, shaking your head.

“No need to be so weird about it, sheesh…”

-

“Uh, before I forget, I meant to tell you that you look really nice today, noona.”

She stepped out of the restaurant and gave him an amused smile. “After the meal?”

“S-Sorry!”

Jungkook knew Jimin and Taehyung would call him an idiot. Taehyung had told him repeatedly to remember to compliment her and stuff like that, but they had gotten so caught up with catching up on each other’s lives after their parting that Jungkook had forgotten. He had told her about his video editing job at a music company and how he was working more towards production and directing. She had told him about how she worked to live, but her day-to-day job turned out to be a book editor with occasional other side projects. Somehow, strangely similar types of careers. Jungkook had told her about his friends and their antics. How he realized he was losing opportunities to make memories by staying in so he was trying to go out more to treasure those people. She had told him about how she never grew out of her gaming habit and how, with money, it had gotten worse. And how the rest of her free time and cash was spent on going to festivals and events to support Hyungu and his band, but it turned out she really loved discovering indie music as much as the next pop hit.

It was as if they were…

Friends.

It had been so easy, so simple despite his initial awkwardness. He had thought, for a moment, that she regretted asking him, but as soon as they sat down, she gently prodded him with conversation. The restaurant atmosphere left them alone together out in public. It was surprising because he remembered, back then at the PC bang, she had been prickly and reluctant to engage in human interaction. Now, she was confident and involved in their conversation. He saw flashes of her old, closed-off self when she paused before telling him something about herself.

But then she seemed to brush it aside and spoke calmly.

Is it because of me?

He didn’t know. It was clear, however, that things had changed.

She had become more whole and, in turn, more beautiful.

“Thanks, though,” she said with a laugh, buttoning her long black fur coat. Jungkook was a bit said about that because the all-black skirt and velvet shirt combo with the guitar pick silver necklace was so cool. Still, it was a frigid night, so he understood.

“I really did mean to tell you right away,” he insisted. They had chosen to walk around a bit to walk off the Japanese food they had just enjoyed. He was jam-packed with sushi.

“Your stunned face tipped me off enough. And the literal five seconds of silence and constant staring when I sat down.”

He felt his cheeks heat. “O… Oh.”

“I like how you look today too.”

She smiled at him.

Jungkook nearly stumbled. “T-Thanks! Although… I actually had a little help,” he admitted, sticking his hands in the pockets of his olive-green bomber jacket again. He had almost tripped only because his black combat boots had a platform. That was all. Yeah. Not because he dearly loved her smiling at him or anything.

“Well, they have a good eye, so I appreciate them.”

He tried not to roll his eyes. “They would love to hear that.” But he wasn’t going to tell them. Nope.

“Hey.”

He stopped as she paused on the sidewalk. Turned around and she was looking down the street before back at him. A moment of hesitation.

Then.

She held out her hand.

Jungkook stared at it with wide eyes, his jaw dropping.

Her expression was between sheepish and amused, the corner of her lips ticking upwards. “This is a date, right? Let’s try it. Holding hands.”

He didn’t know how to feel. It wasn’t as if he was foreign to public displays of affection, but back then he had always been the one to initiate. It had seemed that she tolerated it and he had continued to do it, blind to the inequality of affection. She had only initiated sexual activity, about as often as he did. But something like this? It was only now that he realized how much he had wished she had, even if only in private.

To others, it would seem odd that such a small action of affection would hold much significance.

He reached out.

Fingertips hovering over her palm.

He raised his head and Jungkook looked right at her, blinking hard, wondering if he was dreaming.

“Is it… Is it really okay?”

Her small smile shone in her eyes.

“Unless you have sweaty hands?” she lightly joked.

He felt his cheeks flush hotly. The innocent comment suddenly reminded him. “Oh, uh… k-kinda, actually… w-well, they might g-get clammy ‘cause they get that way when I’m nervous, um…”

She let out a chuckle and dropped her hand.

“Okay.”

Before he could blurt out a hasty, w-wait, she stepped forward and hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow, resting her fingers on his right forearm, so close now that he could smell her warm, comforting perfume.

“How about this?”

She tugged him forward with their linked arms. He looked down at her, startled, but now there was mischievous glint in those mysterious orbs shadowed by lashes. His skin prickled from the closeness, even underneath all the layers. Legs moving forward even if his brain hadn’t caught up.

“You thought I didn’t remember that you like skinship?”

“I… I thought…” He swallowed, trying to clear his throat and the fluttering of butterflies that had shot up from his stomach and into his throat. “I thought you hated it.”

She shrugged. “Normally I do. But I want you to be my exception.”

It was a good thing walking was a muscle memory action because Jungkook was pretty sure he was in a different daydream dimension at her response. Er, nightdream? Whatever. He couldn’t fuck this up. Well, the crying on the couch was always a point against him, probably. He winced at the cringey memory.

“Noona, um.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry about the other night to your place.”

“You mean when you sobbed and became a puddle on my sofa.”

Ouch. “Y-Yeah…”

“I can’t say I expected it. It’s all good though. I’ve fallen asleep on that couch countless times.”

It’s impossible to fall in love when I have always been in love with you. At the time, he had been too emotional to gauge her response to everything he said. Maybe this was all a pity ploy to his extreme reaction. He didn’t want to believe that, but his mind was restless at the thought.

He needed to know.

“I meant it though. Everything I said.”

“I never took you for a liar,” she answered, holding onto him as they walked in step, their bodies lit up by the various colored lights each shop used to entice customers to enter.

He had to inhale deeply before asking. “I should have asked you how you felt though, before running my mouth like that.”

There was sound all around them. Noisy cars. Music from inside the stores and blasting dully from vehicles. Chatter from people all around them, on phones or huddled together. The echoes of steps blending together into an endless nighttime march. The occasional laugh or dinging of a bell when someone left a store. People who passed them glanced quickly before looking away.

It was conceited, but Jungkook enjoyed seeing their flashes of envy, even if all strangers could see was their outward appearance.

None of them knew the whirlwind between these bodies.

“I am the kind of person that always believed the past is in the past,” she finally said, holding onto him tighter. He tried not to stiffen when he realized the back of his upper arm was right by the side of her clothed breasts. “It took me a while to accept that I can’t do anything about the past or how it affected me. Likewise, I don’t really believe in reconnecting with people. Drifting apart is natural. Not negative or positive, per se. Just happens. I always believed it happens for a reason.”

Oh.

He bit the left side of his lower lip. She continued.

“You asked me back then, aren’t you afraid that I’ll forget you? I answered a bit cheekily, I remember, but your question stuck with me. Nobody has ever asked me that, you know? In fact, I am used to being forgotten.”

There was something about her voice.

The quality of it had gotten mistier. Introspective. And hurt. It was not directed at him, but it was there despite an obvious attempt on hiding it. He felt her grasp onto him tighter, although maybe it was less about the physical aspect and rather to the things he had said.

“I had become so used to it, in fact, that I thought your question was ridiculous. Forget me? Of course, you will. It would be better if you do. We all need to move on from our past and not cling to a memory holding us back.” She let out a mirthless laugh, but softened, leaning her head against his shoulder. If the current topic wasn’t so serious, Jungkook would have been over the moon. His heart beat fast regardless. “But you didn’t forget me. Even after all this time. I thought it was just because you wanted your dick blown.”

To be fair, that was a reason on the list.

Lower priority, but there.

Jungkook, once again, shut his mouth and left well enough alone.

She let out a breath.

It quivered in the cold, crisp night air and disappeared.

“I use reason and logic in my everyday life to interact with others. To maintain relationships. But love? Love is something that has no reason. I don’t know how I feel towards the idea. I would not say the emotion is afraid, but it is not a positive one either. The idea of love constantly reminds me that it is something I lack. That something so basic was supposed to be mine, but I was denied it throughout my childhood without knowing it.”

She stopped.

Jungkook turned and saw she was gazing up at the moon. There were no stars visible from the city, but everyone knew they were up there.

“Did you notice I don’t talk about my parents?” she asked softly.

He did. “Yeah.”

Her tone seemed apologetic. “Is it selfish to expect some kind of affection from those who birthed you? Or even only a simple co-habitation relationship? Anything other than nothing?”

Well, shit. “I don’t think so.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I almost wished they had given me away. Or hated me. Something. Anything.”

Jungkook didn’t know what to say.

Firstly, because he was not good at comforting anyone. Not even himself. He was simply sulky until he kinda got over it. Granted, much of it was first-world problems. He could always go running to his parents for advice or solutions if he couldn’t think of any. Or his friends. But deeply personal stuff he kept to himself. It felt almost a burden to say something, so on some level he could understand the importance of what she was saying. Why it was significant that she felt the need to tell him. He could feel it and he was grateful she was willing to express it to him.

“I don’t want you to experience a fraction of what I did. I don’t even know how deeply those moments are embedded in me,” she sighed, loosening her grip on him. “I see those moments reflected in my instincts. The scars of my past stick to the soles of my shoes no matter where I step. I don’t know how much of it is my true feelings or something that is simply fundamentally wrong with me.”

He remembered something.

“But you said you want to learn love,” he said quietly.

They stayed beside each other, warmth whirling with warmth even when surrounded by cold, crisp air.

“I did say that, yeah.”

Then all those littler things. The things she said and the way she said them. The offer.

“I don’t really understand love either,” Jungkook admitted.

She chuckled. “Yeah, I got that from your chaotic reentry back into my life.”

Their arms were still entangled. Although she was the one holding onto him, Jungkook was the one who brought his arm closer to his body, pinning her forearm to him. She accepted it, not moving away. His body sung at the contact but his thoughts trembled.

He whispered to the moon and the darkness above them.

“I’m scared that one day you won’t want me to be in your life anymore. Again.”

He couldn’t look at her. He was not about to bawl in public, for fuck’s sake.

“Don’t let this end.”

I have always been in love with you.

No person could fill that void. He tried, countless times. Jungkook knew it was impossible, stupid, pathetic, crazy, all the conclusions. But it was not crazy to know that he would never be the same. Even so, he could have lived a satisfactory life. A fun one, even. It was not fair to chase those that didn’t want to be found, so he hadn’t. If it was all for the best, then it was for the best.

But she came back to him.

His peppermint gum love.

“I’ll be stuck to you, you know.”

He turned his head and found her looking back at him. His pit-a-pat heartbeat, following the pop of each bubble, sharp and exciting, and he savored it. The seconds, the moments, the memories, all swirling into one. Everything. Everything, bright and intense and reminding him how it was like to live life.

Jungkook grinned.

“Okay.”

She smiled and raised herself.

And kissed him.

It was as if his fractured, desaturated world fell into place all at once and color burst forth.

Her soft scent pressed up against him, persistent, clinging, and he drowned in it, leaning into her lips, the softness and honesty together. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm to steady herself, their bodies now closer together, one of her legs between his. She had stepped forward to turn and make the distance. He held her, his left arm around her waist, and he wondered how it got there. A reflexive reaction, apparently.

She broke apart, her lingering exhale warming his lips.

He frowned slightly, opening his eyes.

“Heh. That’s it for now. We shouldn’t be so forward in public, after all,” she pointed out with a smirk.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. Put on his best, most convincing pout. “Who cares?”

She was laughing, shaking her head at him. “I do. You want to start this off with an arrest for public indecency? That’s a bang for sure.” She pulled on his arm, indicating them towards the sidewalk again.

“Hmph, fine, but one more kiss.”

And he yanked her back, pressing his lips to hers again, and if this was impossible, stupid, pathetic, crazy, if he really was a fool, then he was one forever, smiling into her smile, her hands coming up to cup his cheeks, his arms around her waist, the unfaded memories and the engraved present finally meeting.

This is love.

He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t have to understand for his body to know it was real.

She leaned forward, past his nose and to his ear.

“You like kisses, huh?”

It was then that Jungkook realized his body did, in fact, know something.

“Um… This has never happened before,” he mumbled, his cheeks burning.

She held tightly onto the collar of his jacket, her hair against his chin. Half of it was pulled back with a black claw clip. It gave an elegant yet casual look while also keeping him from hiding his blushing face from bystanders.

Just his luck.

“Maybe you didn’t remember, but you also would get instantly hard whenever I kissed you back then too,” she teased, her warm breath grazing his ear. She was making it worse. Shit. Jungkook tried to bite the inside of his cheek. Her thigh was pressed between his legs so there wasn’t much hiding of anything.

“Noona, please shut up.”

“Although maybe not with such innocent kisses.”

“Noona, please…”

-

You danced your fingers up his chest.

Each point of contact going from fingertip to fingernail. Bated breath. Strangeness and familiarity all at once, sitting on your bed with only the orb-shaped lamp on, cool blue artificial moonlight looking down upon the magic unfolding in this room. His hand raised and closed in around yours.

You looked up as warmth encircled your touch.

Jungkook smiled nervously.

“Does it feel weird?” you asked him.

“A… A little bit,” he whispered. There was no reason to. Pointless, really, because you could hear the neighbor downstairs having some sort of wild party. Your apartment was silent. “Mostly because I used to think about it a lot.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You think you’ll stop thinking about sex after I give it to you? Maybe I shouldn’t, then.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

He puffed his cheeks in exasperation. He grabbed your hand tighter, whining your name without the honorific, and you were suddenly transported to the past. Breathless nights, falling into a melody of bodies, and you pressed your knuckles against his chest, making Jungkook yelp and nearly fall over, catching himself with his hands before freezing up as you hovered over him, crossing your arm over his front and planting your palm on the bed under his armpit. He was raised to his elbows, looking up at you with those wide, dark brown eyes. Pink lips parted, the two silver rings gleaming at the right edge of his lower lip and that familiar mole underneath punctuating every surprise and every smile.

What was that phrase?

Live fast.

It had always been like that, though.

Die young.

Would you ever really age if you were always in the perpetual state of learning to love Jeon Jungkook?

You lowered your head and kissed him.

