#I take a bite and feel this weight of doom or dread or whatever. it sucks. it just sucks

[oliveish]

Currently uh life update ig

Tummy aches :(

[allinthemagicshop]

Not All Bad

I finished my last final of university and it didn't bring the happy rush I thought it would, so this one was for me.

Best Friend!Changbin x GN!Reader

wc: ~1k

genre: angst to comfort

warnings: mentions of eating/skipping meals

I do not own Stray Kids or anything related to them, this is a complete work of fiction and is just for fun

Today just seemed like it was doomed from the start. You woke up only to realize you were late for your final test in your hardest class. You rushed to catch the next bus to your university. You had made it in time to get through the whole test, but hadn’t had enough time to properly check your answers, leaving you with a horrible weight planted in your stomach. As you walked towards your favorite cafe to try and make yourself feel a little better, it started pouring down rain. Unfortunately, you hadn’t bothered to check the weather in your rush out of your apartment and were subsequently caught in the downpour with no umbrella, no jacket, and now soggy sandals. You pushed open the door to the café only to look up and realize that your favorite items were all out of stock for the day. Sighing, you ordered a hot chocolate to at least warm up your hands.

On your walk to the university library someone rushed by you, presumably late as you had been to your first final, and knocked your drink onto the ground. At least they shouted an apology and you hadn’t gotten blasted by the hot beverage. You continued through the library doors, heading towards the study group you had formed with a few of your classmates to study for your next final of the day. As you sat down, the rest of the group looked up at you and laughed at your state. Messy hair stringy from the rain, clothes sticking to every part of you, and a permanent frown had made its residence on your face. “I don’t want to talk about it, can we please just go over the notes one more time?”

“Uh, sorry, y/n. We were all actually just finishing up our studying to go grab some lunch before the final. You can come with us if you want,” one of the others said, refusing to make eye contact. You felt your shoulders tense. You couldn’t even count on both hands the amount of times this had happened in the last month of studies. The rest of the group had gotten closer while you studied for other classes and worked, missing nearly every non-study hangout they planned. You felt the sting of the obligatory invite.

“Yeah, no it’s okay. I just grabbed a bite at the cafe so I’ll just stay and study then,” you shrugged as you tried to make eye contact with any of them. Instead, they all got up with mumbled goodbyes and waves as they finished packing up. You could hear their laughter pick up as they walked farther away from you. Refusing to cry in public, you angrily rubbed your eyes as you continued walking to the farthest corner of the library. As you went to put your earphones in to block out the world while you studied, the case blinked at you to indicate that they were in fact dead. At least you were no longer surprised by the continuous bad news bombarding you anymore. 

Pulling out the textbook, you set it on the table before putting your forehead against it and taking deep breaths. If this day was going to continue like this, you were sure to lose it. Making a quick decision, you texted your best friend, hoping he could meet you after your final and spend the rest of the day cuddled together watching whatever you could find to distract yourself. After a brief explanation of the miserable comedy show that was your day, you turned your phone on silent and began studying. There was no way you wanted to see if he couldn’t get out of his schedule to make you feel better before you had actually finished your final. Let it be another bad surprise after you had fully drained your energy on the test.

Three hours later, you made your way out of the building feeling much better about that final than the previous one but still with an overwhelming sense of dread from the rest of the day’s events. You had completely forgotten about the text you had sent until you spotted him staring at his phone with one arm suspiciously hidden behind his back, but not enough to hide the massive bag in his grip. You quietly walked up to your best friend and cleared your throat. “Hey, Binnie.” He snapped his head up to you and shoved his phone in his pocket. One look at you had him setting the bag on the still damp ground and throwing his arms around you.

“Hey, sweets. I’m so sorry about today. I’m so beyond proud of the hard work you continue to put in for school. You’ve done so well and I’m sure the tests today went well, no matter what you believe. You’re so incredibly smart and I’m lucky to have someone as kind as you in my life. I love you so much, don’t forget that.” Changbin squeezed you to him a little tighter after he finished his speech. You wrapped your arms around his waist as tears began flowing down your face. He pulled away when he felt his shirt get damp and moved his hands to your face. “Y/n, you’re so incredibly strong,” he murmured as his thumbs wiped the tears from your cheeks. “I asked Chan for the rest of the day and tomorrow off. I’m ahead on all of my parts for this next comeback so it was no problem. Felix sent me with the leftover brownies from last night and Minho is making your favorite tonight to bring by your apartment during our movie marathon.” Changbin smiled at you as he picked the bag back up.

“What did I do to deserve you, Binnie?” you barely were able to speak above a whisper, the words trying to get caught in your throat. Changbin shook his head as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and began walking you towards his car. He held the bag up to you wordlessly, wanting you to take it. You peered inside to see all of your favorite snacks and drinks as well as a new fluffy blanket and a pig plush. Tears threatened to spill over again at the kind gesture.

“Sweets, you are the one I don’t deserve. Please don’t put my best friend down like that. And I know you skipped breakfast and lunch. Yes, Minho is bringing dinner, but a couple snacks before then should be enough to get your strength back up for this mega movie marathon I’m going to drag you through. And I have more groceries in the car so we can make all three meals together tomorrow. Well… you can make them and I’ll cheer you on. You can cheer me on when I do the dishes after, okay? I’m all yours to cuddle until you’re so sick of me that you have to call Chan to drag me out of your apartment.”

You shook your head and laughed. As you turned to look at Changbin, he gave you the brightest smile and opened the car door for you. You set the bag onto the seat before pulling your best friend into one more hug. Immediately, his arms wrapped you back into a warm hug. No matter how bad your day had gotten, he was always there and determined to make sure it would get better.

[epigstolary]

Expressions

There’s a broad range of expressions you’ll get used to seeing on your feedee’s face as they progress along their gaining journey. I know firsthand; I’ve gone through several. I enjoy the variety but, more than anything, I enjoy seeing how they change over time as each gainer makes their peace with the fast-approaching inevitable.

Pleasure always comes first — the flushed exhilaration of a new fatty, finally getting to live their long-cherished and often deeply hidden dream of letting go, eating whatever they want, and getting as fat as they possibly can. The look of pure satisfaction as they grasp a rounded belly packed with food, feeling themself getting fuller and bigger — feeling, after a while, a flabby paunch starting to come in, the belly staying round and prominent even when they haven’t eaten a full meal. Bliss.

It isn’t usually too long after the initial high that another expression becomes more common: desire. That look of animalistic possessiveness whenever something delicious and fattening comes into view — pizza, mac ‘n cheese, burgers, barbecue, pasta, cake, ice cream, you name it. They can’t help themselves; they have to have it. They go for their quarry with a singular focus, their pudgy hands and arms reaching out for whatever it is they want to stuff into their waiting gullet. Over time, desire turns to greed, their double chin and bingo wings jiggling as they add yet another plate of food to their out-of-control bulk.

Then relaxation gets added into the mix. Having indulged themself to the point of having a few hundred extra pounds now, the natural inclination is to take it easy — it’s hard work being this fat, they think. Hands folded across the now enormous belly spilling well into their lap, legs with rolls of fat the size of a beer belly perched on a footstool, side rolls filling and overflowing their easy chair, they sit back with plenty of snacks and plenty to watch on tv. It’s just as well they should be allowed their dozing stupor; the fewer calories they burn, the quicker they can pack more fat onto their frame.

Perhaps not surprisingly, exhaustion tends to follow — the tired look of someone who has to haul the equivalent weight of three people around every single time they move. Who has trouble getting a decent night’s sleep or a deep breath even with their CPAP on hand. Who would like to slow down and take it easy for a while, but feels bad at seeing all the food you’re cooking and snacks you’re making go to waste. It may be hard work being as fat as they are, but it’s even harder work getting fatter as fat as they are.

At about this point, frustration becomes the dominant expression. Anyone would be frustrated, I’m sure, having to negotiate moving around a near half-ton body all day, every day. Trying to sit up, trying to roll over, using every bit of strength to stand up, plodding pathetically from one room to another, trying to set the uncontrollable cascade of fat covering their body down in something resembling gracefulness, and only partially succeeding — this is their reality, every day. They’re confronted repeatedly with all the things they’re too fat and heavy to do anymore, like drive a car, fit in a car, walk out to the car, fit into clothes, fit through doorways; those kinds of things. At the same time, they’re driven by a continual, gnawing hunger — a need for that next meal or plate or snack like they’ve never felt before. They want to put down the fork, try to get back into control again, master that hunger getting them plumper by the day. But they never seem to manage.

Which leads to the next expression: fear, with maybe a little indignation mixed in for good measure. They realize what’s happening to them, how out of control they are and how their last remnants of autonomy over their body are slipping away with each click of the rising scale. They realize that once they can’t walk, can’t move, can’t do anything but lay back and take in more food, they’re into the last act of this dietary misadventure. Never mind that they doomed themself to this a long time ago and confirmed their fate with bite after fattening bite; it was never real to them until the pile of lard their body has become has them pinned to where they last happened to sit or lay down, there to remain until some kind soul helps them struggle to their bloated feet.