You were well aware that this was probably too much all at once and yet there was also so much time lost from the journey apart. Maybe necessary. But bad decisions could have good consequences. A kiss for the mole under his lips first, for old time’s sake. Then his waiting mouth. You tilted your head and kissed him deeper this time, shivering at his familiar clean scent. Your other hand rose and ghosted his jaw, sliding your tongue into his mouth as he moaned. Fingers sliding into his soft hair, slowly thrusting your tongue in and out before he caught it with his teeth and gently sucked on it, running one hand over your waist, pressing his fingers into your side.

You backed off a little and flicked your tongue along his lower lip, exhaling into his mouth.

“Remember you used to be a freak?”

His jacket was hanging on your desk chair but he was still in his beige knit vest top.

His brows furrowed.

“I’m not a freak,” he insisted.

You curled your grip into his scalp and tugged. His head tipped back and his eyes slipped closed, shuddering, a mute whine in his throat, his own hold on your waist tightening, blocked by layers of your skirt and tucked-in shirt. You pulled harder and his lashes fluttered, his chin lifting and exposing his throat to your lips. Light kisses, barely there. You were pretty sure the words coming out of his mouth were a lie because his body was telling you the complete opposite.

He hadn’t changed that much in that respect.

Heh.

You ran the tip of your tongue from between his collarbones, up his trembling neck, stopping at his chin to push his head back down and claim his gasping mouth with a fierce kiss.

There was no hesitation now.

You had been worried that somehow maybe your bodies wouldn’t click. Maybe you wouldn’t feel the same level of exhilaration or enjoyment. And it wasn’t the same. Not at all. No, as you leaned in more, trying to force him to yield, and he refused, pulling your hand down from his hair and sliding it under the hem of his top, making you touch him instead, trapping you in the lip-lock, no, this was refined hunger meeting a refined flavor, and you dug your nails into his flexed abs, causing him to break the kiss and throw his head back, moaning to your ceiling.

You lifted your chin as he pushed your hand up higher.

Looked down at him as you sunk your nails into his flesh and dragged down, watching his expression flicker between pain and pleasure, his eyes turning glassy with lust, looking right back at you. Unashamed.

He tugged your hand back up again, between his tense pecs.

Your breathing shallowed.

You scratched him again, so hard that it left irritated pink lines onto his skin.

Jungkook whimpered, his black hair messy and fallen over his forehead.

I wanted everything about you.

You pulled back and seized the bottom of his top, dragging it up and over his head with his help, falling into his arms as he sat up, smacking your palms into his broad back. Taking that part of him too, irritated red lines all over, and kisses over his jaw, his naked chest against your clothed chest, his own hands clutching fistfuls of your velvet shirt, chasing after your lips.

I still do.

Your skirt had a silver zipper straight down the front center. You felt him grip the pull and check if it was working one. Smiled as he gasped, realizing it was. It even detached at the hem so all you had to do was shrug out of the suspenders. It fell to the floor with the heavy clink of metal from the clasps.

You swung a leg over him and straddled his lap.

Him shirtless, his torso covered in your violent marks.

Your hips colliding into the front of his jeans.

He groaned in your face.

“F-Fuuuuck…”

You gripped his studded belt with one hand and grinded against him. The first few buttons of your shirt were open and the slick backside of the velvet fabric caused the collar to slide off one of your shoulders, exposing your collarbone. His hands cupped your ass, sinking into the curve, and you ducked down to kiss him again, again, grabbing onto his bare shoulder for support.

His breathing hitched as your hand came close to his neck.

The impulse.

Hot and hard.

You positioned your hand around his neck and squeezed the arteries, choking him.

The sensation of power, the taste of his whine, his larger frame trembling under you, and Jungkook pressed your clothed heat into his trapped erection and succumbed to the ravenous nature of your kiss. It was the same and it was different. Layers of passion on passion. Intense and sending shivers from you to him. Back then, he was driven by inexperience. There was arousal in his fumbling and frustration, but none now when he reached for the buttons, flicking then apart with ease even as you choked him and gripped his belt. Your body faintly exposed under the folds of the lush fabric, but you didn’t drop it, instead catching his lower lip with your teeth and sucking on it tightly.

Letting him go with a pop.

His eyes rolled back, that underlip mole quivering in anticipation.

Pause.

You pulled him towards you by his neck as his vision reoriented. Hazy and lust-drunk, but unequivocally trained on you, his grip digging into your thighs. Seconds filled with rattling breaths, pushing him to the edge, and the impulse rose again. Something you used to tell him. You hadn’t really meant it back then. It was a display of fantasy then. For show. For the mood.

But things were different now.

“You will always be mine,” you growled millimeters from Jungkook’s thin breath.

His half-lidded eyes shimmered. He couldn’t respond, too lost in the headiness of lost air. But his body knew. The body has its own language and his agreed.

The corners of his open mouth lifted.

You let go of his neck and grasped handfuls of his hair, yanking his head back, his wanton moan pitching and falling, almost going limp in your hold as oxygen flooded back into his brain. You licked up his hot throat, closing your eyes, savoring the vibration of his cries and the desperate way he pinned your lower body to his, begging for release but too incoherent from the burst of overwhelming sensations to make them audible.

“And I will try to be everything you need until I run out of time,” you murmured to his raging pulse under your lips.

Maybe you would always struggle to define the word love.

Maybe you would never know.

But you didn’t need to know to listen to what your body wanted.

I don’t need to know love to be sure of loving you.

Your velvet shirt fell to the floor. You slid down between his legs. Worked together to undo his belt, glancing up at him and seeing your red marks on his chest. The rise and fall of his pants. Higher. Seeing him watching you as you pushed down his jeans. Closing in. Tracing the edge of your teeth with your tongue as you palmed him over his boxer briefs, cocking an eyebrow at his soft cry that he turned into a hiss under your direct attention.

“Embarrassed?” you taunted.

Jungkook bit the side of his lip. “No.”

You hooked your pinky finger over the waistband of those Calvin Klein’s.

“You sure?”

Desperation crawling into his gaze as your thumb rubbed against the hard shaft. Several seconds of stroking and you stretched out the waistband, rubbing a slow circle, molding the fabric to the swollen head of his cock, smiling as his cut v-line underneath was revealed.

“P-Please…” he gasped above you.

Took your time to make eye contact again. You cocked your head to his crotch.

“Go on. Take it off then.”

His erection popped out. Dark red, rock-hard, begging for your mouth.

Unfortunately, Jungkook knew how you operated.

Flashes of the past and present. Heavy nights. Early mornings. Cold rooms with warm bodies. Your hands on his knees, spreading them apart and leaning in. Lips working the inside of his thighs. Kisses. Bites. Sucking. Rushing as much as moving slowly, breathing hotly onto his cock and watching it twitch at the heat. A flicker of your gaze and the needy anticipation written all over his face. The same wide-eyed stare from back then and, now, accented by piercings and tattoos running up his right arms, his muscles tense and rippling from trying to stay still under your unspoken control.

Your lips closed in around his girth and you shoved him down to the depths of your throat.

“A-Ah, fuuuuuuuck…”

It was a familiar stretch of your muscles. He was at his hardest, giving you the freedom to glide up and down with little resistance, positioning your head at the correct angle to receive him as deep as possible. You pressed your lips inward as you rose to the tip, curving your tongue around. Up and over. Coating him with saliva and stimulating that thin skin, increasing the sensitivity with the attracting nature of water to water made more powerful by the rubbing of your tongue, sinking your nails into the insides of his thighs. Piling on sensation after sensation. Crisp with pain. Intense from pleasure. Tighter, licking all over, sliding him against the ridges of the roof of your mouth.

Jungkook panted your name, the syllables slipping into moans, losing himself to the wet bliss.

You almost didn’t catch the fleeting words his gasp.

“Yeah… it’s… s-supposed to feel l-like this…”

His hips tensed under you but you kept him down with the base of your palms, leaving him at the mercy of your pace. The familiar tingling at the back of your head, keeping the angle perfect and the depth steady, and he was right, yes, this was how it was supposed to feel – the blinding rush of adrenaline, desire, and connection all swirling into one indiscernible emotion. The kind of heat that was beyond raw passion, closer, the kind of satisfaction that was pleasure on many different levels, so close, the kind of sex that people could only dream about.

There.

A torn moan and Jungkook’s hips bucked into your face, sliding down your throat and spilling his thick, salty orgasm into the tight pocket. You locked your shoulders and stopped moving, feeling his cock shudder and throb. His cum oozing upward, and you swallowed, chest tight. He cried out above you but you held him down and swallowed again, inhaling much needed air, his strong taste coating your tongue, tactile and delicious.

Truly.

Delicious.

You had almost forgotten how attracted you had been to his pheromones, but clearly your drenched panties hadn’t. You could even smell yourself from here. Also, your knees were killing you. Guess those years had an affect on your body after all, even if your brain had been subconsciously stuck on Jeon Jungkook.

The body always remembers.

To think you had said that just to be a smartass but Jungkook had unintentionally taken it seriously and it had turned out to be true all along.

A happy little accident.

You crawled up his body and he greeted you with kiss after fervent kiss. Somehow, he didn’t seem to mind that you had only just swallowed his cum. Then again, Jungkook would never beat the freak allegations. You were the only one making those allegations but, hey, you did know him best, even if neither you nor him knew that.

He unhooked your bra.

You slipped out of it, letting the black lace cups flop into the pile of his jeans, belt, and underwear on the floor. You were straddling his lap, knees on the bed, and he pulled you in deeper, giving you a moment to adjust. Stared into your eyes fiercely, the captured universes in those dark brown orbs glimmering with determination.

“Don’t look away,” he ordered. Not very sternly, but you smiled all the same, your arm around his shoulders, bare breasts and hard nipples right under his chin. Jungkook couldn’t intimidate you for shit. It was the big peepers, probably.

“Sure.”

He narrowed his eyes.

A stare down. Seconds saturated with anticipation. He raised his right hand, the two center fingers grouped together and the rest splayed out. Your smirk widened. Closer to you. Before he could say the words, open your mouth, your lips parted and you leaned in, swirling your tongue around his fingers, shifting your line of sight to admire the tattoos down his arm.

Jungkook sucked in a breath, stifling his awed moan.

Your eyes flickered back up to his face and you sucked on his fingers, directly looking at him. Even tilting your head and curving his fingertips down your throat, manipulating his movement with your tongue and your inner muscles. He shuddered, speechless at the arousing nature of this obscenity. You held yourself steady by splaying your fingers over his shoulder blades, letting him slowly thrust in and out of your mouth, the glossiness of your spit catching the low light.

“F-Fuck…” Jungkook breathed. “You’re so sexy.”

You let your self-satisfied agreement show in the lowering of your lashes.

He grinned, noticing it right away, his expression pleased and frustrated all at once. Enjoyed the show for a few more moments and then pulled out. You held on until the very last second, releasing him with a wet, lewd pop. Loud in the silence of labored breathing and intense eye contact. His other hand at your waist nudged your ass. You lifted yourself up. His right hand slid between your legs, his two wet fingers grazing the edge of your dampened panties.

“You smell so damn good,” he murmured, looking down to bear witness. “I want it smeared all over me.”

“I told you you’re a freak.”

“Yeah, I am.”

You would have rolled your eyes at his now confession if it wasn’t for him hooking the edge of your panties and bunching them to the side while at the same time closing the distance between your chest and mouth, and suddenly you were clutching his head with both hands, gasping, tangling your fingers in his hair as he sucked on your nipple and sunk his two fingers into your wet pussy.

Jungkook wouldn’t give it to you if he thought you couldn’t take it.

Your back arched reflexively, thrusting your chest into his face, and your hips rolled, thrusting his two wetted fingers into you. He got the hint, following your body rhythm, deep and rough, making the visceral pleasure spiral in your tightened core. Of course, you had sex after Jungkook. Shitty sex, subpar sex, better than average sex, mind-numbing sex. But it had always come at the price of your own expertise. It was never about how well they matched you, because they never did. They never had the time to. But not Jungkook.

His body remembered.

Your breathing deepened and he increased the pace, the fervor, switching sides of your chest and catching your hard nipple between his teeth. Pressing his tongue tip into it, rubbing forcefully and then sucking. Lips and then tongue, back and forth, thrusting up into you, and you gave in, locking your hips to take the wanted abuse, letting the rising orgasm take command. Blood roaring in your veins, heartbeat at your throat, hard, fast, intense, your tense thighs trembling, tipping your head back.

Closing your eyes.

Moaning his name.

You pulled on his hair, hard.

Jungkook whined under you but he didn’t let go. Mouth too busy to speak. The declaration tumbled out of your open mouth.

“Close… fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

The constricted strain in your chest burst, and you threw you head back and sighed, low and wanton, prickling nerves racing up and across your back. Your inner walls pulsating. The heavy, sweet scent of your climax hit you first, soaking Jungkook’s hand, sticking to the insides of your thighs, and then uncontrollable shivers overtook your hips, gasping as his mouth left your chest, the abrupt loss of heat leaving your nipple cold. He moaned with you, his fingers buried into your spasming pussy, enjoying every second of feeling your orgasm, his thumb closing in to press down on your throbbing, slick clit.

You sucked in a sharp inhale.

He held it there, only adding pressure to the hyper sensitive nerves, letting your ride out your orgasm with your hands still gripping his head. You could feel the afterglow flutter in your lungs. Slow and deep shaking breaths.

Damn.

“You’re still the best at fingering me,” you gasped.

You lowered your head and he chuckled faintly. Mischief sparkling in his dark brown eyes under messy black strands. “Good.” Sounded and looked very proud of himself.

Fuck, you waned to kiss him so bad.

So you did.

Again and again.

With Jungkook, it was easy. With Jungkook, there was never a question. You had just questioned it because you had thought it was the right thing to do. He had questioned it because he had been afraid. You hadn’t understood it and neither had he. Nobody did. But that didn’t matter, because as naturally as the wind blew, so did you and Jungkook tumble to the bed, him licking off your juices on his fingers and groaning, savoring your flavor. Hands all over each other, recalling all his erogenous zones and listening to his sounds again, your heartbeat racing at the pitch in his deep tone, the desperation in the call of your name.

You felt him cup your pussy and smear your juices all over his palm.

Glanced down and saw him grip his half-hard cock with his now-wet hand, moaning into your ear, heating your skin with his need.

You tilted your head more.

His lips found the pocket right under your earlobe.

You sat down on his raised thigh and rubbed yourself against his flexed muscle as he jacked himself off, sparks flying throughout your body, from his mouth attached to your skin and the hardness between your legs, watching him pleasure himself below you. The wet and slick quality of your previous orgasm increased the friction, and you tilted your hips forward a little more, angling the pressure to your clit, fuck, grasping the pillow under Jungkook’s head so tight that you felt your knuckles strain. Intense made more intense by his teeth. His tongue. His lips. Dancing around your ear, catching the curve, biting down, his lustful groan muffled in his throat.

Closer.

You knew.

He knew.

Jungkook snapped back and ground his teeth, whining in his chest, gripping his cock covered in your cum and his pre-cum beading at the purple-red tip. You also froze, clenching your jaw as the climb to release was cut off, sending your body into an intense array of emotions. Want. Greed. Voraciousness. The edging radiated throughout your veins, primal need pleading you to keep going, but every second wasted was another layer, threatening to amplify the next orgasm.

Which was exactly what you and Jungkook wanted.

He didn’t have to ask you what your favorite position was. He liked them all, of course, for different reasons. Doggy for the view. One leg against his chest for something to hold onto while having some room to move. Regular missionary to hold your face and kiss you in between thrusts.

But.

The condoms were on your bedside table. It took him no time at all to rip one open and roll in down, groaning at the sight of you lifting your legs up to your chest, spreading your wet pussy and tight ass for him to see. His voice was low and hoarse from exertion, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind, scooting himself forward to pin your thighs down with his chest, positioning himself right in front of your entrance.

“I fucking love that view,” he heatedly breathed out.

You grinned. “I know.”

Slowly.

Jungkook folded you in half, trapping your body between his chest and mattress and sank into you, locking eyes at the same time.

His favorite position was one and the same with yours.

“Ugh, you feel so fucking good,” he swore, stopping when he was buried balls deep, his cock twitching inside you. You appreciated it.

“Take it slow,” you hummed, nonchalantly.

Well.

A muscle in his cheek twitched. His long bangs were all over his face but you couldn’t miss his death stare. Jungkook mouthed, fuck you, and you mouthed back, you are, before lifting himself to grip your calves, pushing your thighs down onto your ribs. He slowly and deliberately thrust into you. Taunting you to balk under his stare, but you did not, rising to the occasion. Literally. Your ass raised off the mattress as he snapped his hips in and he groaned deeply, clenching his jaw as your pussy squeezed him all over.

He didn’t look away, but he was warning you.

He slid out again. Then back in.

You did it again.

He growled and slammed his hard length back into you, dropping down. His palms smacked down onto the mattress and he bent over even more to hit that wicked depth, resulting in instant ecstasy radiating through your weighted lungs. You matched his ferocity. Your arms over your head and pushing back against the headboard, and he pounded you. Hard and intense and each collision knocking the wind out of your lungs, this is it, losing yourself to him, him losing himself to you, letting the carnal instinct take over. The rhythmic slap of hips to hips, wetness, drenched in your sex and his sweat. Every so often in the madness, you caught a glimpse of his gaze, fucked-out and craving more, and you saw your reflection in his eyes.

Mirroring him.

Your breath stilled in your throat.

The compounding sensations built and your body didn’t stop reacting. Time slowed down and seemed fast all at once, this is love, something your tried so hard to understand but screw it, fuck understanding and fuck believing in it, reaching up and curling your hand around Jungkook head, forcing him down lower, his heavy breath washing over you, his eyes closing as you gripped his hair and tugged, breathlessly moaning with him at the sight of his visceral pleasure, the sound, the pace, the taste of his kiss still lingering on your lips.

For as long as he loved you, your heart would love him back, no matter what your thoughts said.

“Not yet,” you gasped. “I’m close.”

“Fuck me, I’m gonna burst,” he whined, digging his palms in, slamming his hips into you and you saw Jungkook bite the side of his lower lip, suddenly silent, focusing hard, his sweaty black hair sticking to his forehead. He always went quiet when he didn’t want to cum too fast.

You wanted to torture him a little but the edging had brought you too close.

“Ah, Jungkook!”

Your head snapped back into the pillows and his fell back, the wanton sound of your joined moans loud and shameless, echoing throughout your bedroom as you came hard, tensing your entire body and feeling your pussy clamp down onto his jerking cock pumping the condom full of cum. The lack of sufficient air, the whirlwind of release, the closeness and a drop his sweat on your tongue, and you shuddered, clinging onto him as wave after wave crashed into you, each throb pulsing between your legs reaching him as well, burning you both in each sharp pang of erotic euphoria.

You heard him exhale your name, erratic and rough.

Thudding heartbeat revibrating against the base of your neck.

“Get…”

You felt his heat retreat, lowering your legs carefully.

“Get on your knees,” Jungkook panted.

You almost pointed out that this was your bed and not a hotel, these cum-covered sheets are going to have to be slept on because I’m not doing laundry in the dead of night, but either your body moved faster than your brain or you didn’t give a flying fuck. Or both. You turned and springboarded off your folded right arm, still on the searing high of adrenaline and the furious pulse between your legs. You heard him rip open another condom and gasp again at seeing your cheek pressed to the pillows, your chest against the bed, arching your back to raise your ass and spread open your holes for him to see.

“You’re so fucking hot, fuck.”

You flexed your pussy. It made an audible, wet sound, startling you slightly. It didn’t deter Jungkook the least. In fact, he grabbed your ass and dragged you down to him, groaning as he thrust into you again, immediately starting up from where he left off. You shoved your hands into the mattress and flicked your head, tossing back your hair and finally getting some air, breathless at his girth and strength.

Not that any of that stopped you from smacking your ass back into him.

“Fuck!”

It was becoming a favorite word.

Probably your fault.

Well, fuck.

You steeled your core and dropped your shoulders, spreading your knees a little more. By the depth of his groan and the increased ferocity of his thrusts, you knew you had reached that perfect angle, sighing out in satisfaction as you felt the repeated pressure hitting you just right, right there, fuck, yes, Jungkook, closing your eyes to burn in the desire, higher and higher, deep and hard and chasing the same height at the same fierce pace, feeling your heartbeat slam strongly in your chest.

The swell.

The echo.

The unison.

The way the sparks raced up and down your spine. Breaths drifting out, rapid and shallow, noticing his strained grunts and muted moans once again, smiling, then focusing, squeezing him tighter, your shivering walls massaging his cock. Admired how perfectly he fit inside you, almost to the brink of discomfort, seamless, your pussy pulling him in hungrily with each snap of his hips. His fingers dug into your ass and you savored that too, all of it, not taking a single second for granted, letting yourself become overstimulated in the multiple sensations.

Jungkook’s gravelly voice choked out your name.

The frantic edge indicating he was almost done for.

Before you could respond, your head jerked back and your eyes rolled up, the high nearly alarming, depraved moan falling from your lips as the power of the orgasm seized your lungs, knocking the wind out of you. It was almost too much. You would have collapsed if it wasn’t for Jungkook’s firm hold on you, gasping as he came. His hips twitched against your ass, pressed as deep into you as possible.

You moaned as his fingernails suddenly clawed down your lower back, heightening the peak of pleasure.

So good you couldn’t speak.

There were no words.

You could barely comprehend it anyway. There was no describing how different this sex was from all the others. You had known it once, but it even better now, afterglow radiating off of you, each nerve brimming with ecstasy, letting out a gratified exhale as his body leaned against your back, his hands sliding up your stomach and to your chest, squeezing your breasts and lightly toying with your nipples.

His lips pressed to your upper back, feathering you with a meteor shower of kisses.

Your torso shook, trying to come down but suspended. You didn’t resist him, clutching the rumpled sheets, sighing softly at the thrumming beat of heart-to-heart, his cock still inside you. Getting soft and probably against his will. He groaned, sounding annoyed.

“You know there’s always tomorrow, right?” you chuckled, inhaling and catching a whiff of his cologne on your bed.

The imprint of him already.

“I think it’s already tomorrow,” Jungkook grumbled, grunting as he held down the base of the condom and pulled out.

Well, he had always been here, at the back of your mind, never forgotten.

“I’ve got more in me,” he vented sternly, although you suspected that wasn’t really directed at you. You hadn’t faced him yet but if you turned around you were be quite sure that you would be greeted by the pleasant and entertaining sight of Jungkook glaring at his limp, overworked dick. And yet. You didn’t. Instead, you looked up. The window was within your line of sight.

The night sky up above, but the moon was right here, in the magic of this room.

“Jungkook.”

“Huh?”

Right?

“You’ll stay the night, won’t you?” you breathed to the sky, wishing the dream to life to the stars you couldn’t see.

Silence.

You turned your head, past the moon-shaped lamp across the room, past walls and everyday things, past the clothes scattered everywhere, and Jungkook was blinking at you, startled for a moment, big brown eyes wide, lips parted. Piercings. Tattoos.

Years on years.

“Anything for you,” he breathed back, staring straight into your eyes.

Still the same.

“Really. I will always stay by your side.”

He climbed back onto the bed. Over you. Skin to skin. Leaning down. Kiss after kiss, meaning more than raw passion, and you felt the wetness on your face. Drop after drop, fallen stars, and Jungkook brushed him away from his thumbs and his smile, you couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to, noona, I’m stuck on you, forever after, and you didn’t want to cry, no more, your arms around his torso, pulling him closer, gripping his shoulders, shuddering at the foreignness of expressing emotion.

“Are we…?”

Your voice was so small but he was so close, so close, his hands in your hair, forehead to forehead.

“Are we falling in love?” you whispered, staring into his eyes and finding the stars.

And now you could see that he, too, finally found the stars he had been looking for all this time.

Jungkook smiled.

“Yes.”

Crisp and intense, this peppermint gum love where every day was the rush of falling in love more and more, forever after making memories so this feeling could never fade away.

--

masterpost

[redflagshipwriter]

Halfa Cass 11 pt 1

masterpost

They had a teensy bit of a war council about the new problem when Danny came back from work.

“On the bright side, they did send someone to take away Brick,” Danny said optimistically. He tried, anyway. He had a grim and depressing certainty that he was going to have to do something drastic and violent to solve this problem. That sucked. It sucked so hard. He looked at his knees. “But. Yeah. They probably will come after you to make me make some dumb ugly guns or whatever.”

“Okay,” Jazz said calmingly, “Every problem has solutions, Danny.” 

…He scrunched up his face. He didn’t outright argue but he didn’t really see a great solution off hand.

Jazz’s big brain was clearly churning through the angles. She went quiet for a while, and then broke the silence in a thoughtful tone. “We could theoretically just kill the mob. All of them.” She looked up at the water stained ceiling and mouthed something that might be calculations. How many mob members she thought there might be? A plan to do this?

Danny blinked at her from his perch on the kitchen counter, hunched under the cupboard in a way that made him feel secure. “I thought this was going to go the other way. Like, with you telling me not to overreact.” He watched his big sister with a sort of horrified fascination.

Jazz waved that away with a hand. “I am not starting over again. I’m halfway through with my Gen Eds.” The dark smudges under her eyes looked even deeper in the shitty artificial lighting of their apartment. “The problem with that is that I only make about 1200 a month, and at that rate, we will never get you your identification.” She scowled and dug her fingers onto the tabletop as if she was going to squeeze cooperation out of it by force. “We sort of need that income source to get you into university on time. It’s important for your social development to get you back around your age mates sooner rather than later.”

He raised a hand like he had a question in class. “I thought the problem with that was going to be that murder is bad,” Danny said hesitantly. He was used to Jazz being the voice of morality. Were they doing something different now?

“The worst thing that happens to them is that they have to live near Skulker,” Jazz said waspishly. “Anyway, it’s on them for trying to make you build weapons. They’re the rude ones. They don’t get to throw off my twenty year plan.”

…Danny pinched his lips together to avoid the petty correction that they wouldn’t be living near Skulker, per se. Fair enough. The whole life or death thing did feel a bit less serious when you hung out with lots of dead people and they were just, like, people. Murder was, like, a conversation from a meat existence to a goo existence. It wasn’t nice, but it also wasn’t nice to threaten people’s sisters. 

“Speaking of, I need to get to work so that I have my perfect attendance record for a good recommendation for the next job.” Jazz scrubbed at her face with the back of a hand and then dragged it down, squishing her cheek. “Do you want me to bring back breakfast?”

Yes.

“No,” Danny lied. He shimmied down off the counter and into his shoes. “I’ll walk you there. I’m sick of being inside. Maybe I’ll pick up groceries.”

Jazz snorted and rolled her eyes, but she grabbed her bag without making fun of him. He walked with her down cold, filthy sidewalks and waved goodbye on the street across from her building. Danny pretended not to worry. She did him the favor of not pointing out that he was definitely going to come back at 4:30 am to walk her home. 

Danny locked the door when he got back in, but he felt kinda dumb about it. 

If this mob or gang or whatever (was there a difference?) knew where he lived and wanted in, the door was not going to keep them out. Maybe he should just leave it unlocked so that they didn’t bust it open and break the lock, actually. A lock was what, 40 bucks? He didn’t want to have to replace that.

He went back and unlocked it on that basis. Then he screwed up his face to think.

…There wasn’t really a reason for them to come. He hadn’t made them mad yet. It would be different once they came back and he said he really wasn’t going to make them any weapons. 

Danny locked it anyway and then set a timer for 4 in the morning. It was early for him to turn in but he grabbed the pillow off of the shelf and put it back on the sofa anyways. Hopefully he’d get to sleep like, right away.

[startoy]

❝ self care ❞

PAIRING gojo/reader LENGTH 5.102k RATING explicit, reader discretion advised CONTENT college au. established relationship. switch tendencies. dirty talk. oral. overstimulation. marking. fingering. sadomasochism. pretty much pwp.

SYNOPSIS after a long, torturous finals week, you decided to unwind with your boyfriend in the best way you knew how—in the comfort of your apartment, with an array of sweet-scented sheet masks and soft cremes that melted into your skin. but god, did he melt into you so much better.