Inevitably, panic follows sooner or later. It may be from the claustrophobia of having over a thousand pounds of dense, weighty, expanding fat crushing their frame and organs. It may be from noticing that no matter how much slop gets forced down their gullet, they’re never satisfied, never close to full, will never be able to stop the tremendous hunger they’ve created no matter how fat they get trying. It may be from realizing, now that you can finally drop your mask, how this was the plan all along, getting them fatter than any human has any business being, and getting off on seeing how much further they can go. It never gets old, seeing them wallow around, trying to move as if their body weren’t a living waterbed, flapping their massive flab-encased arms and engorged legs in some pathetic attempt to get up and get away. It doesn’t take long before they grow red-faced and exhausted from the effort, of course; and I can never resist fucking their fat rolls at this, their moment of ultimate dread and horror at the overfed disaster they’ve become.

But the expression that is invariably my favorite is resignation. That distant, frowning, vacant look that peers out from an overinflated face sitting atop a mountain of soft, wobbling flesh. The expression of someone who understands that this is all there is, and all there ever will be again: eating, fucking, growing. A slow drowning amidst the rising tide of lard, the relentless storm surge of pound after pound packing into their floundering body, and the tsunami of the… well, the inevitable conclusion they will soon experience, as have all their predecessors. But for now, they suck down their gainer shake dispassionately, letting their belly flow over their bloated ankles to press harder and harder against their feet, absently rubbing the topmost bank of side rolls at the far extreme of their reach, and heaving their blobby distended chest in and out in an effort to stay somewhat lucid for a few more minutes. Resigned to that fact that, in rather a shorter time than they might wish, their body will be so filled with goo and choked with fat that they’ll be left with no expression at all.

[nicknellie]

Anonymous requested: Alex gets hurt and ends up breaking his arm, and Willie takes care of him. It really gets Alex down because he can’t drum and feels like he let the band down and he can’t use drumming to help with his anxiety and he feels useless because he can’t do much himself. Willie helps him with stuff he can’t do and tries to help him use other ways to cope with his anxiety. Lots of overprotective and soft caring Willie.

Snap

Alex had known it was a bad idea from the very beginning. Maybe it was the glint in Reggie’s eye, or the mischievous way Luke was biting his lip as he grinned, or the way they introduced the idea with, “You’re probably going to say no,” that had tipped him off. The point was, Alex had known that it was the worst plan his bandmates had ever come up with right from the get-go.

What he didn’t know was why he agreed to go through with it.

“You’re probably going to say no,” Luke had said when he and Reggie had entered the studio that morning. Alex had been trying to set up his drum kit, but looked up as they came in. He was immediately wary of the grin on Luke’s face. “But at least hear us out.”

“I’m worried,” Alex told them, glancing between each of them.

Luke waved a dismissive hand. “You’re always worried. Listen, it’s a great idea, I promise.”

“And,” Reggie added, “we’ve already got everything set up so it’ll be a total bummer if you say no now.”

Alex frowned. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“Just come with us, bro, I swear it’s awesome!”

Luke’s enthusiasm was hard to say no to, so Alex sighed and reluctantly stood to follow them out of the studio. He didn’t like the way his friends kept giggling at each other, then glancing back at him, and giggling even more. He didn’t like how this was a spontaneous adventure that he hadn’t had any time to prepare for. He didn’t like how he had no idea what the boys were planning.

But that didn’t stop him from following them.

They walked for a while, Luke and Reggie a few steps ahead of Alex, muttering conspiratorially between themselves. Eventually, they came to the top of a hill from which Alex could see the beach in one direction and the city in the other. Luke and Reggie stood side by side, then slid apart from each other in a grand reveal, announcing, “Ta-da!”

They moved apart to uncover a shopping trolley. A rusty, grimy shopping trolley that was missing a front wheel and looked as if it wouldn’t even be safe to push around a supermarket - somehow, Alex doubted that was what Luke and Reggie wanted to use it for in any case.

“Where did you get that?” Alex asked, eyeing the trolley.

“Washed up on the beach by my house,” Reggie said excitedly. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“You could say that,” Alex muttered. “You two seriously pushed it all the way up this hill?”

“Yep,” Luke said brightly, popping the ‘p’. “It took, like, three hours because the missing wheel kept making it turn and roll back down. We got it here though!”

He and Reggie high-fived.

“Uh-huh.” Alex had a dreadful sense in his stomach that he knew exactly where this was going. “And, uh... why did you want to show it to me?”

Luke grinned. He pointed to the trolley and said, “You’re gonna get in and we’re going to push you down the hill.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on!” Luke whined. “It’ll be fun!”

“I’m not concerned about it being fun, I’m concerned about it being dangerous!”

Luke scoffed and Reggie made a ‘pfffft’ sound. He slapped the side of the trolley. “This thing is perfectly safe! It’s sturdy - it survived being in the sea, remember?”

“It didn’t survive, it’s missing a wheel, which is the very thing that makes it dangerous,” Alex countered. “I’m not getting in that death-trap.”

“What if either Reggie or I go first?” Luke suggested. “You’ll see it’s safe, we can push it back up the hill, and you can have your turn.”

Alex shook his head. “You just said it took three hours to get this up here, I’m not waiting that long just to meet my certain doom.”

“There’s no doom,” Luke said.

“Alex, please,” Reggie said, breaking out the puppy-dog eyes. Alex felt his defences weaken.

And then Luke had to go and join in. BAM! Double puppy-dog eyes, both of his bandmates silently begging him to do that one simple task that would make them happy.

He sighed begrudgingly. “Fine. But if I die, you need to make sure my drum kit goes to someone who will appreciate it.”

“Gotcha,” Luke said, grinning from ear to ear. He slapped Alex’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

Against his better judgement and his choice, Alex steeled himself and clambered into the trolley. He felt the metal groan against his body weight, the cold rust digging into his bottom and back. It was probably staining his favourite pink hoodie, he thought with a grimace.

“Did you bring a helmet?” he asked, a nervous hitch in his voice. Now that he was in the trolley the hill looked a whole lot steeper.

Luke and Reggie laughed, readying themselves on either side of the trolley. Reggie said, “No. You won’t need one - we told you, it’s totally safe.”

“Are you ready?” Luke asked.

“Will it even matter if I say no?” Alex deadpanned.

“No. Okay, Reg, let’s do this. Three, two, one, go!”

Luke and Reggie, both clutching the trolley, took a great running start across the hill. As they gained momentum, Alex began feeling less and less steady and secure. He gripped the bars of the trolley for dear life; his eyes were open as they neared the edge, but only because it was an “I don’t want to look but I can’t not look” situation. As they drew ever closer to the drop, Alex felt the need to eject himself from the trolley but couldn’t make himself move.

And all of a sudden he was hurtling down the side of the hill, the trolley swerving unpredictably beneath him, running smoothly for a moment but then shooting off to the left or right with sharp turns that flipped Alex’s stomach. He collided with rocks, roots, and tree stumps that sent him and the trolley flying through the air for just a second before they landed without grace and sped down the hill once more.

Alex saw the main hazard long before he reached it but by that point it was about three minutes too late to do anything about it. As he gathered yet more speed, he found that he was headed directly towards a high barbed-wire fence. His mouth opened to scream but no noise came out.

Alex and the trolley smacked into the fence. In what Alex could only assume had looked like a spectacular acrobatic display, he was launched from the trolley and pinwheeled through the air, arms and legs star-fished around him. He landed in a heap on the other side of the fence, awkwardly jarring his arm on an unfortunately placed rock and then, because luck was not on his side, landed with the rest of his body weight on it.

Snap.

That didn’t sound good.

It didn’t feel good either. Immediately, Alex was aware that he couldn’t feel his right arm - the only sensation was a faint buzzing in it as if he had pins and needles.

He sat himself up, using his other hand for leverage, and looked at his arm. It was... not the shape an arm was supposed to be.

He had known this was a bad idea.

*

Six hours later, most of which had been spent in a hospital with a frantic Luke and an inconsolable Reggie, Alex had made his way to Willie’s place. The two of them were on the couch, Alex laying with his head on Willie’s lap and his face buried in Willie’s t-shirt, Willie gently carding his fingers through Alex’s hair. Alex’s right arm was wrapped in a pink plaster cast and hoisted up against his chest with a sling.

“This sucks,” he mumbled into the fabric of Willie’s shirt for what had to be the twentieth time that day.

Willie sighed. “I know, hotdog. Broken bones are never fun. But it’s only six weeks, right?”

“Six to eight,” Alex groaned. “That’s six to eight weeks where I can do pretty much nothing.”

“Hey,” Willie said gently. “Don’t give up so easily, it’s only been a few hours. I’ve broken a ton of bones skateboarding, and I know a whole bunch of fun things we can do while you’re all bandaged up.”

Alex harrumphed. “I can’t drum. So no band.”

“No playing with the band. That doesn’t mean you can’t hang out with them or go to rehearsals.”

“Great,” Alex said sarcastically. “That’s one really fun and exciting thing I can do - watch my friends have fun without me.”