NOTE wrote this over three years ago and i forgot to post on tumblr so here we go lol (i promise i write better now) LOVE, CASPIAN ☻︎

The pads of his fingers softly pressed into the fabric of the sheet mask, matching its shape more snugly on the curves of your face. He squeezed the bridge of your nose playfully, ensuring the mask would be held in its proper place. You snorted at that, turning your head to the side and rolling your eyes at him, lovingly. 

Narrowly, he peered through his own sheet mask, blinking slowly. "Did I do it right?"

"Well," you pulled the mask higher up onto your temple, "you definitely did something." 

He pouted wholeheartedly, furrowing his brows as he ran the pads of his fingers over your sheet mask once more, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that formed when you spoke. "You're fucking evil," Satoru said, "but," he fell back on the bed, now laying next to you, "it definitely suits you."

"Thank you," you said and meant it, "If you didn't think I was evil by now I'd break up with you."

Satoru gasped, his hand on his chest as he feigned heartbreak. He lolled his head unto his shoulder, sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth, and closed his eyes. "Cause of death," he groaned, "future milf." 

The both of you broke out into a fit of laughter after that, your torso curving and falling into his chest as you released snorts and wheezes. His arms came to wrap around you, tightly pressing you close to him to feel your body laugh along with your voice—the shake of your arms, the vibrations from your chest to your neck and finally your mouth, the scrunch of your nose and eyes, and everything in between. Satoru preferred to hold every part of you in his arms so that he could feel you in your fullest capacity. 

Intensely. He loved you intensely and on purpose and he wanted to hold you for a long time. As long as you would allow him to. 

Your laughter died but the happiness still hung from your cheeks, pressed against the skin of his neck that smelled faintly of cleanser and wet hair. You carefully flopped to his side, adjusting your sheet mask in its proper place again. 

He breathed evenly; wholly as he relished in the heat that you shared where your sides met and refused to distinguish themselves, melting into each other and overlapping and combing together softly; beautifully, in the same way a hug could reach further than skin deep. He thought and continued to think: "I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you"—and it never came out that way exactly except for when it did, but in a multitude of forms that felt natural, too. 

Draping his heavy arm over your stomach, you released a harsh breath at the sudden weight. "Fucker," you slapped his wrist, "that hurt." 

"Really?" he hummed, pulling his arm back slightly to splay his hand over your shirt. "I just wanted to touch you again." Satoru took the fabric between his thumb and pointer finger, absentmindedly fiddling with the single layer between him and you. "And this shirt's kinda ugly," he said, "don't you think?"

You sighed and close your eyes, patting the apples of your cheeks to absorb more of the mask's contents. "That's why I'm wearing it as pajamas," you said right back, "dumbass." 

"I was trying to be smooth and say some shit like 'it's ugly because it's not my shirt'," Satoru continued to play with it, "but no, I guess not." 

You groaned playfully, moving your arm to drum your fingers against his knuckles. "If you hate it so much," you paused, "take it off." 

The lilt in your voice sent a chill up his spine, the blush blooming on his features luckily hidden. Satoru sat up, his eyelids suddenly heavy and blinks slower as he watched you breathe, your eyes now screwed shut in anticipation. He peeled off his mask, abandoning it in the trash can beside the bed, slipping his warm hand under the blasphemous shirt that, allegedly, he hated so much. 

Hearing your lungs stutter at the contact, Satoru drew circles on your waist, then underneath your breasts, his nail the pen, and your body a map he was more than eager to annotate. He held your sides and motioned you to sit up, and you obeyed, your eyes still closed. 

His finger gently tilted your chin up, pulling off the mask on your face as it met a similar fate to his. Satoru examined your expression, blowing a puff of air in your face to watch your eyelids flutter. "Look at me," he said, holding your jaw square between his fingers. "You want me to," he trailed off, "what?"

"Take off my shirt," you said, your voice firm but not as loud as you thought it would come out. 

He clicked his tongue. "Open your eyes." 

As your eyes opened, Satoru leaned in to meet your lips in a soft kiss, his hand snaking up your neck to hold your jaw. His thumb touched your cheek and brushed your skin, begging you to kiss him harder. There, in his hand, he held you again, tasting your mouth in his and it felt as if he wanted so much; too much. He wondered if his selfishness would cause him to swallow you whole, but you were arguably, just as selfish as him. 

You sucked harshly on his lower lip, your sigh into the kiss dangerously close to a moan. Satoru remained insistent of tasting you directly on his mouth, your lips parting and inviting his tongue. He could kiss you all too well, sucking the flesh and sloppily mixing his saliva with yours in a hungry exchange that could make you blush at the thought. 

"I-I'm so hard," he stuttered into your teeth, moving his hands down to your sides to pushing you down onto the bed. "You make me so fucking hard so fucking fast," Satoru caught his breath while stealing yours, "I fucking love you." 

Smiling as he placed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your face contorted in pleasure as he bit on the sensitive skin there. "Dumbass," you said, the word cut short as he toyed with your nipples over your shirt. "My dumbass." Your thighs twitched as he pulled up your tee over your head, leaving you in your underwear and exposing the skin he loved so much. 

Satoru kneaded your breasts between his fingers and in his calloused palm, leaving hickeys down your torso and paying special attention to your hips that twitched upon contact. "Sweetheart," he said, his voice strained as he continued to touch you everywhere except where you needed him, "you're so quiet." He nipped at your waist particularly hard, "It's pathetic." 

Your cheeks heated up at the insinuation, your lips not only swollen from his earlier assault but from your own biting to keep yourself from being embarrassingly loud. So why did him accusing you of silence make you even more embarrassed? 

"Trying to act shy with me," Satoru said, "you want me to fuck you stupid, don't you?" 

Your face burned with shame so badly you felt as if it might scar. "I-I'm not acting shy," you defended yourself, "you're just—!" Racking your brain for an excuse, your mind went blank as he sucked on your skin and pinched your nipples harshly. "Not fucking me good enough!" you blurted out, realizing too late the damage done. 

"Oh," Satoru rose from his place between your legs, moving up the bed to sit against the headrest. "Really?" He laughed, tongue in cheek as he palmed himself through his pants. "Try talking shit," Satoru slapped your breast, "when you're choking on my cock." 

Settling between his legs, his boxers left the muscle of his thighs bare, your hands finding purpose there as you eyed his bulge.

Satoru grabbed you by the chin, smirking down at you, his sweetheart so prettily situated in front of his lap. "Acting shy," he scoffed, "even while drooling over my dick." 

Your hands inched inside his bottoms, your finger swiping the head of his cock and causing him to groan lowly. "Not so bitchy with my hand around you, huh?" Pumping his member in your palm gently, his hips bucked forward and he shut his eyes, mouth falling open at the minimal satisfaction you provided. "Imagining you're fucking me, aren't you?" you said. "God, what a fucking pervert," you tightened your grip, "so desperate for me, yeah?" 

"So what if I am?" he slurred his words together, slowly fucking into your hand. "I bet you're so wet," his voice shook slightly, "I could stuff you full right n—oh, shit." 

Your mouth enveloped him roughly, the tip hitting the back of your throat as you fought your gag reflex. Cockwarming him in your mouth, Satoru groaned as your throat spasmed around him. To tease him further, you swallowed, knowing how taut the feeling would be around him. At the action, his moaning morphed into an impatient curse, quickly entangling a hand in your hair and pulling your head up as he began fucking into your mouth. 

Your eyes welled up as he repeatedly abused your throat, brutally forcing you to take him until your nose touched his pelvis and you choked on his cock. Looking up at him with tears in your eyes, you found his expression godly—furrowed brows, teeth gritted, jaw tensed, and eyes fluttering as he focused on the warm sensation of your lewd gagging. Foaming spit gathered at the corner of your mouth, dripping down your jaw and causing a sticky mess down your neck that bulged with his dick print. 

Seemingly amused at your helplessness, he pulled your hair at an angle, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Fucking your mouth feels so good," Satoru said, continuing to fuck your face with a playful smirk. "Almost forgot how much of a brat you are."

Your nails dug into the ripe muscle of his thighs, the skin stretching over your knuckles lightening under your deadly grip. With your jaw growing sore, your throat sporadically tightened and loosened; the bodily reaction sending heavenly waves of sexual satisfaction through his nerves. His thighs twitched more often and his breathing grew heavier—tell-tale signs of his impending orgasm. 

Just as he stiffened, ready to cum, you fought out of his grip and released his cock from your mouth, strings of saliva and precum the only link between you and him. 

"Baby," you said while wiping your mouth, "you're so predictable." 

His hand came around your throat and put pressure there, holding your head up but his strength wavered, still weak and vulnerable from the suffocating need to cum. "For fuck's sake," Satoru hissed through his teeth, "you're going to hell for that." 

"Well," you licked your lips, "I hope you can make me cum before I get there." A tinge of lightheadedness caused your vision to dim, but riling him further always resulted in a good fuck. And who are you to waste an opportunity like that?

Despite your mocking, never had Satoru failed to make you cum. In fact, he could make you cum so much that you would be sensitive for a week and walk with a limp for a few days at least. He prided himself in that; after all, it was the thing he looked forward to so often. The expression on your face and the cry in your voice, body shaking as an onslaught of pleasure overwhelmed your senses—was all his doing! And you just looked so pretty whenever you came. Like his little angel whose divinity remained in the glow of your eyes and the blush on your cheeks, immorally sticking your tongue out and blabbering a plethora of swears. His own sinful paradox that he loved oh so very much. 

Meeting your lips in a kiss, much sloppier than before, Satoru rid himself of his own tee, having you straddle his lap as your moundful chest pressed against his. He licked the spit that smeared your neck, gladly lapping it up as you rolled your hips against him, the first brush of your clothed sex against his cock dragging a guttural growl from him. 

"I'll get you back so nice for that," his words more a promise than a threat. His fingers clasped your waist and Satoru kissed your ear before whispering into it. "So sit on my face," he cooed, pressing another kiss to reiterate his command. "Sweetheart." 

Your heartbeat increased tenfold, almost shuddering in his lap at the thought. 

At your hesitation, Satoru immediately found your mouth and put it on his, holding the back of your head to deepen the kiss. He pulled away and tilted his head, staring at you. "You really think I can't handle it?"

You scoffed, not answering his question out of embarrassment. 

"I think," Satoru muttered, lifting your hips so he could move downward. "I deserve a facial," he said, looking much cuter beneath you. "Self-care."

His head remained between your thighs, your knees on either side. Satoru eyed the wet spot on your underwear and nearly cursed aloud, the scent alone enough to make his mouth water because he knew you tasted just as good as you smelled. Your hand pulled the fabric of your panties to the side, his hot breath fanning over your wet folds and causing your sex to twitch around nothing at all—something he was keen enough to notice.

"Pretty little cunt," he praised, swiping his tongue over his teeth. "All fucking drenched and dripping," Satoru wrapped his arms around your thighs and forced you down on his face, his words lost between your legs and drowned out by the obscene gush of his tongue in your hole. 

You whimpered without meaning to, tucking your head into your neck as you scrunched your eyes shut at the sudden intrusion. He mercilessly ate you out, the flat of his tongue repeatedly flicking over your clit and slurping the juices that dripped from you, his moans vibrating against your sex. Satoru couldn't help but be loud whenever he devoured you, knowing the effect it had: an intense blush crossed your features and your thighs tried to push together, holding back your whines by biting your lip. 

Already flustered, your eyes remained screwed shut, unsure if you could handle watching your boyfriend lapping at your cunt as if it was his only purpose of living. "S-Satoru," you let out, "fuck, fuck, fuck—!" Your thighs began to shake, your breathing growing ragged and your mouth dropping open to silently gasp, "So, so close!" 

He hummed into your sex, already aware. Satoru sucked and savored your unforgettable flavor, not wanting to waste a droplet of your wetness. "Cum on my face," the command clear despite being muffled by your weight, "come on, cum, cum—"

You cried out and fisted the pillowcases below you, your eyes snapping open and rolling back at the deluge of euphoria that coursed through every vein and smoothed over every bone. "Oh fuck," you puffed out, "ow, fuck." Your high died down after a while, your eyes blinking tiredly as the pleasure never ceased and turned tortuous from sensitivity. 

Continuing to eat you out even after you came, Satoru smirked into your sex, your brain finally recognizing the overstimulation. Your hips tried to move away from his mouth, but his arms flexed and kept you in place.

"S-Satoru—t-too much," you drawled out, finding his hair and entangling your fingers in the tresses. "Too much, too, too much—!"

At your whining, he decided to eat you like his last supper. His lips brushed your clit and his tongue relentlessly pushed past your folds and inside you, your poor pussy spasming and squeezing so much that you could feel your release building again.

Satoru groaned as you pulled his hair, the action spurring him on rather than deterring him. "Look down," he murmured, "look at me." 

He saw your eyes welling up again, your irises glassy as your lust-blown pupils gazed down at him. Your lips parted to speak but no proper words came out, cries suspiciously close to his name leaving instead. 

"Cum for me again?" Satoru asked, locking with your eyes and analyzing your every detail. 

Your head nodded weakly, your mouth drooling from keeping it open for so long. 

"Say it," he said, his grip on your thighs rougher than before, "beg."

Breathing out shakily, your voice came out pathetically, any train of thought clouded by the looming wish to finish once more. "Wanna cum again," you said while mindlessly massaging his scalp. "I-I—so close," you breathed in and out quickly, slightly lightheaded as you chased the sensation of his tongue. 

As much as he loved you on display for him, Satoru couldn't miss an opportunity to be a shameless display himself, and so he rolled his eyes back and gutturally groaned beneath you, his mouth open wide as a mix of your juices and his drool gathered on his lips. He felt the sporadic tense of your legs and clench of your hole against him, his fingers instinctively into digging your skin to press your weight on his tongue, immersing himself in your sex. 

Satoru curved his wrist and slapped your ass, massaging the flesh as it flushed red. "Not good enough," he mumbled into your folds, "sweetheart." He chuckled into your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive nerves and causing you to violently twitch on his face at the feeling. 

You whined again, fisting his hair and panting out your desperate need to cum and for him to allow you. "P-Please, Satoru, pl-please—" you squeezed your thighs but his arms kept your legs apart, "wanna cum, wanna cum on your pretty face—!"

He swiped the flat on his tongue through your folds roughly, stopping to suck directly on your clit. "Cum on my pretty fucking face," Satoru teased, his hands finding purpose on your waist to squeeze and hold you tight against him. The grip of his fingers was harsh enough to bruise, guiding your hips as you rolled mindlessly on his face. 

A searing heat in your stomach felt hot enough to burn you from the inside out, your legs convulsing at the side of his head and your upper half slouching inward at the bliss that consumed your senses. His name poured out of your mouth repeatedly, your voice breaking and cracking under the pressure of your orgasm. Satoru held you up, your body collapsing against the headboard and nearly panting as you gathered your sanity—or at least, the remains of it. 

You moved and he shifted, sitting back up as his puffed lips glistened with your juices, a droplet on the tip of his nose and chin evidence of your indecency. His tongue parted his lips and he sighed, happily trying to gather what was left on his face; savoring the flavor. Satoru stared at you and swiped two fingers across his chin, bringing them to your mouth and silently commanding you to suck. 

Leaning forward, you tasted yourself on his fingers, hollowing your cheeks to swallow his digits in the heat of your mouth. 

"You're so fucking—god," he pulled them out of your mouth and grabbed your jaw, pulling you towards his face. "So much better than beating my dick to the thought of you." 

You rolled your eyes, pressing your lips against his in a messy kiss. "I'd like to see that," you whispered into his ear, your hands grazing his chest and then forcing his back against the pillows. "Sweetheart." 

Satoru shuddered under your touch, his hand coming between your bodies to wrap around his dick, pumping gently. His thumb rubbing over the head, running between the slit as his other fingers squeezed the bulging veins. You sat on his thighs, running your nails over the sensitive parts of his neck, gentle red stripes drawn onto his pulse points down to his collar bones.

"This sucks," he complained, despite the airiness in his voice. "Your pussy," Satoru breathed in and then out, "is so much better than my hand." 

"I know, baby," you said, feathering a kiss on his chest, "I know." 

Precum leaked from his tip, slicking his member as his hand sped up. Satoru accidentally bucked his hips, his eyes hazy as your kisses turned into sloppy marking, sucking on his skin to create love bites that purpled with time. He growled when your teeth grazed his nipple, his hips bucking more often as you toyed with him. 

Your hand reached down to cup his balls, Satoru sucking in air through his teeth and whimpering your name. Fondling them in your hand, you met his gaze to examine his expression, falling in love with the way his eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched, Satoru's signature smirk lighting up his features as he locked eyes with you. His hand jerked quickly, the unmistakable twitch of his thighs signaling that he was close. 

"It'd be a shame if you came so fast," you said softly, your hand reaching his face and your thumb caressing his flushed cheek. "All over your stomach instead of in me." 

His eyes widened at your words, his teeth gritting as he fought the urge to cum. God, did he love finishing inside you. Satoru preferred your pussy full of his seed, so stuffed and so his—truly a shame to finish now; a waste! His body rejected him as he slowed his hand, the ache enough to make his head spin. 

Satoru edged himself as you giggled on his lap, praising him for his self control. Which, if he was being honest, was very thin to begin with. As someone who usually indulged themselves, Satoru found your stubborn need to torture him hot in all aspects, but he found it equally if not more enjoyable if he tortured you. After all, he did think you were prettier than him. But he would never say that to your face—he was too prideful for that. So he figured that fucking you until you confessed every sin was the only way to show his appreciation. Respectfully. 

He blinked slowly, tongue in cheek as you watched him with faux innocence. "You're right," Satoru concurred, "but you think with your cunt more than your brain sometimes, you know?" His harsh tone cut through the air and he noticed your soft shudder, something anyone else would have missed due to its subtlety. "But it suits you," he said, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, somehow stripping you further despite your present nakedness. "My good girl."

Your breath hitched in your throat at the familiar pet name—one that Satoru seldom used considering you behaved more like a brat most of the time. Nodding slowly, you wanted to hear him praise you again, again, and again, your ears eagerly searching for his voice. 

"Your good girl," you repeated, staring up at him as you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his neck. 

His hands found your lower back and rubbed gentle circles, Satoru breathing evenly against your ear. "You're so tense," he murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss against your earlobe. "Can you fucking relax so I can fuck you sooner?" Satoru snapped while giving your ass a slap, pushing your hips against his to rub his cock against your folds. 

You whimpered at the sudden stimulation, biting his shoulder in a pathetic attempt to muffle your cry and appease his command. Twitching, your hips gave you away, Satoru clicking his tongue at your graceful fall toward disgrace. 

He moved his hand to cup your pussy, his fingers and palm meeting the sticky mess between your thighs and pressing roughly against your mound. "Maybe good girl wasn't the right term," his teeth bit your ear and he hummed, as if asking for an answer from you. "So needy for cock you're shivering just thinking about it," he mocked you as his middle and ring finger pushed past your folds, sucked into your heat and swallowed by your walls. "Mhm," Satoru praised politely, "good?" 

"S-So good," you said, clenching around his fingers. Your eyes blurred for a moment, lost in the feeling of his digits as they searched for the sweet spot in your pussy, wetness gushing past his knuckles and covering his hand in a sheen of arousal. 

Curling his fingers inside and stroking the spongy wall in your cunt, your eyes crossed and you felt him chuckle above you, kissing the top of your head as he repeated the motion, hitting your sweet spot over and over.

You felt apart in his arms, Satoru whispering words of dirty admiration that pulled you closer to the edge until he dangled you there, slowing his hand to refocus your attention on his voice. 

Satoru groaned himself, his dick strained against his stomach and the head weeping with precum. "That's e-fucking-nough," he growled, moving you so that your back pressed against his chest and your legs spread with his hands on your thighs, completely helpless as he had you on display for him and him alone. 

Your head lolled over onto your shoulder, his chin on the other as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip grazing your folds. He pulled your legs up, forcing your face toward your cunt as his mouth hung open in anticipation. Satoru hummed in satisfaction at his work, looking forward and hungrily staring at the reflection in the mirror across your bed, adoring the way your eyes diverted away from the lewd image. 

He kissed your temple, as gentle as he could. "Tell me you want me."

"Want you," you said, leaning into his touch, "want you—fuck!"

Stuffing himself in your cunt, he fucked you slowly for the first few thrusts, your name and cuss words interspersed as his senses drowned in the suffocating warmth of your hole. Satoru then sped up his pace, your legs limp as he pulled them against his chest and his cock disappeared inside of you, snapping his hips rough enough to bruise your insides. 

Satoru loved watching you succumb to his very own heavenly hell, preening over the dazed expression on your beautiful face. Drool leaked from the corners of your lips and gathered on the tip of your tongue, strings of saliva connecting your teeth as you gasped in absolute reverie, your eyes fluttering as your lust-blown pupils stared into the mirror. The violent flush on your face spread to your neck and chest, your stomach bulging with his cock as he slipped in and out of your welcoming cunt. Words broke off into moans and his name fell from your tongue in a cosmic cry that he would adore until the day he died. 

"My pretty little fuck toy," he rasped, your pussy clenching at the pet name and squeezing his cock. "Touch yourself for me," Satoru said, "rub that clit," he saw your arm move weakly between your thighs, a smile grazing his features as you listened to him. "Mhm," he nodded as he fucked you further, "love seeing my good girl play with their pretty pussy." 

Flames spread over your skin as you burned with bliss, crackling under his praise that you would live and die for. "Breed me," you slurred out, "breed me so full, Toru, please—!" 

The act of sex suddenly became more primal; to fulfill the carnal desire to have you full of his seed; to claim your insides and carve them into the shape of his cock. And you craved nothing more than exactly that: to have him in his entirety stuffing your pussy until his name is the only one you can remember. 

Satoru released his hands from your thighs and flipped you over, his hand pressing against your back to arch your ass up. "Hands," he said, using his fingers as handcuffs around your wrists, pinning them behind you. "Sweetheart," Satoru pushed his dick inside you once more, hovering over you to wrap his forearm around your neck, brutally curving your back and deepening his thrusts inside your walls. "Slutty baby," he hissed into your ear, "gonna cum inside you and you're gonna love it, yeah?"

You choked on your words but nodded in case the message wasn't clear. Satoru tightened the pressure on your neck, black spots dotting your vision but you couldn't find it in yourself to care, your need to cum and for him to cum in you more important. 

His fingers parted your lips, tilting your head back as your mouth hung open. "So fucking tight," Satoru gritted out, "god, you're gonna be the death of me, fuck—!" His hips stuttered and he felt incredibly close to cumming, his impending release hanging on strings of sanity as Satoru longed to hear you cry out for him. "Say you want it," he said gruffly, "say you want my cum."

"Wanna be stuffed," you drawled out with his fingers still in your mouth, "cum inside me, cum in me, Toru—!"

Satoru shuddered on top of you as his cock spurted inside of your cunt, your walls greedily covered in white ropes of his seed. He continued to fuck you through his orgasm, reaching to rub your clit as you came soon after him, the sight between your legs so goddamn messy that he almost came again just from looking at you. 

He pulled out and pressed his fingers against your hole, causing you to twitch with oversensitivity. "Wouldn't wanna waste a drop of cum," Satoru said tactfully, gently fingering his seed inside you, "I worked so hard to get it there." 

"Fuck you," you said, scrunching your eyes as you buried your face into a pillow. 

"That's what just happened," he said dryly, "dumbass." 

He was gentle and made sure to clean you up thoroughly after, pressing kisses all over your skin as he gave you his shirt to wear this time. Satoru returned from the bathroom to see you dozing off in the very bed he fucked you in, peaceful and as lovable as could be. Clad in his boxers, he crawled into bed with you, insisting that he would be the little spoon as you groggily wrapped your arms around him. 

He snuggled into your touch, and you briefly forgot that this was the same Satoru that pinned you down and forced you to take his cock, but you were too sleepy to think any harder. And apparently, so was he, already snoring in your arms.

[saekkas]

𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐓

summary: the day gojo satoru came home, everything changed– the day the strongest returned scarred, something shifted.

tags: 775 wc | gender neutral reader | angst with some fluff mixed in | slight manga spoilers | satoru keeps his scars from his fight with sukuna | deals with depression and loss

it’s warm. the chilly, almost numbing, weather from winter has thawed– leaving behind patches of ashen snow. the birds chirp outside of your apartment window, calling out to each other as they huddle for warmth.

you watch, enraptured, as a mother bird guards its fledgelings– it preens their wings, maintains its nest by scourging for branches and thickets alike, spreads its wings for when a threat comes near.

it’s almost endearing, how human and animal nature mirror each other so well.

“you okay?” the touch of your hand is feather light, leaving no trace as they trail down satoru’s back. your lover’s quiet– almost uncharacteristically so as he lets you tend to the scars that now litter down his back and throughout his body.

“i’m good,” satoru hums, his eyes plastered on the mugs that are nestled on your nightstand. on some days, when the memories haunt him more than they should, he refuses to speak altogether– lips pressed tight against each other, shoulders slumped as he cradles himself on the bed.

it’s warm, he once told you, eyes so vacant and empty. devoid of the usual bright blue spark they carry.  i like it when it’s warm.

“does it hurt?” you know it doesn’t– know that after what he’s been through, everything’s just another shade of numb. and yet, the tiny whisper in your mind wonders if he truly understands what you’re asking. “you can tell me, y’know? that’s the only way i can help.”

“they’re healed. nothing hurts. not one bit.” satoru grins, showing off his boyish, almost childlike happiness that contrasts the way his eyes are dimmed, hair a mess atop his head.

because that’s who satoru is– who he’s supposed to be. the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, a burden so heavy it dilutes, erases one’s sense of self because if he isn’t the strongest, what else is there to be?

for a fraction of the moment, you let him comfort you– chuckle like everything is the way it was. you miss the sound of his voice, the annoying cackle he lets out just before laughing– most of all, you miss him. the satoru that isn’t a shell of the person he used to be.

your hands glide down the expanse of his back while your eyes roam his face– you take in every individual wound, each a reminder of what he fought for and lost. you wonder what looks back at him when he stares in the mirror.

“i know that,” you mumble, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, gently thumbing his dimple. “but remember what shoko said? it’ll be better if we put some ointment on them.”

“right. right.” the roll of his eyes might have been endearing had he not stiffened at your words. “we should have my wounds healed so they look less ugly.”

the term wound sounds like such an insult for how gentle your touches are when he’s with you.

“hey,” you whisper, watching as his eyelashes flutter the moment your hand threads through his hair. “they’re not ugly, satoru. no part of you could ever be ugly.”

you don’t let him speak, shake your head when he opens his mouth to object. “they’re like stars, y’know?”

“i think you meant to say ‘like pimples,’” he snorts, sounding playful as he waves a hand to dismiss your statement, but you can see it– the hatred and anger deeply rooted in his tone. “or ugly warts.”

“they’re a constellation of stars, satoru. one that’s written on your skin.” you tilt his head upwards, watch as his pupils dilate– a sea of black drowning in blue. he shivers, spine straightening when your fingers trace his jawline. “each one so pretty like they were individually brushed on by a painter.”

you press a kiss to his lips, let him feel the expanse of your love as your hands move before they rest on his chest– you feel his heart thud against your palm, a gentle but needed reminder that even when all else fails, you still have one another. “you are my world and all my stars, satoru. the sky would be so empty without you.”

“then, i’ll consider them yours,” he whispers after a moment of reprieve, leaning his forehead against yours– he lets his façade fall, unhooks the mask he wears for the world. baring his soul wide for you to see. you soften at the tears that pool in his eyes, like diamonds glistening in a storm. “just like how i am too.”

to most people, the strongest may have fallen– but, in your eyes, he’s still your saving grace.