“Stop it,” Willie said, voice a little firmer. Alex stopped. “They won’t be having fun without you because you’ll be there. A broken arm doesn’t stop you being their friend.”

Alex muttered to himself, “It’s stops me being useful.”

“What did you say?” Willie prompted.

Alex sighed haggardly and sat up, shuffling around to face Willie. “I said it stops me being useful. To them, to the band. I’ve let them down! We had three gigs lined up next week and now we don’t have a drummer so those will all be off. And what really sucks is that all of those gigs had managers and record execs coming to watch them, now they’re not going to see us. It’s my fault!”

Willie took his hand, the one that wasn’t strapped up to his chest with the sling. Alex felt him thread their fingers together and told himself to breathe. Breathe and look into Willie’s eyes. Calm.

“It’s not your fault, Alex,” Willie said, and as always whatever he said immediately made sense in Alex’s mind. Of course it wasn’t his fault - why would it be? “It’s nobody’s fault. The guys pressured you into getting in, you did, Julie wasn’t there to tell you all how stupid you were being, and I wasn’t there to at least offer you my helmet. We’re all a little to blame, but it’s not anybody’s fault, least of all yours.”

“I’m still letting them down,” Alex said quietly, struggling to maintain eye contact.

Willie shook his head. “You know that isn’t true. You’re Julie and the Phantoms - none of you have the ability to be disappointed in each other or let each other down. You’re like one person; if one of you is down, you all are.”

Alex was unconvinced, and it must have shown on his face because Willie sighed and continued.

“Remember last year when Reggie tried to fix his amp in the rain, got electrocuted, and then couldn’t play that school dance? So instead of getting mad at him you all took turns staying by his bedside, fetching him whatever he needed, keeping an eye on him, even helping him to the toilet and stuff like that?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “That was different. He could have died.”

“You could have died today,” Willie pointed out. Alex shuddered at the thought. “But okay. What about when Julie had a throat infection? You all started learning sign language to try and communicate with her. Sure, you all remembered that she could still hear you and that she could just write down what she wanted to say, but you were willing to learn a new language for her.”

“That’s still different!” Alex protested. He tried to throw his arms up in the air in frustration, but one was tied to his chest, so his left arm just flopped pathetically by itself.

“Why?”

“Because it’s Julie. We’d do anything for her.”

Willie fixed him with a glare full of love, unnerving and endearing at the same time.

“And they would all do anything for you too,” he said. “You know that. Tell me you know that, Alex.”

Alex swallowed thickly. “I know that,” he admitted quietly.

“And I would too,” Willie added, still gazing at Alex. “We’ve got this, hotdog.”

Finally, Alex felt the barest beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face. He squeezed Willie’s hand.

“We’ve got this.”

*

It was all well and good saying “we’ve got this” but the actual “getting this” part was easier said than done. It hadn’t been a day and Alex had already caved.

It had started that morning. He had woken up and been hyper aware of the cast on his arm. He could feel it like a hand clasped around his forearm, a sensation that couldn’t be shaken off or rubbed away. It had made his head tingle and he couldn’t seem to focus on much of anything.

When he’d gone downstairs, his father had tried to clap him genially on the shoulder, but being touched had felt like being suffocated. Alex hadn’t said anything, just tried to shrink away.

Then, inevitably and despite the nice greeting he had attempted to give, his father had launched into a spiel about why it was so awful that Alex had chosen to have a pink cast. It had sent his mind reeling, made his legs numb, and started his eyes watering.

So he had been feeling stressed. He had needed to get out of the house so he had gone on a walk - the nice breeze and the warm summer sun had been helpful, but there were so many noises outside. Birds chirped, bees buzzed, car horns honked, people laughed, footsteps echoed, leaves crunched, wind whistled, dogs barked, and every other noise the outside world created seemed stuck on an endless, repetitive, painful loop that attacked Alex’s ears and brain.

He could feel his anxiety beginning to spike. If one more thing touched him (in the metaphorical or literal sense) he was sure he would break.

He got a text from Willie: Going to be late but will bring a fun surprise!

Snap.

The floodgates opened and Alex began to cry. All he wanted was for things to be normal - he wanted his arm out of the cast, he wanted to drum with his band, and he wanted to see his boyfriend right now like they had planned.

So he did something stupid. He went to the Molinas’ house, let himself into the studio as he and the other boys regularly did, sat himself down beside his drum kit, slipped his cast-covered arm from the sling and began to drum.

It wasn’t the easy release it always was. It just hurt even more. Alex should have expected it; using a broken arm to whack a drum didn’t sound fun when put bluntly. But usually drumming helped so much, usually it made the tight feeling in Alex’s mind loosen. Not today.

Still, he kept drumming, because now it almost felt like he couldn’t stop.

It hurt.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there when the doors to the studio opened and Julie popped her head in. “Alex?”

Finally he let his arms fall to his sides, knackered and aching. His right arm was throbbing and there were tears running down his cheeks.

“Hey,” Julie said gently, hurrying towards him. She held her hand out, an offering for him to take it, but Alex shook his head and she withdrew it.

“Alex,” she continued. “I need you to put your broken arm back in the sling. Here, give me your drumsticks.”

He did as she said, grateful for order and instruction. He handed her his sticks, then winced as he manoeuvred his arm back into its sling.

“Is there anything you want me to do?” Julie asked softly.

Alex shrugged. How was he supposed to know?

Julie made the decision for him. “I’ll see if I can get hold of Willie.”

As she left the studio, Alex couldn’t help but laugh. Of course that would help and of course Julie knew that.

It wasn’t five minutes before Willie pushed the doors to the studio open and skated inside in one smooth move that Alex might have found impressive another time. He propped his board up against the wall and headed straight in Alex’s direction, crouching down beside him.

Alex fumbled to take Willie’s hand.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” Willie said quietly. “Julie said you were drumming?”

Alex nodded.

Willie huffed an affectionate laugh. “That was a dumb thing to do.”

Alex felt a smile tug at his lips. “I know,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Willie said soothingly. “I know how hard this is for your. But, when your anxiety spikes we’re going to have to find other things to do in the meantime. Drumming isn’t going to do you any good.”

Alex nodded again. “I know. It hurt.”

“Do you want to head up to the hospital?” Willie asked, gently touching Alex’s broken arm where it was safely in its sling. He was probably imagining it, but Alex could have sworn that the pain went away when Willie touched it. “Make sure you’ve not done any more damage?”

“I think it’s fine,” Alex told him. Willie looked up at him, disbelieving. “I didn’t go hard, I’m not that stupid.”

“Okay then. I believe you. I’ve got something planned, but is there anything you want to do first? Or do you still need a little time to calm down?”

Alex squeezed his hand. “Can we just... I don’t know. Can you just sit with me for a while?”

Willie smiled and Alex felt his heart burst. “Of course, hotdog. Whatever you need.”

They moved to the couch and cuddled up together. Willie positioned himself so that he could easily press gentle kisses to Alex’s forehead - Alex didn’t know whether Willie had done that for his own enjoyment or for Alex’s, but he didn’t mind either way. Just having Willie there, holding him, supporting him, made him feel a whole lot better than he had before.

*

Alex hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he found himself yawning as he woke up. He tried to stretch his arms, then remembered one of them was bound to his chest, and awkwardly let the one arm that had moved fall to his side. He heard Willie giggle and turned to face him where he was cuddled practically beneath Alex.

“Tired, sleeping beauty?” Willie teased, brushing hair out of Alex’s face.

Alex felt his face flush. “I’m not sleeping beauty,” he said. “I’m not any princess.”

“You got that right,” Willie said, pointing to a wet patch on his own shirt. “Princesses don’t drool on their boyfriend’s shirts.”

Alex rolled his eyes and laughed a little, pushing himself into a sitting position. Willie sat up too, and pressed a quick kiss to Alex’s cheek.

���Right,” Willie said, pulling Alex to his feet. “Ready to do what I had planned?”

“Okay,” Alex said, grinning.

Willie tugged on his arm and led him out of the studio. They walked together for a while, Willie talking his ear off about this and that and everything in between. Alex was grateful for Willie all the time, but especially in times like this - times when Alex was struggling for words and wasn’t feeling quite up to talking at all, and Willie would simply know when he felt like that and do all the talking for him.

Eventually, Willie came to a stop so sudden that Alex walked straight into him. Willie laughed and clutched Alex’s hand, pointing to the building they’d stopped outside.

It was a museum, one that Willie had taken Alex to many a time before. Alex knew how much Willie loved this place - the way his face lit up when he talked about all the different exhibits was endearing and downright beautiful. Alex didn’t ‘get’ art himself, but he would never pass up an opportunity to visit the gallery with Willie.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

Willie shrugged. “I was brainstorming ways to help you combat your anxiety while drumming isn’t an option, and I remembered that they just opened a new temporary feature here. It’s all about noise being its own form of art and they’ve added an area where you can make your own.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Your own noise or art?”

“The point is that it’s both,” Willie explained, leading him inside. “And I think the way they’ve designed it could be a very effective stress-reliever. Come on.”

Willie led him through all the exhibits, wending his way through the bustling crowds with ease. He didn’t stop to talk about all the paintings and sculptures like he usually would, so Alex’s curiosity was piqued.