[serenaisavillain]

Boozehounds - I

Summary: King Aegon II and his courtiers halt at a tavern in White Harbour on their lengthy journey to Winterfell. What ensues when they encounter an audacious barmaid who disrespects the king's authority?

Warnings: Contains sensitive themes, including implied sexual violence, namecalling, as well as depictions of sexual harassment. The story contains explicit language and mature themes, including substance abuse and addiction. Authors Note: This was inspired by my beloved Ser Brienne of Tarth. Word Count: 1k Series: i

It was the hour of the wolf, and the pregnant moon’s silver beams glinted off the freshly driven snow. Yet, glowing white in the northern tundra, Barrowtown sat wide awake with no dream of settling. As the north wind whistled its bone-aching chill, the streets turned a quilted tapestry, each patch a drunkard, vendor or whore. But no establishment held a flickering candle to the Wandering Wolf, a small tavern carved into the frozen hill of the Great Barrow.

King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of His Name, sat comfortably in a corner by the roaring fire wrapped in his lynx fur coat, his legs wide, a glass of Harbor Red in his bejewelled, pudgy-fingered grasp. The snow that once covered the circlet of Valyrian steel and square-cut rubies he called a crown had now melted, and his silver hair sat damp like a stray dog’s fur pelted by rain. Behind his chalice was his drooping nose and plump lips stained berry red.

The king's drunken stupor began and ended as it always did, with tall tales. As the brew flowed as did his words, tales of his unwavering bravery, his valiance, his cock. Only when the fibs of the army of bastards he had sired tumbled from his wine-stained mouth did the barmaid behind the counter grow jaded.

She hiked up the tattered grey tunic that hung onto her frame and squatted with a wince. Her feet ached as she had been on that all eve. The war brought soldiers, and soldiers brought coin, and coin kept her fed, but gods, did she hate this wretched work. Her slender fingers brushed past the various barrels under the bar in search of one, in particular, a strong mead from Bear Island.

“Load of horseshite…” She murmured, setting the bronze jug of piss-gold liquid down on the slate counter.

The horde of drunken men, a bewildering mix of northern bannermen, southern knights and sellswords, turned statued; their eyes widened, and their mouths cemented shut.

Aegon turned his head towards her, a crooked crown to match the crooked grin on his flushed, cherubic face.

“I beg your pardon?” he laughed, arching his brow.

Y/N straightened from her hunched-over position and wiped her hands, back and front, on her dingy apron.

“I said it’s a load of horseshite.” she turned to him, deadpan.

Aegon's tightened red fist of fury came down on the round table with a thud. And his party rubbernecked between the pair, the popping and sputtering of the deep rust and scarlet hearth filling the heavy silence.

“She can’t speak to me that way!” he turned to The Hand.

Ser Criston Cole was sat cleaning his longsword, an ugly grey thing, the ugliest weapon Y/N had ever laid her eyes on. Though its blade was sharp, its pommel was discoloured and black, no doubt from ceaseless use. There were no carvings, no figures, no personality. It was just as dull and lifeless as its owner she imagined, although tanned and dornish, the man's features sat quite plainly on his face which always held such a bored expression.

The woman leaned against one of the wooden beams that kept the tavern standing and snorted.

“What are you laughing at?” Aegon barked with wide lilac eyes.

The barmaid stifled another laugh as his face began to resemble the ripened tomatoes that sat plump on the vegetable wagon at the market.

Y/N slipped from behind the tavern counter, filling a wooden mug to its brim with bubbling mead. Her fingers pulled out a rickety stool before she sat, crossed her legs at her ankles and took a long, slow sip. She hummed. Her dark lashes kissing her cheeks as she greedily gulped.

“Was laughin’ at you Your Grace,” she jested after rubbing her sleeved arm against her plush, wet lips.

“One of the mad ones?” whispered Fern, another barmaid with flaming red hair.

“Aye, every time one of these silver haired fucks is born the gods flip a coin.” she mumbled.

Y/N and Fern were the only women in Barrowtown lacking just enough sanity to waitress at The Wandering Wolf, a place known for stiff drinks and the most unsavory of characters. In their defence, it was that or the pleasurehouse, which chambered a darkness even Y/N feared.

Fern cackled along with most of the Northmen that filled the space, almost spilling the bucket of discoloured, soapy water in her calloused grasp.

Aegon’s mouth was agape.

“This is the highest of treasons!” his fist hit the table again, knocking the Arbor Red in his chalice clean over the round table’s edge.

Y/N rolled her dark eyes while Fern groaned.

“I just scrubbed that bloody floor…” she sighed.

Aegon eyed his Kingsguard, “Are you hearing this?! Why are you just stand there?!”

The knights shifted in their armor.

“And what might you have us do Your Grace?” Ser Criston Cole sighed.

“S-Something! Seize them!” He commanded with wild eyes.

The Dornishman nodded, rising to his feet.

“Aye!" Y/N's hand flew out in front of her, "How about a wager?" she hummed, "If the King can outdrink me, he may lie with me till morning cometh,” Y/N smirked, “But if he cannot, he must make knight before the old gods and the new.”

Ser Criston stiffened, his coppered complexion paling.

The tavern erupted into howls of laughter.

“A knight?! A bloody knight?! that’s your wager?” Aegon threw his head back in laughter, “If you wanted to fuck me you could have simply asked,” tears formed in his lilac eyes.

“Your Grace-” Ser Criston began.

The king raised his leather-gloved left hand.

“No, no, you had your chance Dornishman. I’ll make the bitch a knight… When the moon is made of cheese!” He sniggered.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed.

“Craven...” She sighed with arms folded under her chest.

He turned to face her with a look she had never seen on him, earnestness.

“I am no craven.”

The woman shrugged.

“Who’s to say really?"

"All I see is a craven king who dares not enter a bet with a lowborn tavern maid…” she hummed.

The room was so silent one could hear the dire wolves howling in the distance.

Aegon eyed her skepticism before his usual smirk returned to his lips.

“You shall have your wager tavern wench. For your sake I hope you've long lost your maidenhead," he chuckled, “My prick leaves whores bow legged.”

[twst-kumi]

Weeping Maiden [ACT I] CHAPTER 11

[Act I] CHAPTER 11

[Name] woke up in her room in Royal Dawn Dormitory. Flora was dozing off on the armchair by her bed. The fairy’s eyes looked puffy from crying. Flora woke up startled by the young girl snorting. The old woman looked at her for a minute before bawling. She was so loud that she could hear running in the mini castle. 

Ambrose barged in the room holding his robe up. He looked disheveled while panting. His eyes darted everywhere before he saw [Name] smiling awkwardly. It was his turn to cry.

“_Oh my sweet child! I was so worried.”

Alerted by the commotion, the other came to see what was happening. Aurelius also teared up as he saw the young girl. She was alive and well. 

“_ Don't scare us like that ever again. 

_ Yes, I'm sorry. I swear I didn't mean to worry.

_ It's not about you worrying us, my dear child. It was dangerous. You could have died.” 

The director said glaring at her worriedly. He wanted to protect her. Not only was she his most delicate student, but she was first and foremost his daughter blood related or not. [Name]’s heart fluttered in front of his sincere eyes.

“_ It's a parent's job to take care and worry about their child. And a father's job to protect their daughter.”

The young girl couldn't say anything. Her heart felt heavy with unknown emotions. She didn't know how to react to it, but it felt good somehow. Like she was waiting for such words, she couldn't stop her tears trailing down her cheek. The old man held her in her arms and [Name] broke down wailing like a little kid. She couldn't help but cry as he hugged her tightly. It was warm. Ambrose’s embrace felt so warm around her. 

A few minutes after, her eyes were puffy and red gaining her some teasing laugh from Vil and the rest. 

“_You look like a baby chick who hatched with your eyes like that.

_Nooo, baby chick are ugly when they hatch.”

[Name] whined still sniffing here and there. The group laughed relieved everyone was alright. They got out with only a few scratch and bruise nothing to heavy. The most worrying peoples were Neige and her who were unconscious for two days. Neige woke up yesterday.

“_About Neige…” 

[Name] started to explain what she saw in his memories as they listened calmly. There was a silence for a moment until Alexis talked.

“_Like I give a fuck! He drugged you! Don't expect me to go easy on him because of his sob story.” 

Aurelius winced at his colorful language but agreed with him nonetheless. [Name] smiled gently at them.

“_ I'm not asking you to forgive him. I'm just stating the core reason for Neige's Overblot. Neige is incapable of valuing himself for what he is. For him, his worth can only be equated to his usefulness.” 

She understood this feeling better than anyone. As a former child actor and having grown up in a toxic family, she understood what Neige had gone through. Unlike her, Neige was probably not aware of his own abuse. 

“_ I see… Well, you may want to know. I decided to exclude Neige for a week.

_ Only a week? Don't tell me you are planning to let him go scoff free!”

[Name] looked at Vil who frowned at Ambrose’s words. She wanted to comments on how Crowley is letting every Overblotted students off the hook without any repercussions. Aside from Leona who almost got disqualified for Magicshift. The RSA director only laughed.

“_ Of course not. But I think that everyone can get a second chance, if they do show determination and sincerity. The same could be said for you. When I call for you as a primary suspect, I wanted to give you a chance to defend yourself. And if you were the culprit, a chance to redeem yourself.”

Vil couldn’t say if he was unconfortable or just jealous. The director knew Neige longer than him, so it was normal to trust him more than the actor. On the opposite, Crowley didn’t hesitate to send Vil the moment the school reputation was brought up. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Thanks to Ambrose, Vil was able to return to school. He covered it as a flu, he and [Name] caught that. The young girl coming from a different and closeted “land”, her immunity system was a bit weaker than them. It was the excuse they gave everyone to explain their absences. 

“_Where is Neige? I would like to talk to him before he leave.”

There was another silence. 

“_Hey! You heard her? So, are you going to hide behind that wall longer?”

Alexis growled looking toward the open door. They could see a shoulder flinching but no other mouvement. Seeing that he wasn’t going to move, the gentle-looking boy felt even more pissed.

“_ COME IN!!! YOU PIECE OF S…. syrup! I was going to say syrup.”

Everyone looked at him unconvinced and Aurelius couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle. He was going to be in trouble if he continued to swear like a sailor. Vil on other side was wondering if it was a normal for small and delicate looking boys to have a foul mouth. This was the second one after Epel. That being said hearing Neige getting insulted didn’t felt bad. He will acknowledge that Neige’s situation was sad, but it didnt mean he would like him. If anything, he had even more resentment toward him. 

Neige walked inside, his eyes darted to the floor unable to confront their stare. Taking on the cue, Ambrose made everyone leave. Aurelius and Alexis couldn’t help but glare at Neige. 

“_Scream if he try to do anything suspicious. 

_ Yeah, we will beat him for you if he try anything so don’t worry.”

Aurelius and Alexis said while burning hole with their glare on Neige. Vil felt refreshed in a way. Look like RSA too could be a little violent. 

Alone, Neige and [Name] looked at each other for moment. The boy looked devastated, remorse was obvious on his face. 

“_ I’m sorry… I… 

_ I never liked you more than a friend, Neige.”

Neige flinched a little. He could feel a lump forming in his throat. He looked at her before smiling at her. He tried to push back on his need to cry. He was  aware, she didn’t share his feeling.He was going to use this week to reflect on it. Deep down he felt like he didn’t have any right on loving her or coveting her affection.

“_ I know… I’m quite aware of it now. I just want to say it at least once. I love you, [Name].”

[Name] was speechless for a moment. His eyes shined with a resolve she never saw in him before. Something changed in him, he looked a little bit more like a man rather than a delicate boy. Both exchanged a small laugh before Neige stood up to leave. She rejected his confession but at least she acknowledged it. 

Neige was walking down the stair under the two freshmen’s glare. It was understandable for them to hate him. Remembering something, he stopped in his tracks and looked at them. 

“_Please, take care of her.

_We don’t need you to tell us that. 

_Just leave already!”

Neige chuckled a little looking at the two. What a duo of  brave little knight they were. 

“_Right, before I forgot. Don’t trust Henry that much.”

Aurelius frowned a little. What does his dormleader have to do with all this? The young man felt his stomach churn. Pushing his worry aside, he walked back inside the bedroom once he was sure Neige left the dorm. 

Act I: Poison of Delusion. (END)

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Tag

@cocomollo @owodi @illytian

[aanoia]

for the christmas thing, i think a oneshot that's basically just james and reader with a mistletoe. could be at a party or maybe even while they decorate their house!! whatever you want to do with that prompt is fine though :)

thank you so much for the request, I hope you love it!

𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆 - 𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔

James Potter x reader day one of the christmas advent calendar words; 849 warnings; none this one is so sweet :) also it's december finally, literally the best month of the year and my birthday (which is christmas on the dot)

‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ played softly as I entered the Lupin homestead. I smiled as I shrugged off my scarf and coat, gently placing them on the coat rack before walking into the living room.

“Oh, Y/n! You made it!” Lily said happily, leaving the warm side of her boyfriend to give me a tight hug. 

“Lily! I’ve missed you.” I responded, hugging her back just as tight.

“Me too, it’s been ages since we’ve last seen each other, hasn’t it?” She asked and I opened my mouth to answer, but was cut off as a large black dog came running into the living room, a dripping spatula caught between its teeth.

Remus ran in after Sirius, “Sirius! Enough, give me back the spatula. Dogs can’t have chocolate, idiot!”

Sirius transformed into his human self, “Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a dog then, isn’t it?” He looked over to me and licked the spatula. “‘Ello, love, how have you been doing?”

I snorted and pulled him into a hug, “Quite well, if I must say. And you?”

He winked, “I’ve been great. Having a place with your boyfriend, just your boyfriend, is great. If you know what I mean.” I shook my head as I gave Remus a hug, mumbling quiet hello’s to each other.

“Gross.” Peter said, walking out of the kitchen, wearing the most hideous, wretched Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen.

I raised my eyebrows, “Wow, Peter, you really took the ugly part seriously.”

“It’s not ugly, what do you mean?” Peter’s girlfriend, Amanda (sorry to the Amanda’s) piped up and I refrained from rolling my eyes.