Willie pulled him into a room. Which was really all it was - just a room. It was relatively large with a plain white ceiling, floor, and walls (except for one which was entirely glass and showed the bright spring sunshine outside). Alex looked around for some instruction of what to do; Willie had said the exhibit was all about noise, but there was literally nothing in the room that could be used to make a sound.

“So... what do we do?” Alex asked.

Willie grinned. “You make your own noise.”

And then he screamed.

It was a long, loud, sustained note and when Willie finally finished he was grinning from ear to ear, looking absolutely exhilarated. Alex (impressed that Willie had held the note so long and now weirdly curious about his lung capacity) stared at him, dumb-founded.

“This is really what we’re supposed to do?” he asked sceptically.

Willie nodded vigorously. “Yeah, man, and it’s awesome! You just... let go! Shout all your worries away. Now you try!”

Alex nervously let out a weak little, “Ahhhhh.”

Willie laughed loudly and took hold of Alex’s shoulders. “Come on, bro, you’ve got to put some effort in. Come on, like this, ready?”

He screamed again.

Alex screamed back.

And for god knows how long, the two of them stayed together, screaming into each other’s faces, competing to see who could scream longest and loudest, and Alex hardly noticed that his worries were dissipating as he let himself be confident and have fun with Willie. The minutes ticked by into hours and they only stopped screaming when they were totally out of breath.

Willie blew his hair out of his face, eyes shining hopefully. “Feels good, right?”

“Yeah,” Alex replied, pulling him into an awkward one-armed hug. “It does.”

*

Alex spent the night at Willie’s, not feeling up to going home. When they woke up to Alex’s alarm the next morning, Alex felt Willie shuffle into his side, head on Alex’s shoulder, clearly not wanting to get up.

“It’s, like, five o’clock in the morning,” Willie grumbled, throwing an arm across Alex’s midriff. “I want to stay in bed.”

“We’ve hit snooze a dozen times and it’s nearly eleven a.m.,” Alex returned, smiling fondly. “I’m very sorry but it’s time to get up.”

Willie sighed and rolled himself out of bed, grumbling about Alex interrupting his dream. Alex just laughed and sat up too, automatically looking for his own wardrobe and then remembering he was at Willie’s and had nothing to wear.

“I should have headed home and grabbed some clean clothes,” he thought out loud. A moment later he was struck in the back of the head by one of Willie’s t-shirts and a pair of trousers.

“Put those on,” Willie said as he pulled on a tricolour jumper. “I’m pretty sure they’ll fit.”

Alex picked up the clothes (a tie-dye crop-top and a pair of acid wash ripped jeans) and began his attempt at getting dressed. There were many things Alex had found that were hard to do one-armed, but putting clothes on was the biggest challenge, bordering on impossible. How was he supposed to get his arm through the hole if he wasn’t supposed to use his arm?

He heard Willie giggle somewhere in front of him and was glad that the shirt jammed over his head covered up his blush.

“Need any help, hotdog?” Willie teased.

“No, no, I’ve got this,” Alex lied. He shimmied a little, trying to get the shirt to fall down over his face.

There was another quiet little chuckle, and a moment later Alex felt Willie’s cold hands on his skin as he gently maneuvered Alex’s arms and head to go through the right holes. When the shirt finally was on properly and Alex’s eyes were uncovered again, he was greeted with the lovely sight of Willie smiling down at him affectionately, eyes bright and smile wide.

Willie finished helping Alex dress, ignoring Alex’s insistence that he really could do it by himself (”I think you’ve just proved that you can’t, hotdog.”) and the two of them left the house. Willie told Alex that he had planned another something to take Alex’s mind off the cast, this time down at the beach; Alex had no idea what it could be, but didn’t find himself stressing out at the thought of not knowing.

It was strange, but it made sense. After all, having Willie there to help him over the past few days had made Alex’s life a whole lot easier. Having Willie in his life at all made it that much more enjoyable. With Willie, Alex felt safe and able to trust himself and his boyfriend. He felt free, even though he was trapped by the cast.

He was certain that whatever Willie had thought up would help him get through the pain and the anxiety, and he couldn’t wait.

[winetae]

wall to wall (m.) 01

↳ in a pornographic movie, refers to a series of sex scenes with no plot.

⇁ female reader x hoseok 

⇁ smut, porn star!au

⇁ sex work, insecurity, jealousy, slut shaming/objectification (not the sexy kind), role played scenario that includes: d/s dynamics - dom!hoseok, porn star level dirty talk, stuff that should never happen in a kitchen bc hygiene, daddy kink, impreg kink, rough sex, spanking, a lot of finger sucking, this fic is a poor attempt at social commentary

⇁ 22.5k

. . .

Temporary popularity is the biggest threat to your career right now. Without a solid core fan base you’re doomed to be forgotten. If not now, then in a month or two, and if not then, surely by the end of the year. That’s how quickly the adult film industry cycles through their actors, especially when you’re a woman. Your agent comes forward with a proposition to help put you back on the map.

↳ or, my contribution to the lights, camera, action collab : )

part 01 | part 02 | part 03

author’s note | inspired by the piece ‘slut-shaming: pornstars are humans too’ & the life after porn documentaries on netflix. thank u to jordan, eva, amy, venus, addie and lu for being a part of this collab !! *inserts a million heart emojis and a big fat NUT emoticon*

re:warnings, the slut shaming is done by others and can also be considered as internalized oppression. it’s something the reader struggles with and eventually works to overcome. this first part isn’t as smutty as the second but regardless i hope u can bear with me lol. ty, as always, for giving my writing a chance. i hope u enjoy it or at least take something from it !

wall2wall can be read as a sequel to my fic money shot. same disclaimer applies: this story does claim to accurately portray the world of adult entertainment

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SCENE 01 - YOU’VE GOT MALE. TAKE 01. ROLL A.

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Today is just one of those days you wish you had slept straight through. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be dying from the sheer dullness of having nothing to do.

You huff out a sigh, bored out of your goddamn mind.

Head cradled in the crook of your left palm, you use your available hand to refresh your instagram feed. Much to your disappointment, nothing new shows up. The same video of a dog chasing its own tail plays on but you pay it no heed, the novelty having worn off after the first few times.

The next half hour passes by in a similar fashion, each result proving to be as unavailing as the last. You’d think that after a while you’d give up and find a new distraction to pass the time but whether out of habit or boredom-induced insanity, you persist with your fruitless attempts.

Today really fucking blows, you think glumly, the curve of your mouth thinning into a grimace. As the adorable corgie keeps the infernal cycle going, yapping and running around incessantly, you’re struck with a terrifying thought. Maybe this is how you will die - condemned to live your life stuck in the worst sort of monotony imaginable.

What you had expected to be a “quick and easy” shoot has turned into a tedious ordeal that you don’t see ending anytime soon. And whilst on-set complications and prolongations are frequent enough that they’re almost expected, today really takes the cake. Even during your rookie days, you can’t recall running into delays of this scale.

To top it off, the weather app announces a record-breaking heat - which in itself is bad enough. As luck would have it, it gets worse. The place rented out for today’s filming lacks proper air conditioning, equipped instead with electric fans that look like they’ve been around since the 1980s.

A quick glance into the vanity mirror confirms that you look as frazzled as you feel. Because of the humidity level that weighs down the air, your hair is in a right state. You fight a grimace off your face. The straggly hair coupled with the oily sheen on your face...it’s far from your best look, to say the least.

And to think thousands of people will get to see it up close in 1080p resolution... It’s a terrifying concept.

You’re already dreading the upcoming sex scenes that you’ve yet to film. It’s always a messy affair - fluids of all kind end up literally everywhere - but the sweltering heat undoubtedly makes it ten times worse. A shudder works its way down your spine.

Frankly speaking, the mere thought of having hot and wild sex in these less than ideal working conditions kills your libido. Under the glaring studio lights, surrounded by sweaty crewmen and pressed up an equally feverish body - it’s basically the porn equivalent of a fuckin’ barbecue party.

Yeah, no thanks. You’d rather be at home, with the air conditioner at full blast, nestled in the comfy cushions of your sofa as you marathon a series of your choice on netflix. Only the promised sum of money keeps you from bolting and calling it quits altogether.

“So when are you gonna drop the new boy toy?” a voice buzzes in your ear not unlike a pesky fly.

Tempting as it is to ignore it, you peel your eyes away from your reflection just in time to catch Seokjin shoot you the most unimpressed look in his repertoire, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arched in judgment.

In the background, an old ceiling fan whirs on but does nothing to cool you off. If anything, its constant rattling only exacerbates your growing headache.

“What are you talking about?" You flick a piece of imaginary lint off your dressing robe, your tone neutral.

Seokjin’s brown eyes see right through your feigned air of indifference. Months of working by your side have made him an expert at reading your body language, be it naked or clothed. A wolfish grin adorns his face as he swoops in for the kill.

“Oh come on. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Jongmin. He’s short - comes up to right about here.” Seokjin holds a hand up to his chest to illustrate his point, deliberately shaving off a few inches off your boyfriend’s height in order to antagonize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, careful not to spit out the retort that’s perched on the tip of your tongue. It takes a great deal of effort to unclench the muscles in your jaw but you manage to school your features into an expression of polite confusion.

Seokjin frowns, dissatisfied with your lack of response. You don’t need to be a mind reader to know that he’s currently thinking of new ways to provoke you.

When the silence stretches on and he’s yet to riposte, you allow yourself  to relax again, believing that he’s given up on being an asshole.

To your chagrin, you’re sorely mistaken. The last of your self-restraint is finally put to the test as his next words do nothing to quell your irritation.

“Jongmin.” He repeats slowly, like you need it spelled out for you. “He follows you around everywhere like a lap dog. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so, you know, pathetic.”

“His name is Jimin,” you correct for the nth time.

Instantly, you reprimand yourself for playing into his games and granting him the attention he so craves. Fulfilling his twisted desire is the last thing you hope to achieve. Staying silent would be the sensible thing to do but your brain completely bypasses the memo. The moment your mouth opens it’s impossible to quash the urge to justify yourself.

Maybe it’s your pride coming into play. Maybe it’s Seokjin’s uncanny ability to get under anyone’s skin at will. Whatever the case may be, you stammer out, on the defensive, “And he’s not my 'boy toy'. We - it’s not - we’re dating.” But the word feels like a weight on your tongue. You swallow.

The statement earns you a scoff of incredulity. “Dating? Him?”

You finally set your phone down and aim a glare his way, abandoning all pretense at being indifferent because—Jesus. Is the idea of you dating that unfathomable? He’s never been this worked up over any of your other relationships. Granted, none of them have ever lasted this long but is it really any of his business who you choose to see in your free time?

“I don’t get what your problem is. What’s so wrong with me dating?”

“Have you seen who you’re dating?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”

While this isn’t the first time your agent lets a judgmental comment slip from between his pearly white teeth, it’s usually not laced with spite. Seokjin is never outright hostile, preferring sweet words of manipulation and thinly-veiled insults to shows of aggression. The attempt to get a rise out of you does not go by unnoticed. His anger, this time, feels personal.

You wrack your brain, quickly sifting through your recent memories to try and figure out why he’s chosen to be such an ass today. You’re certain that you’ve filled out all the necessary paperwork required to proceed with today’s filming, and yes, after thinking it over, you know that you went to the obligatory medical checkup last week. So there really is no reason for him to bitch at you unless—

The proverbial light bulb flickers on and it all suddenly makes sense.

You’re willing to bet a hefty sum of money that the high-paying gig you turned down two weekends ago is to blame for his abnormal crotchety behavior.

Yes, that would explain it.

Due to Seokjin's well-known propensity to hold a grudge for longer than average, the odds that he’s still hung up over the lost deal are pretty high. And as much as his disappointment and frustration are understandable from a business standpoint, you don’t appreciate being used as a verbal punching bag for him to expel all those pent-up feelings.

Seokjin hums, a knowing smirk pulling the sides of his mouth upwards. Fleetingly, and not for the first time, you find it a shame that his cockiness tarnishes his otherwise handsome face. “I give it another couple of days until you get bored. How long has this gone on for? A month? How are you not yanking out your hair from the sheer boredom of dating...that."

A muscle in your jaw ticks.

“He’s not Voldemort, you coward. Would it honestly kill you to say his name?” Seokjin’s expression begs to differ. You cut him off before he can add fuel to the fire. “And I won’t get bored. Jimin’s - he’s a perfectly nice guy. We’ve been seeing each other just fine—not that it’s any of your concern.”

“Yes, he’s nice,” Seokjin concedes easily, brushing off any attempts at putting an end to the conversation. He grins, wide and smug, like he knows you can’t refute what he’ll say next. “Perfectly nice and boring. The kind of guy you’d bring back home if your parents were straight-laced folks that wanted to marry you off to a choir boy. Seriously, how the fuck did a guy like him end up in the porn industry? He belongs in a church or, I dunno, maybe some neighborhood book club - not behind a camera filming you getting flogged by a daddy dom.”

You sniff. “Just because he tucks his shirts in doesn’t—”

“It’s not just the shirts, honey.” He leans over to pat your hand in a gesture of consolation. Used to his antics, his attempt is easily blocked by a swat of your hand.

You muster the dirtiest look you’re capable of, the kind of look that sends men to early graves, but he simply smiles in response, completely unfazed.

Any person with the minimum amount of tact would know to politely change the subject. It’s unfortunate that your agent does not belong to that pool of individuals, choosing instead to be selectively blind to overt social cues.

He continues on, unperturbed, like he has a point to prove. “Believe it or not, I know you. Sometimes, for whatever reason, perhaps a lapse in judgement but who the fuck knows, you like to venture out of your comfort zone and experiment. Like with the chickenshit gingerbread spice concoctions they come out with at Starbucks to celebrate turkey season and Christmas or the cream cheese makis they make for the white crowd who want to eat sushi but don’t like anything other than white rice and seaweed. And, trust me, while I’m all for diversity and broadening your personal experiences, don’t you think there’s a reason why you always go back to your preferred choice of an iced latte with two sugars?”

“Did you just compare Jimin to a gingerbread latte?”

Okay, so admittedly you’ve made some questionable food and beverage choices in the past, but the comparison is a fucking reach. 

“You’re absolutely right." Seokjin gives a firm nod of his head, his expression serious. "Now that you mention it, he’s definitely a vanilla soy. Bland and boring. Targeted towards the middle-aged soccer moms that think veganism is a trend, not a lifestyle. Wants to be a people-pleaser but misses the mark.”

“I didn’t know it was Share Your Unwanted Opinion Time,” you grind out from behind a strained smile. “If I had, I would have said something about your receding hairline earlier.”

It’s a low blow but the way Seokjin’s plump lips curl in displeasure makes the dig worth it. One of his hands automatically shoot up to flatten the bangs that are usually slicked back with copious amounts of gel.

Offended, he spits, “It’s not receding! There’s a difference between premature balding and a bleach job gone wrong.”

"I'm not sure people care to differentiate. Looks like a receding hairline to me." You shrug while picking at your nails. “You’re nearing that age, too, so.”

“You just try looking this good at 30. Fucking try.” 

He waits for a reply but your interest has already waned. You scroll through your phone, bored once more.

Seokjin makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat at the clear dismissal. You swear you hear him grumble under his breath - something along the lines of never going blonde again - but can’t find it in you to care, not when he’s finally ceased his nagging.

"Filming in twenty!" someone shouts from outside the door.

"They’re running behind schedule," Seokjin notes after glancing down at his gold wristwatch. "How can they take more than an hour to fix the lighting? Tch. Bunch of fuckin’ amateurs."

He aims a glare in your direction as if their incompetence is somehow your fault. 

You have half a mind to glower back but miraculously withhold your sentiments. Admittedly, he isn’t wrong - the team you’re working with today keeps committing blunders even rookies wouldn’t dare perpetrate - but you’d rather get your driving license revoked forever than to acknowledge that Seokjin’s right and inflate his already unnaturally huge ego.

Something heavy plops into your lap. When you look down, the glossy surface of a magazine reflects the harsh lights suspended over the vanity table back at you.

“I didn’t want to resort to this but you leave me no choice,” he says in response to your look of confusion.

“What’s this?”

You hold up the magazine expecting the worst. It’s heavy in your hands, the pages thicker than the gossip rags you’d find in a dentist’s waiting room. 

“’s the newest issue. Came out this morning. I’d actually like it back once you’re done because I haven’t finished reading it and God knows how hard it was to get my—hey, you can stop flicking aimlessly, I saved you the trouble and bookmarked the page,” Seokjin explains a bit impatiently.

When you shoot him a glance, his attention is trained on your face, not the magazine. He barely blinks. Like a snake honing in on its prey. And that kind of intense focus - that can’t be good. After all, you’ve known Seokjin long enough to suspect that whatever trick he has up his sleeve will give him the advantage he needs to deliver the killing blow.

Gingerly, you flip through the pages like you’re afraid the magazine might self-destruct in your hands. Which would be a waste, in your opinion, since Exquis is a damn good magazine - perhaps less intellectual than Playboy, but definitely classier than Hustler. Its reputation speaks for itself. Known for hiring the best photographers and carefully combing through their models, it’s selective, only picking the cream of the cr—

Everything around you stills.

Your eyes narrow at the spread because there, on the page Seokjin’s taken great care to bookmark, a model poses provocatively on a lounge chaise near a crystal clear pool. It’s similar to a shoot you’ve done in the past but you can tell right away that the quality of this is above and beyond anything you’ve ever done. The lighting is better, heck even the barely-there-swimsuit looks like it costs ten times more than whatever you had been told to throw on at the time.

The vexation you feel only worsens once it finally registers who the model is. Her youthful and pretty face carries a permanent haughtiness that not even makeup or acting can entirely mask.

The pages crease in your hold as you flick through the rest of the spread dedicated to the up and coming talents. With every new page that has her plastered on its glossy surface you feel your stomach sink. 

2...3...4...