“Amanda, you’re here.” I said with a fake smile.

She looked me up and down and grimaced. “I am. For some reason.” She mumbled at the end, walking back into the kitchen. I made eye contact with Lily and she rolled her eyes at her antics.

Everyone retreated to the kitchen as I set my purse down on the coffee table and smiled at the large Christmas tree.

“Everyone gets a hi but me, huh?” I jumped as a voice sounded from behind me.

I turned around, “James. Hi.” 

He smiled and pulled me into a hug. “Hello, how have been, love?” He asked softly.

“I’ve been good, how about you?”

“Much better now that you’re in front of me.” He said, taking a step to the side and bringing me with him.

I looked into his eyes as he kept nudging us gently, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you moving us?”

“Am I moving us?”

I glanced to the side and laughed, taking a step back before we got underneath the mistletoe.

“Not a chance, Potter.” I said smugly, walking past him and into the kitchen with everyone else.

“I’ll get you tonight, L/n.” He called after me and I shook my head.

The oven dinged and Sirius gasped excitedly.

“The cookies!” He exclaimed, jumping up and running to the oven.

Remus shot up, “Sirius, no, you’ll-” Sirius yelped in shock as he burned his finger. Remus sighed, “Burn yourself. Come here.” 

I carefully took the cookies from the oven and Remus bandaged up Sirius’ burn. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet smell of the fresh cookies.

“They smell delicious.” I said as I set them on top of the pot holder on the counter. “You did great, Remus.”

He smiled at me, “Thank you.”

“Y/n, come here.” James said, beckoning me over to the doorway.

I shook my head as I took the mittens off, “Nope.” I said as I muttered a cooling spell on the cookies and carefully picked one up.

“Please?” He said. I smiled and walked over, shoving a cookie in his mouth before he could conjure a mistletoe.

I booped his nose as he ate the cookie, defeated. “Stop trying to get me to walk under a mistletoe.”

A few candy cane shots later and everyone was up dancing to ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’. A hand grabbed mine and spun me around as I laughed loudly. James put his other hand on my waist as we swirled and swayed. I failed to notice the way he was gently moving us over, step by step. Eventually, the song ended and a softer one came on as everyone calmed down.

James cleared his throat, “Well, what a coincidence.”

I looked at his face, humming in question before my eyes caught the shimmering of a crystal. I looked up and my heart beat rapidly in my chest as I stared at the mistletoe.

“We can’t break tradition.” He whispered and my eyes met his.

“You’re an ass.” I whispered back before smashing my lips against his. His arm snaked around my waist and bent me backwards slightly as my hand made its way on his cheek. It was nothing short of magical, literally.

“We should go on a date.” He said breathlessly once we pulled away.

I smiled and placed a small kiss on his lips. “If you’re lucky.”

my masterlist

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[saltofmercury]

hi may i please request a könig fluff please? this week has been the hardest for me to get through and its only wednesday, i just wanna be comforted by your writing ˙◠˙

Something is definitely in the sky right now and I don't want to go all astrology but it's weighing heavily on me too! I hope you ended the week on a better note than me, I hope this week goes great for you and you find five dollars or they pay for your coffee :)

Here's something that has been sitting in my drafts forever and I hope it delivers!

"Notes"

His face turned red, it had scrunched, crinkled forming in the corners of his eyes, his brows pushed together. His huge body was bent over, holding his stomach, he had been wheezing for a while now. He had been laughing nonstop. Breathless, small attempts at inhales, but he couldn’t get anything out.

“Say it again, say it again please.”

You had sucked in your cheeks, your face a couple shades redder than him, baffled by what you said. It wasn’t that funny. However König took it as a punch line.

You had been riding in the car ride back from the errands you two had accomplished this wonderful Saturday morning. He had just got back from a mission, and needed to go get honey. It had been a great morning, walking around the farmers market just you two in your own world.

After mentally checking your list in your head about what you guys had to stop and do, you reminded him that he had to stop by the pharmacy to pick up his inhaler. He had thanked you, busting a u-turn in the intersection.

“Goodness schatz I almost forgot.”

“I have a pornographic memory you know.”

You shifted in your seat, your eyes bulging out of your sockets, the warmth of embarrassment crawling up your cheeks.

He had snorted, then started laughing so hard that he almost swerved into the other lane. 

“Pornographic?” he had wheezed out of his mouth, tears streaming down his face.

He pulled into the pharmacy, parked in the space, and held his stomach with both hands.

“Schatz I swear to god, what is wrong with you?” He wiped the tears from his eyes.

He got out of the car and then began to walk in, his boisterous laugh echoing from the entrance of the store.

You sat in the car, mortified that you had said that out loud. Ever since he got back from his mission it seemed like you had spoken too fast, or your mouth wanted to speak but your brain had missed three steps and you fumbled what you wanted to say.

He walked back outside, laughing still, jugging his inhaler, sour peach rings, and condoms.

He stepped inside the car, physically making the car dip. Turning towards you, he said

“Here I got you candies, and condoms for your pornographic mind later.”

The entire car ride home seemed as if it was the funniest thing you said.

“Alright I get it! It wasn’t that funny!”

“You’ve got porno on your brain, and you expect me not to laugh?”

As you arrived home, he carried the bags inside as you rushed to the bathroom.

You came out of the bathroom and he had been typing on his phone. Being afraid he was being pulled out of your life again, you carefully asked him.

“Are you being taken away again?”

He peered up from the phone, with a confused face.

“What?”

You fiddled with your flannel and asked again, 

“Are they taking you again? On a mission?”

“No schatzi I just got back” He put his arm around you, crushing you, then leaned down to kiss you. 

“Oh, I just thought, because you never touch your phone.”

It was one thing that König left behind. His phone. He had never brought it on missions, telling you to hold onto it. It was on the rare occasion he was treated to a safe base hosted by the military, that he brought it with him. 

You never peeked at his phone, not that you needed to, König was an open book with you about everything except his job.

But you couldn’t help the ugly thoughts that crept up into your stomach. Almost as if he sensed it he came to reassure you.

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you,”

He had opened up the notes app on the phone and then bit his lip.

“I… uh.. I write down funny things you say on this note.”

He passed the phone to you and then proceeded to sit down at the table, pulling you to his lap as you went down the list.

The list was long, some things you remembered saying, other times you did not remember saying these things at all.

You peered at him,

“Why do you have these written down?” You felt like it was a little bit personal, him keeping a list of embarrassing things you said.

He sensed how protective you were, and then sheepishly admitted,

“When I’m on base and I miss you, I open this list up and I… uh”

He had rubbed a hand over his hair, embarrassed that he had shown you the list.

“I just read over these things and I remember what I get to come home to.”

He took the phone from you and then started smiling.

“You remembered that time I baked a pie and you had come home from work and said,

‘can I finger this?’”

You blushed, the warm apple pie he had baked had been overfilled, gooing, and oozing cinnamon and apples in the middle and you couldn’t contain your mouth watering.

“I was hungry.”

“Your mind is too sexual, why would you finger a pie?”

You had blushed even more, remembering that you really wanted to just swipe the top of the pie with your finger, however your brain had lost translation with your tongue, making you say something else instead.

“This one is really funny, remember when I asked you to read aloud the board game instructions?”

“No?”

“You had said this is the epi-tohm of fun… but it was really.. the epitome of fun?”

You laughed at this one. 

“SHUT UP! English is hard!” you said.

“What about the time that we made burgers and you said wash your sister sauce instead of worcestershire sauce?”

“That I can’t take responsibility for that one…” you had remembered seeing that on a video, thinking it was much easier than saying ‘worcestershire’ sauce.

“Either way, I love how your brain works sometimes.”

Admiration in his eyes, his mouth had been curved on both ends, happy, giddy even, sharing these moments he had kept of you on his phone. 

“There are times you talk in your sleep, you argue with the honey lady at the farmers market.”

You knew you had talked in your sleep, your family and friends telling you that they sometimes had conversations with you unconsciously. König never brought it up though. He never once mentioned you talking in your sleep.

“What do I say?”

He had let out a small laugh, and then said 

“You always tell her to please sell you the one with the honeycomb inside, it’s for your boyfriend.”

The last word he had said it to tease you, make you blush, but the way his smile had peaked on his face, was the only indication of how much he liked the sound of it too. Though he would never admit it to you. The two of you smiling at one another made him realize how much he missed home, how much he loved talking to you while sleeping, and hearing you say things you never second guessed to say. He always knows he never second guessed with you either.

[maskofmilves]

Beloved (Elisabeth Sparkle x Sue)

Words: 1549

Summary: An alternate version of what happened when Elisabeth woke up Sue.

Warnings: Blood and violence, toxic relationship, power imbalance, Sue, love and affection

A/n: me and @eeblouissant came together for our joint slay which is Elisasue brainrot galore and I couldn't appreciate her more❤️

"You're... perfect."

That's all that came out of Elisabeth's mouth when Sue woke up. Splatters of blood were all over Elisabeth's face and coat, and the light-colored carpet was sure to leave a stain. The veins in Elisabeth's neck protruded. It hurt to move any muscle in her body. She looked down at the most beautiful being she'd ever seen. Sue was staring up at her, bloody, confused. She didn't know what was happening.

Elisabeth quickly grabbed the termination syringe and put it into her coat pocket. She didn't want her to know she attempted to kill her. Sue snapped out of her trance and crawled away like a lobster, she got up in shock and stared at the disgusting hermit in front of her. Is this Elisabeth? Holy shit.

"H-hey it's okay- I know I'm not the most friendly-looking gal... it's me, Elisa-"

"Why did you wake me up!"

"I don't know... I'm-"

"How did you get to look like that?"

Elisabeth chuckled sarcastically. "You did this to me you shit!"

"Fuck you I use the time I have! You sit around the place and eat your heart out!"

"Because people like you take away everything good I have going...good for me!"

Sue glanced her up and down and snorted. Elisabeth frowned in embarrassment. She was hunched over and ugly. Unworthy of love. "...had." She scoffed. Her thoughts were racing, she kept forgetting Sue saw the hunchback zombie-looking woman and not who she wanted to be. She wanted to be the woman on that TV who gave your mom a smile whenever she would air each week. Not some horrid monster. She looked away from Sue, feeling the tears flow. She didn't want her to see.

Sue grabbed a paper napkin from the kitchen and wiped her face, hoping to get off her own blood. "Thanks for staining my carpet."

It was her carpet. Not Sue's.

Elisabeth gasped with a hoarse voice "Look at me. I can't go on like this. Just kill me..."

Sue put down the act and slowly walked over to the deformed woman. Gently placing a hand on her shoulder. Instead of pushing her away, Elisabeth brought herself down to her knees, she wrapped her arms around herself like someone else was hugging her. She missed when she wasn't so insecure. It was only when she was at this stage, she started appreciating the old her.

Sue went down with her to the floor. "I'm sorry-"

"Sorry doesn't fucking make up for what you did to me!"

YOU ARE ONE

The voice in her head rang again. Fuck.

"No...no"

Sue appeared confused. "What?"

"We're the same. Baby, we're the same." Elisabeth turned to her holding her face in her hands. "You're not at fault baby...not at all. I'm only to blame. We're one."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She was being genuine.

"You, don't know? The Substance. You came from me? Sue..."

Sue didn't understand a word she was saying. "Are you nuts?"

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. "I birthed you from my back...because I took the activator...you're not- I don't know what you are. Genetically mutated from me."

"What." She had a dead-eyed look on her face.

"I feed you for one week, you feed me for the other. We switch. Why else do we tie up our tubes so often?"

"You're basically my clone. What did you think you were? Humans don't rip out from a back?" She spat out as she got up and went through the fridge like a bear. As Elisabeth opened the fridge door, a cascade of cool air wafted over her, carrying with it the faint scent of last week’s takeout. She peered inside, squinting against the harsh light, her gaze darting over half-empty containers and wilting greens. The shelves were a chaotic mix of expired yogurt, a lonely carrot, and a single egg, each item a reminder of her recent neglect in the kitchen. With a sigh, she pushed aside a forgotten bottle of mustard and reached for the cheese, hoping to salvage a snack from the remnants of the week. The fridge felt like a treasure chest of culinary regret, but she was determined to eat something—anything—from its haphazard contents.

Sue reached for her shoulder and yanked her away from the fridge, she squinted and slapped her right across the face. "I'm more real than the image of you."

The tension in the kitchen was palpable as Sue and Elisabeth stood across from each other, the bright fluorescent lights casting stark shadows on their faces. Now the air crackled with unspoken grievances. Sue, her fists clenched, hurled a spatula across the room, narrowly missing Elisabeth’s head. “You always think you’re better than me!” she shouted, her voice rising. Sue, her eyes blazing, retaliated by grabbing a dish towel and swinging it like a whip, snapping it against the counter with a fierce crack. “Maybe if you put as much effort into your life as you do into your drama, you wouldn’t be so miserable!”

With each word, the kitchen became a battleground, utensils flying and insults echoing off the walls. Flour dust filled the air as a mixing bowl went tumbling to the floor, and the chaos of their emotions spilled over like a boiling pot. The simmering bond they once had was now reduced to shouts and chaos, both women grappling with their hurt and anger, their voices rising above the clatter of shattered glass. In that moment, the kitchen—a place of nourishment and comfort—transformed into a war zone, where every clash felt like a desperate attempt to reclaim power.

Sue slammed her back into the kitchen cabinet with the ungodly strength she had, twisting her arms back, moving her one hand to Elisabeth's neck. Putting pressure there and squeezing. It felt good to have the creatures life in her hands. Anymore pressure to her collarbone and it'd snap. Elisabeth's back cracked like a rice krispee. Snapped, crackled, and popped. "Why did you wake me up! I was doing so good without you, you disgusting hag."

Elisabeth gurgled and hissed, clawing at the strong grip around her neck. Her airflow slowly being restricted. "Sue-"

"What? You wanna take away everything I've built and throw it away like your life? I earned all of this." She smirked.