“Five pages,” you curse under your breath. For a magazine this renowned, it’s...a lot. Commendable, even. Your nose crinkles. “Well, fuck. me. sideways.”

Seokjin gloats, reveling in your outrage. “Hmph. I told you, didn’t I? Passing up the opportunity to work with Kim Namjoon would come and bite you in the ass.”

“Aha! So you have been a little bitch because I refused to shoot with Namjoon.” You whirl around in your chair and use the magazine to jab him in the chest. He easily steps aside, avoiding your attempt at wrinkling his trademark Armani button-down shirt.

“It was the chance of a lifetime and you knew it.” He turns his nose up and sniffs.

“That’s what you said about filming with Min Yoongi last month.” You roll your eyes. “I can’t take you seriously if you’re gonna say the same thing every time a new guy shows up.”

“Shooting with Agust D did help you gain some mainstream popularity. You’ve gotten love calls for catalog printings and your name is now automatically on the invite sheet for every C-list event in town. Namjoon would have given you another needed boost.” Seokjin folds his arms, lecturing mode switched on. You struggle with the instinctive urge to tune him out. “Sure, he’s got a niche audience, but he’s famous in his field and it would have helped expand your fa—“

“Not to kink shame or anything because we don’t do that, but Namjoon is a freak. And don’t deny it, I’ve seen his videos.”

“He’s specialized in particular—“

“You were the one telling me not to film all sorts of shit right off the bat,” you cut in, refusing to back down from your stance. There’s no way you’ll let him sweet-talk you out of this one, not after the multiple videos of Namjoon you’d binged one weekend. “Stick to one story.”

“Well, we’re not exactly ‘right off the bat’ anymore, are we? We’ve passed that stage. Right now is a crucial time in your career so you’ve got to make it count. Filming rehashed videos of the same pizza delivery guy scenario gets boring and fast. As pretty as you are, you’re not offering anything new to the table, are you?”

Fuck him. He’s right and you know it. Temporary popularity is the biggest threat to your career right now. Without a solid core fan base you’re doomed to be forgotten. If not now, then in a month or two, and if not then, surely by the end of the year. That’s how quickly the adult film industry cycles through their actors, especially when you’re a woman.

Still. “I refuse to work with a guy whose porn alias is Cock Monster.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Well I said no,” you insist stubbornly.

“Well if you had said yes, maybe it would be your ass cheeks getting their own two page spread in Exquis instead,” jabs Seokjin, hitting you where it hurts. 

Ugh. The reminder that Joy’s bested you yet again riles you up even more. That, coupled with the likelihood of your career ending imminently, makes you stop and think.

Your agent goes on to say, “Don’t you want the AVN for best newcomer? Where did that competitive edge go? At the rate this is going, Joy’s going to steal it from right under your nose.”

“Like fucking hell,” you hiss. The magazine bends under the strength of your grip. “That one’s mine.”

You absolutely refuse to lose out to her. Every fiber of your being rejects the idea of letting her one-up you again.

“Not if you don’t start branching out. The last time you did anything substantial or interesting was about a month ago. It’s already old news. People are going to forget you shot that sequence altogether if you don’t do anything that puts you back on the map.”

A pause. “…I really don’t want to film with someone who willingly named himself Cock Mons—”

“Fine.” Seokjin heaves a resigned sigh. “You don’t have to fuck the monster willy. Willy monster? Hm. Wouldn’t it make more sense to name himself Monster Cock and not Cock Monster? Wonder why he does th—”

You suppress a snort. “Please spare me while you can. It’s amazing, that talent for making everything sound a lot worse than it already it is.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“You trying to insult someone who’s willing to find you someone else to work with? I can always ask Monster Meatstick if he’s up for—”

“No! No, that’s - not necessary.” You force out a smile that wouldn’t fool anyone into thinking its genuine. “Why would I ever insult you? You’re the best agent one could ask for.”

“That’s what I thought.” He takes your compliment, forced or not. When he smiles, smugness rolls off of him in waves. “One day you’ll realize you’re taking my talent for granted. I’ll find you another onscreen partner even though you don’t know what you’re missing out.”

“Thank you.”

“But!” He interjects and this time you don’t bother swallowing down your groan, already dreading the stipulations he has in store for you. “You have to promise to hold up your end of the bargain and try your best.”

Indignation colors your face. Your mouth falls open, retort at the ready. “When do I ever slack off on the job?! I’ve never given a half-assed blowjob in my life - and trust me, the temptation was there. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay focused when the guy can’t cum on command? I once had to get my jaw realigned.”

“I’m not saying you’re slacking off,” he backtracks, switching tactics. His expression is soon replaced by the business-like smile you’re used to seeing on the regular. Tone buttery and appeasing, he tries to convince you through flattery instead. “You work hard and do a good job… I wouldn’t have signed you on otherwise. The problem isn’t with the quality of your work but with - all the rest.”

“The rest?” you parrot back dumbly, trying and failing to comprehend.

Seokjin scowl returns, unable to keep his genuine emotions under wraps.

“D’you honestly think you’re at a point in your career where you can pick and choose your jobs like this? Ever since you started dating that - that thing - your workload has significantly decreased. And not because you lacked opportunities. You had them but you turned them all down.” Visibly getting worked up over the issue, his voice rises an octave, then two. “What should���ve been a good spring board, only brought you back to square one. I know I can’t force you to take jobs if you refuse to, but I can say that your potential is going to waste. I’ve never seen someone sabotage herself like this before and it’s driving me up the wall. While I get that you’re under the delusion that you’ve found true love or whatever Disney fantasy Jungmin has sold you, you can’t turn down projects over and over again without there being serious repercussions. You’re smart enough to know this. I shouldn’t have to remind you.”

Seokjin’s chest heaves as he takes in several big gulps of air, visibly out of breath after his monologue.

For him to explode like popcorn kennels in the microwave... You reckon he’d let his feelings pile up inside him for a while, silently stewing.

You’ve never seen your agent look so visibly distressed. He’s normally the picture-perfect image of composure so the sight that greets you is enough of a shock to render you speechless.

Deep down, Seokjin probably means well. There aren’t a lot of agents like him; you’re one of the lucky ones. Most girls are discarded by their agencies as quickly as used tissues once they get milked for all their worth. 

Thankfully it’s never been that way with Seokjin. He claims that he’s in it for the long run. According to him the quick buck isn’t worth seeing the light die out in girl after girl. Perhaps that’s why he takes the task of ensuring your safety so seriously. How many times has he warned you to steer clear of this or that seedy director or ban you from attending drug-heavy parties? While his behavior can come off as overbearing on the worst days, at least he cares.

Sadly, it’s more than you can say for most.

In a way, he’s the only one in this business rooting for your success—if only because his paycheck depends on how well you perform. You like to pretend there’s more to it than that.

“I’m not - what’s Jimin got to do with any of this?” you splutter, still digesting the long tirade you’ve just been subjected to. 

“Are you serious? That’s all you got from what I said?”

“Well, no, but I still fail to—”

“Do you think me a fool?” He crosses his arms tightly across his broad chest. “The only scenes you’re willing to shoot are when he’s on set. Are you a kid or something? Since when do you need supervision to shoot a sex scene?”

“N-no. It just worked out that way, okay?” In reply to his dubious expression, you force yourself to explain. “Okay, okay - I get it. Maybe I might’ve lessened my workload recently but it has nothing to do with Jimin, alright? My vagina needs rest from time to time. Just because it’s my job doesn’t mean I don’t need a break. I’m human too, not some blow-up doll.”

“You expect me to believe that he has nothing to do with it? You were perfectly fine before he entered the picture. And now that you’re all loved up you only pick—”

A knock, so timid you barely catch it, cuts off the rest of his sentence.

“Yeah? Come in, I’m decent!” you yell - not that you care whether someone sees you naked or not. The concept of modesty has long been lost on you. Some might call it shamelessness or vanity, but you take pride in how you look. And why wouldn’t you? Your body is your bread and butter. You spend hours in the gym every week so that your ass looks good no matter what camera angle.

“It’s me.”

The door opens a crack and the speaker tentatively sticks his mop of hair through the small opening. As soon as you recognize him, your heart leaps at the sight and you quickly tighten your robe together.

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Seokjin mutters under his breath.

You resist the urge to throttle him and plaster on your brightest smile instead.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. Sorry I took so long... I would’ve come earlier but they needed my help.” Jimin scratches a spot behind his ear, sheepish. “Someone tripped over the cables and smashed a camera lens so we had to find a replacement. The director threw a fit and wanted to call it quits so we’ve been trying to calm him down this entire time. He did - eventually, anyway, after he called his dealer on set.”

A disapproving frown tugs at his mouth corners and mars his otherwise perfect appearance.

You take a moment to swoon internally. You’ll never get tired of admiring your boyfriend. Unlike the majority of the on-set personnel, he doesn’t reek of weed or booze or stale cigarette smoke. His ironed clothes and immaculate appearance always make it easy to spot him amidst the hungover crew.

“That’s fine! I kept myself busy.”

Jimin returns your smile, his eyes creasing into beautiful half-moon crescents. You don’t know what kind of love-struck expression covers your face but next to you Seokjin makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a gag and a cough.

“Oh! Here, I brought snacks. I didn’t know what you liked so I just grabbed everything I could get my hands on.” He holds up a paper plate stacked with treats no doubt stolen from the catering service. “I know I kind of went overboard but I wanted to make sure you kept your sugar level up.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you coo, reaching to take the plate from him. He’s piled on the sweets so high that it’s a miracle nothing has toppled over yet. You aren’t especially hungry but take a bite out of a chocolate candy to show how much you appreciate the effort. Its gooey consistency melts on your tongue, the taste so sweet it sticks to your teeth.

“How adorable,” chimes in Seokjin, his hand grabbing a licorice stick from the mountain of candy before you can swat him away. “Thanks Jongmin.”

“Jimin,” he corrects good-naturedly, his smile not budging an inch. You think, privately, that’s what you like the most about him. Not many have the ability to block out Seokjin’s bullshit so effectively.

“Mmh,” your manager says around a mouthful of candy. “Seokjin. Pleasure.”

You elbow him while gritting your teeth. “Can you...give us a moment?”

Seokjin swallows down the treat and opens his mouth in protest. He has the audacity to look betrayed. “You’re kicking me out of our room so the two of you can get it on? Really?” 

Jimin’s cheeks flush and you quickly cut in before your agent can make matters worse.

"I just want to talk without you breathing down my neck. Weren’t you going off earlier about how I didn’t need adult supervision anymore? Well?”

“Fine. Fine! But you owe me. Again.” He grabs his portable phone charger from the vanity table before making his exit. “And don’t forget what we talked about!”

What a fucking drama queen. You have no idea why he always insists on making a scene when you know for a fact that he would’ve left of his own volition in five minutes anyway. For reasons he has no trouble disclosing, he can’t stand Jimin’s presence.

“I won’t,” you grumble just so that you can get him out of your hair faster.

The door slams shut with more force than strictly necessary. Silence hangs in the air for a brief moment before Jimin turns his warm gaze towards you.

“What was that about?” 

“Uh, nothing. You know how he is...” You play with the ends of your braided hair. “He can’t go very long without throwing a tantrum.’

“He seems very protective of you,” remarks Jimin, a thoughtful expression painting his angelic face. “I think that’s why he’s not that fond of me.”

“Nonsense,” you rebut immediately as you take his hands in yours. “Who could ever not like you?”

Jimin allows his lips to quirk into a small, self-deprecating smile that you promptly erase with a kiss. His lips feel pillow-soft against yours, and you let yoruself indulge in the feeling before pulling back.

You sigh, remembering the scene you’ve yet to film. “If only my co-star was you.”

He laughs at that. “Seokjin would probably throw a fit, huh?”

.

.

Jimin treats you to dinner that night.

He chooses the restaurant. It’s a small, quaint place, tucked into a hidden corner just minutes away from the bustling main street of the shopping district. It’s not the kind of place people stumble across by accident but judging by the occupied tables, business is doing fine by reputation alone.

The owner comes out to greet Jimin by name. They exchange warm greetings, the woman asking him how his brother’s been doing and whether he’ll stop by anytime soon.

“Ah - I’m not sure... You know how he is... I’ll let him know you said hi.”

“Tell him I’ll give him an extra serving of ribs. That was his favorite, right?”

When her eyes trail over Jimin’s shoulder and spot you, she grins so wide you’d think she won the lottery or something. “Park Jimin! You’ve gone and found a girlfriend! And so pretty, too. Ah, really...time sure flies by. I remember when you first started coming here - and now!”

You smile back, greeting her with a polite handshake. The owner is quick to usher you into a small booth in the back. She hands you the menus while patting Jimin on his shoulder. “I’ll get you drinks. It’s on the house.”

“You don’t have to do that!” protests Jimin, shaking his head. “Really. It’s not—”

“Nonsense.” She waves a hand at him. “You’ll get two more if you keep that up, Park Jimin.”

Once she knows she’s earned Jimin’s compliance, she leaves with a satisfied smile. You can tell by their genuine interactions that she’s close to Jimin. Family, perhaps? Either way, this isn’t a place Jimin tracked down on yelp. He flips through the menu with ease, like he’s done it hundreds of times before. 

“Sorry about that,” he says once she’s out of earshot. “I used to come here all the time with my family when we all still lived here. They moved and live in a different town now so we haven’t had a meal together here in years, but. I still come here. The food is good, of course, but - I dunno. I have good memories here so I thought I’d share it with you. It sounds stupid now.”

He laughs quietly, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. 

“I love it.” You can’t help but smile, cheeks hurting from the force of it. Invisible liquor runs through your bloodstream, a ball of warmth unfurling in your belly. “Thank you.”

A pause ensues. It’s one of those moments in which you’re unsure if you’ve said too much or not enough. Being here with Jimin means a lot. You’re not the most verbose person but you hope that Jimin can feel your sincerity.

Maybe your stare comes off as too intense because Jimin breaks the eye contact and clears his throat.

He fiddles with his earring and says, “The food is really good!”

Pink dots his cheeks as he attempts to change the subject. “I don’t know how long the place has been around for but the food is exactly the same. Apparently it’s the sauce they use? Auntie still won’t share the recipes with me and I’ve known her since I was a kid.”

He chatters on, gaining confidence when he notices you’re not put off or bored by his numerous anecdotes. As time passes by, he’s visibly more relaxed. His laugh is more natural, less restrained, like he’s using all the muscles in his face and not just the ones near his mouth.

It’s a stark difference from the first date, you think. Back then he had come off as quite shy, preferring to let you lead the conversation, only offering up tidbits from time to time. Now the conversation flows easily. Nothing feels forced or awkward and - it’s nice. The normalcy of it. Like a hot cup of tea before bed or the scent of the fabric softener your mother uses. It’s something you find comfort in, that you can see yourself coming back to and not growing tired of.

Seokjin can say what he wants - that Jimin’s too uninteresting, that you’re too mismatched of a couple - whatever. 

Jimin likes you for you.

When you’re out on dates or when the two of you talk on the phone late into the evening, he rarely brings up your job. Instead, he asks you questions about your favorite TV shows, your dipping sauce preferences, the first album you purchased. These small details might seem inconsequential to others but to you, they’re a welcome breath of fresh air.

For all the talks of Jimin being too average and too normal, men like him are in reality surprisingly hard to come by.

Because what you haven’t failed to notice since you began your career as a porn star is that people love the idea of you. People who avidly watch you from their laptop screen in the comfort of their own home think that you’re some type of sex goddess - that you’re basically up for anything. In their minds, you’re a fun girl who loves sex, all kinds of sex, any kind of sex, and who doesn’t have any qualities or attributes other than making people cum until their limbs go numb.

Your feelings? Not really important. Feelings would make you human and being human would ruin their favorite fantasy.

That’s what takes you a while to learn - you don’t get paid to have sex, you get paid to sell dreams.

It doesn’t bother you at first. In a way, you think, it’s like acting. The porn star people jerk off to daily is a character you play, a mask you can take off at your leisure once the camera director yells ‘cut!’.

Very quickly, you learn people don’t share the same sentiment. To them, the line that distinguishes you from your job persona isn’t blurry - it simply doesn’t exist.

In the beginning, you’d stayed optimistic. Once people get to know you past the image they’ve built up in their heads, surely they’ll realize you’re not a sex-craved addict who only has dick on the brain, right? But with every new date you accept to go on, the reality of your situation only leaves room for disappointment and barely reigned in revulsion.

Even in non-romantic situations, people let you down. Old classmates, neighbors... It pisses you off that they assume you have no self-worth just because you’re a sex worker. Stevie from 308 down the hall once tried throwing crumpled bills at you, expecting you to crawl over to him for a fifty. The memory is enough to set your blood boiling. You can’t wait until you earn big enough bucks to move out of your shitty apartment into a nice high-rise penthouse, away and above all the scum of the Earth.

“You okay?” asks Jimin, noticing the crease that burrows your brow. “The food alright?”

You blink several times, belatedly realizing you had zoned out. Guilt and embarrassment well up within you.

“M’yeah,” you swallow down the spoonful of stew stuffed in your mouth. “Sorry.”

Jimin chews his bottom lip. Finally, he settles with, “Tell me if I’m boring you.”

“No, no! You’re not.” His evident doubt does nothing to alleviate the sudden nausea swarming your lower belly. “I’m serious, Jimin. I’m - Sorry if I gave off that impression. I just - I have a lot on my mind but you’re lovely. I’d tell you if you were - you know. Promise.”

“Would you? Sometimes I think you’re too nice.” It’s not delivered as an insult, but it doesn’t exactly sound like praise, either. 

You force out a snort. “Heh. Wish you’d tell Seokjin that.”

“He’s not too cross with me, is he?” Jimin’s expression looks awkward, like he’s forcing his facial muscles to stay relaxed and mien nonchalant.

“Wh- oh, you mean because of earlier? He isn’t. That’s not him being angry. It’s not even you. It’s me. We just have - a slight difference in opinions, I suppose. If you can even call it that.”