"If you kill me- you won't have any spinal fluid left- you fuck-" She spat out. Blood beggining to come up form her throat. Sue's expression softened. Elisabeth knew she had to have some ounce of empathy left in her. She didn't want to go out like this. It would've been a pathetic way to die. "Baby-"

"Don't call me that…" Sue let go of her and she fell to the hard tiled floor. Elisabeth hit her head on the counter and she went down. Elisabeth's head pounded. Blood oozing out of it, her mouth, she just wanted it to end. She sat against the cabinet and rested her head back. Her vision was starting to go blurry, her breaths growing uneven.

Elisabeth tried to wiggle her toes, expecting the familiar sensation of warmth and tingling, but instead, there was nothing—just an unsettling numbness that began to creep up her legs. Panic flickered in her chest, a fluttering moth against the darkness that surrounded her. She pressed her fingertips against her thigh, searching for some sign of life, some reminder that she was still connected to her body. But all he felt was the eerie absence of sensation, as if she were slowly dissolving into the air.

“Focus, just breathe,” Sue muttered to her, but the words felt hollow in the stillness. Elisabeth tried to stand, but her legs felt heavy, as though they were encased in lead. With every effort, it felt like a layer of fog was wrapping around her, thickening and suffocating.

"Fuck fuck I'm sorry I'm sorry oh god I'm-" Sue panicked. She had no control over herself at this point. Tears fell from her angelic face. This really wasn't her fault. She wasn't in control. The Substance was. Sue grabbed a towel from the rack and put it over her bloody wound.

Elisabeth gave her a soft smile. "Sue." She croaked out. Her rotting gums showing. Sue didn't even care at all about her physical apperance. She changed completely in only a matter of seconds it seemed.

"Shut up I can't have you lose more blood than you already have." She cried out. She stroked Elisabeth's neck softly and a lone tear fell on to her lapel. Elisabeth let out a breath, her gloved fingers moving to Sue's face. She was everything and more to her.

"C'mere…hold me". It was almost a whisper. Her words hit Sue right in her thawing heart. "Please."

Sue didn't hesitate. She brought the woman's head into her chest and rested her chin there. She caraessed her back and wrapped her legs around Elisabeth's body. A full-body hug.

Elisabeth realized this is the first time in decades she's been hugged. Truly hugged. It's all she's wanted, to be loved, to be wanted. Now she's got what she needed.

"I'm going to take care of you now."

"Stay with me."

***

"you're beloved so let yourself be loved."

[turtletaubwrites]

So What?

Thank you so much @shewrites02 for this Zosan request! It cracked me up, and I hope you enjoy it!

Pairings: Zoro x Sanji

Word Count: 1096

Ao3 Link

Summary: An enemy catches Zoro eying Sanji in the middle of a fight. Zoro doesn't care, until they make the mistake of threatening the cook.

Rating/Warnings: SFW, Some Passionate Kissing, Fluff, Swearing, Canon-Typical Violence, (hardly any), Humor, They both get teased a bunch for their relationship, Established Relationship, (implied/kind of?), Protective Zoro, Nami and Usopp are little shits 😅

A/N: I giggled so much writing this. I love our lil Straw Hats so much

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 | ko-fi |

“Hey Curly, I’ve got this ugly guy. You go after that one that ran away.”

Zoro kept the enemy pirate in his peripheral vision, his swords ready for any movement. 

Still, he looked toward the blonde cook, whose fiery kick had just taken another opponent down.

“I don’t take orders from you, dumbass marimo,” Sanji spat, anger riding his voice.

But he turned on his heel, walking toward the escaping enemy as he took a long drag off his cigarette. 

Zoro’s lip twitched in a smile as he watched him walk away.

“I’m over here asshole,” his enemy fumed, waving his arms. “I can’t believe the notorious pirate hunter gets distracted by a man’s ass in the middle of a fight. Pathetic.”

Zoro gripped his swords, adjusting his stance as he gave the shitty pirate his full attention. 

The guy didn’t shut up when he should have. 

“Who knew this would be so easy,” the man taunted, holding his sword in position. “I get to kill the infamous Roronoa Zoro because he was too busy daydreaming about a little pretty boy. Ha! This’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, I fuck the cook. So what? I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

A loud cough behind him pricked his ears, but he knew his only threat was in front of him. 

“Fine then,” the pirate sighed before tilting his head with a taunt. “That just means I’ll kill you, then I get to gut your little boy toy.”

“The fuck did you just say,” Zoro growled, low and dangerous.

“I said I’m gonna kill your little blonde twink after I’m done with y–”

The pirate flew through the air, the force of Zoro’s hit knocking him back until he slammed into a tree. He didn’t seem conscious, but Zoro stood above him as he sheathed his swords.

“Nobody touches that perv cook but me.”

~

“So Sanji, I heard you’re Zoro’s little boy toy,” Nami teased, with Usopp nodding along as he egged her on. 

Sanji had a coughing fit, shattering a handful of plates as he carried them to the sink.

Zoro hummed softly, shaking his head as he took a swig of his drink.

When Sanji could breathe again, his red face turned to Nami, trying to ignore the sidelong glances and tiny smirk playing on Zoro’s lips. 

“I’m sorry, Nami, dear. What did you say?”

“Oh, just something we heard during the fight today. What’s a twink?”

Zoro coughed this time, sputtering as sake went down the wrong way.

“Isn’t that a type of food,” Luffy piped up, looking at the cook’s quivering form. “Sanji, do we have any twinks? I wanna try one.”

Usopp couldn’t hold it in anymore, snorting with laughter until he and Nami were practically rolling in their seats. 

“What's happening,” Sanji managed to choke out, having to lean against the counter as he swayed.

“We just heard— We heard Zoro talking,” Nami’s voice came out high, struggling for air. “You do it, Usopp. Say it.”

She slapped against his chest lightly, and Usopp puffed himself up, taking a minute to calm his laughter, chuckles bubbling up until he bellowed out, imitating Zoro’s voice.

“Nobody touches that perv cook but me.”

Even Luffy chuckled now, although his brows were furrowed, not quite following. 

Until Sanji’s red face grew mottled, and he found his footing again.

“What the fuck kind of shit are you saying about me, you idiot moss head? Keep my name out of your ugly ass mouth!”

“I didn’t say your name, dumbass,” Zoro yelled back, standing up to growl at him while they pressed their foreheads together. 

“I called you a fucking perv cook.”

“Idiot swordsman, you don’t even…”

As their feud barreled on, the galley slowly emptied, Luffy snagging snacks as Usopp dragged him away. 

At this point, the cook and the first mate were just growling, eyes burning into each other. 

There was no way to tell who reached out first, their bodies tangling in a blur. 

Zoro’s strong hands gripped Sanji’s waist, the cook’s hands pulled around Zoro’s shoulders and neck. Their mouths ate at each other with all that heat that had boiled over between them. 

Until Sanji pulled away, eyes still sharp with anger.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Zoro groaned, moving to lean against the table as he found his sake again. He sighed as he met Sanji’s eyes, heavy with annoyance.

“The ugly guy from earlier,” he started, Sanji crossing his arms as he waited. “He made fun of me for looking at you.”

Sanji’s eyes squinted, his chin bobbing forward, but Zoro didn’t elaborate.

“So what? Someone hurt your feelings, so you went and told the whole crew that I’m your fucking twink?”

Zoro sputtered again, wiping the sake from his chin. His laughs fizzled under Sanji’s stare. 

The cook’s skin was still flushed, and Zoro wanted to press his lips against those burning cheeks. 

“I didn’t say that shit, curly, okay? He did.”

Sanji let out a heavy breath, looking at the ceiling before frowning back down at the swordsman. 

Why does he always have to look like that when I’m mad at him, Sanji thought, fighting to keeps his eyes on Zoro’s face instead of his exposed chest.

“So why didn’t you disagree? I thought we weren’t telling the rest of the crew.”

Sanji’s voice had raised again, just a bit, as he gestured toward the door. 

“He threatened you, okay?”

The anger in Zoro’s voice now was different from the kind he shared with the cook. His jaw clenched, and Sanji saw the veins in his forearms pulsing as he dug fingers into his knees.

Sanji’s frown dropped, leaving him with his mouth hanging open. 

With another swig of his drink, Zoro stood in front of the silent cook, poking him gently on the chest.

“Plus, I don’t think I give a shit. So what if they know? It’s too late now, anyway.”

After a moment more of staring, Sanji sighed, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. 

“You stupid moss head. Can’t be left alone for ten minutes without fucking something up, can you?”

“Shut up,” Zoro growled, reaching for Sanji’s hips again. “Don’t leave me alone then, you shitty cook.”

Sanji groaned at the insult, wanting to keep the argument going. 

But they melted into each other, breaths calmer now as they kissed away all their words. 

Almost all their words. 

“I’m not a twink,” Sanji grumbled while Zoro kissed along his neck. 

Zoro’s snort was all it took for their battle to begin again. 

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: They are so silly 😅

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[theladyragnell]

ooo, how about alex/thom for #29 visiting their home for the first time?

(If you are reading this and wondering why I didn't do the obvious and send them to hill country, that's because I got the same prompt twice for this round and already did that! Once again please kindly ignore the epic backstory fic implied by this ficlet.)

Roger had avoided the City of the Gods. He’d called it stuffy and hidebound and sanctimonious and staid, and Alex had believed him. He had no Gift of his own, no opinion on the place where most of Tortall’s mages trained. From Delia, from the other women who came to court from there, he’d had the idea of pampered cloisters where women and men without martial talents learned how to administer their fiefs.

When Thom of Trebond had arrived at court, with his gaudy clothes and his incessant words and his clear uselessness at anything but magic, he’d done little to disprove any of that. The City of the Gods was where people went to become decorative and, according to Roger, to stagnate magically. Alex had never expected to go there and have his vague suppositions either proved or disproved. He hadn’t wanted to.

Alex stared for a long time at the city walls of forbidding grey stone and tried to ignore the feeling of saturated magic prickling across his skin and how familiar it was. Thom, reluctant as he’d been the whole journey, seemed just as disinclined to ride the last few steps through the city gates.

“We have to do it sometime,” Thom eventually said. “If nothing else, our king commands it.”

They were, the both of them, too good at pretending not to care, not to be hurt. After the first week of travel, of the two of them reeling and snarling like wolves, they’d stopped prodding at each other and just let each other pretend. “As my liege commands, of course.” A truth, but a bitter one. Alex put his heels to his horse’s sides, and expected Thom to follow.

There were few people in the streets. Priestesses traveling in gossiping knots, or sterner and older ones shepherding along lines of girls in plain dresses. Men in Mithran robes, or scholars’ robes, or mages’ robes. Acolytes in plain clothes, their allegiances only visible from the badges they wore. All of them stared at two young lords on horseback.

“You aren’t wearing your robes,” Alex realized aloud when they’d passed a mage of about fifty, a plump and smug master of the Gift whose eyes Thom had avoided.

Thom’s edgy laugh was as abrasive as everything else that came out of his mouth. “It might shock you to learn, Tirragen, that I’m not terribly popular with the other mages here. My hair is distinctive enough. Add that to my age and my robes of mastery? Best to pretend at anonymity. If I’m even a master at all anymore.”

Thom’s Gift was one of the wounds Alex had learned the hard way not to press at. When he had, Thom had pinned him against a wall, and the very air seemed to be rusty violet, and then it was all gone, and neither of them had breathed right for the rest of the day. “Doesn’t matter to me,” Alex said eventually, and Thom snorted, but didn’t speak again.

The Mithran temple where Thom had trained was austere to the point of ugliness, and where Alex had expected pampered younger sons unsuited for being warriors, he found quiet men with pinched expressions. They were, on the whole, pale and delicate, as though kept away from the sun, and the older ones steered clear of Thom in the halls, seeming not to see him, as a novice brought them to the master they were there to see.

Alex had, in those last terrible weeks before the coronation, been vaguely aware of a Master Si-Cham, short and lively and kind, trying to bring Thom back from the brink. He’d expected, as much as he expected anything, the priest replacing him to be a similar sort of person. Instead, they were greeted by a sharp-featured man with the look of the haMinch, businesslike and unkind, who treated Thom with open dislike and Alex with suspicion mixed with a dose of pity as Thom explained in cold technical terms what had been done to them both.

“We’ll see what can be done,” the priest said at last. “In the meantime, Master Thom, you know where the guest quarters are.”

If it bothered Thom to be a guest where he’d once lived, he didn’t say it. He said something insincere and honeyed instead, and took the dismissal with as much grace as he took anything. There was no one waiting for them outside, but the priest was right. Thom knew the way, and brought them through the dim and dismal halls of Tortall’s biggest temple to the god of the sun until they found an out-of-the-way hallway where the sconces were barely lit. The quarters were little more than a room each with a washstand, and Thom abandoned Alex and put a thick stone wall between them as soon as he could.

Alex looked out the window at the kitchen garden crawling with novices hard at work and thought of the palace in Corus, how cold and strange it had seemed, how regimented after his childhood in Tirragen. How Wyldon of Cavall, his page-sponsor, had with grim duty told him that page training was about learning to endure, and that enduring was a privilege if it served a realm that Alex’s grandfather hadn’t been a part of. How mistrustful and mistrusted he’d been, until Gary had extended a hand, and then Francis, and Raoul, and at last Jon.

And then they’d all reached out to Alan too, years later, no matter how surly and prickly he’d been. Looking down at the boys in the garden, all of their eyes on their separate tasks, Alex didn’t think many of them reached out. Roger had always said, half-laughing, that mages were a selfish lot, that they would never help another one along if they might be competition later.

Thom spoke more, and more fondly, of the City of the Gods than he did of Trebond. Maybe he didn’t trust Alex with Trebond. Alex hoped that was it, and that it wasn’t that this cheerless place was what he thought of as home, the way Alex sometimes guiltily thought of Corus first, and clear-skied Tirragen after.

Alex wouldn’t ask. Thom wouldn’t want him to. Neither of them wanted questions from each other, just an end to their duties and thus to the reminder of what they’d done. If the home Thom knew best wasn’t what Alex had thought it would be, that didn’t matter.

Still, he watched the novices from the window, looking for signs of friendliness or care, until Thom knocked on the door to show him the way to dinner.