“He doesn’t want you to date me,” concludes Jimin.

The frustrations you’d repressed earlier in the day come back. Why does Seokjin’s opinion matter? You huff, putting your spoon down.

“He’s not my dad. And even if he was, I’m grown. I can make my own decisions.” You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it... It’s not like it’s any of his business in the first place.”

“Still...” Jimin says, unsure. “He’s your agent. I wouldn’t want the relation between you to sour because of me.”

“Honestly, I’m convinced it’s not even you he has a problem with. We talked about it today and I think he’s getting antsy because, um, you know, I haven’t accepted any big offers lately. Like, I’m staying too much in my comfort zone or something. He says that in the long run that can be detrimental to my career.”

It’s a bit strange, discussing your work with Jimin. You both work in the same industry, Jimin as a second camera assistant and you as an adult entertainer, but outside of filming sets, you rarely acknowledge what the other person does for a living.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He wants me to branch out and try new things.”

“What, you mean anal? Gangbangs?”

“Um, yeah. All that, probably...” You have to blink several times because of the shock of hearing Jimin say that so casually. “...Is that okay?”

“Huh?” Jimin in turn blinks at you, like your question doesn’t properly register. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’m fine with it. You said it’ll be good for your career?”

“Apparently.”

“Then, yeah.” He shrugs like he isn’t bothered by the news at all. “Of course that’s okay.”

A part of you wants to push the issue, ask him why he’d be fine with his girlfriend filming intense sex scenes with random men, but that inner voice is snuffed out before the poisonous thought has time to take root.

Isn’t this what you always wanted? A boyfriend who is accepting and understanding of your profession?

You wash down your worries with a gulp or two of soju, determined not to let your own insecurities ruin the rest of your night.

.

.

Less than 24 hours after you’ve agreed to work on a worthwhile project of Seokjin’s choosing, a slew of texts blow up your phone. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s your agent. A quick scroll through your phone reveals that your agent has left you with no less than 15 messages, 1 voicemail, and 3 e-mails.

It’s...a lot. You’ve grown to expect that kind of fanfare with him. Like any man who deals with legally binding contracts on a daily basis, Seokjin ensures that you keep your word. He can be extremely persuasive when he sets his mind to it. You’ve seen men and women alike succumb to the force of his magnetism. Back when your filmography had solely consisted of amateur sex tapes shot in bad lighting with low-grade filming equipment, Seokjin's charms alone had been sufficient to win over lukewarm casting directors and book you jobs.

SEOKJIN : hey!!!!!!!!

SEOKJIN : ???

SEOKJIN : wow. you’re leaving me on read.........the audacity. 

SEOKJIN : i raised you on my back and this is how you repay me?

SEOKJIN : do you not respect your elders in your household?

SEOKJIN : i swear if you’re blowing me off for jimmy instead of answering your calls .........

SEOKJIN : or blowing jimmy. either one.

SEOKJIN : ok it’s been 10 min. i’m chill but not that chill.

SEOKJIN : can you please stop sucking dick and read your emails. it’s important.

YOU : ever heard of multitasking? god gave us two hands for a reason

SEOKJIN : oh. nasty.

SEOKJIN : way to ruin my lunch.

SEOKJIN : well. suck down that nut sauce asap

SEOKJIN : cos what i sent you needs your undivided attention

YOU : i’m nasty?? me????

YOU : you don’t hear me saying nUT SAUCE you freak

SEOKJIN : nutté sauce

SEOKJIN : there. fixed it.

YOU : ...that’s not even a thing

SEOKJIN : well it should be!

SEOKJIN : adding accents makes it instantly classier, don’t you think? nutté sauce. has a nice ring to it.

SEOKJIN : honestly. sounds like some fancy four star french starter now.

YOU : ???? it absolutely doesn’t but ok

SEOKJIN : imagine. during a scene you just yell out

SEOKJIN : “i’d like a serving of your nutté sauce to go”

YOU : dicks would shrivel up on the spot

SEOKJIN : what? i think it’s brilliant!

SEOKJIN : my talent is wasted as an agent. should’ve been a scriptwriter instead.

YOU : yes i’m sure the oscars are weeping over the missed opportunity

He takes your sarcasm at face value, feeding you more ridiculous variants of faux french cum lingo—that which you very wisely choose not to reply to. Instead of humoring him, you open the .pdf file he’s sent your way, ignoring the near-constant buzzing of your phone as he’s no doubt pestering you for an immediate answer.

Had it not been necessary for business, you’d have blocked his number ages ago. In fact, after that nut sauce comment you’re seriously reconsidering, business obligations be damned. 

To his credit, the film project he suggests you work on doesn't sound half-bad despite its questionable title. Why anyone would choose to name it THE SPERMINATOR is beyond you.

As you read through the proposition, you’re surprised to find it’s tamer than the initial imaginary scenario you’d played out in your head. Expecting to read through a long list of unnameable kinks and dicks, the scene description is rather domestic all things considered.

Your shoulders sag in relief. You enjoy sex as much as the next person, but even you have limits you’re not willing or eager to cross. You’re a human being, first and foremost, and, contrary to popular belief, not competing in the sex olympics.

From what you’ve read so far, nothing in Seokjin’s offer seems too strenuous or perverse. The scene in question is centered around a young, newly married couple trying to conceive for the first time and the sex acts are described as “romantic insemination” - whatever the fuck that means. The only complication you can think of is that you’ve never played the part of a married couple before. None of your previous films specifically target couples or women. Is romance something you can sell accordingly?

You’re quick to shake the concern off once you remember that no one cares if your acting is shit or not. All you probably have to do is yell out ‘Daddy’ a few times mid-thrust and call it a day.

Honestly, you’re a bit disappointed in Seokjin for choosing such a safe, no-risk project - especially since he constantly advocates the risk-return trade off as the way to live by. But you’re not about to start complaining. You’d rather shoot this type of innocuous scenario than ridiculous, hentai-like scenes involving freakish get-ups and toys of monster proportions not realistically made to fit in a vagina.

The deal is perfect. Almost too perfect.

Subconsciously, you must realize something is wrong. Maybe Seokjin’s many lessons have finally rubbed off on you because there’s a persistent voice in your ear warning you that the film proposition is a trap, one that you’ve unfortunately walked straight into.

Your wariness increases when he refuses to send you the script upon request. Alarm bells ring off but by then it’s too late.

“The thing is... Director Ryu wants to try a new type of project," Seokjin says over the phone once you call him up for answers. "He thinks he’s going to pioneer a new genre of porn and revolutionize the industry - his words, not mine.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“How do I explain this without you getting the wrong idea..."

“Is this meant to reassure me?!” Dread drips from your tone. You should’ve suspected something was off from the very moment Seokjin suggested to shoot vanilla porn as your next big project. What a joke.

“Calm down, it's not as bad as - whatever you're thinking.” Too bad that his attempts to calm you down have the opposite effect. “He’s been wanting to try out a new improvisation format for his porn movies.”

“Come again?”

A beat of uncomfortable quiet passes. Reluctantly, Seokjin explains, “Which means - there isn’t an actual script to go off of. That’s why I couldn’t send it to you - because there is none. He wants it to be as realistic and natural as possible so he’s looking for actors who can go with their gut and create their own scenario instead of ones who need to be directed.”

Your resounding silence speaks for itself.

Sure, sometimes they provide scripts to act as guidelines, roughly giving the actor an idea of how the scene will unfold, but no one is expected to follow it word for word. Most porn films rely on improvisation rather than scripts because of how notoriously bad porn stars are at acting and memorizing more than a few lines at a time, and the introduction scene never lasts very long anyway for it to make a noticeable difference. Besides, after filming a handful of movies, you’ve noticed the dialogue is more or less all the same.

What bothers you is that this director wants you to carry out a movie that relies heavily on improvised dialogue. Convincingly.

“C’mon,” Seokjin tries when you refuse to deign him with an answer. “It’ll be fun. You like acting, right?”

“Seokjin...” You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to keep your composure in check. “How do I break this down for you? I think you’re forgetting the most crucial detail here - I can’t act! The closest I've ever gotten to acting is faking an orgasm and I’m pretty certain that doesn’t count."

“And you do that very well!" says Seokjin encouragingly. "You'll be fine. Don’t stress over it. Your scenes with Min Yoongi last time were perfectly acceptable!”

“That’s the thing.” Stress makes your voice raise a half-step. “He did, like, 90% of the acting! Back then, all I had to do was moan and act like a slut! Which hardly counts - I was being myself. Whatever this - thing - you’re attempting to rope me into - I’m not qualified for it.”

“Sweetheart, we’re not aiming for the fucking Oscars here.” When he laughs, it’s practiced enough to sound sincere. “At the end of the day, it’s still porn. Nobody’s expecting you to be the next Meryl. And besides,” he presses on, clearly refusing to change his mind. “This is exactly what you need right now. Something fresh, something new. If you pull this off, you’ll gain exposure.”

“If I pull it off. Big if."

“I know it sounds like a gamble. I get it, I do. But remember what I always say? High risk—”

“Yes, yes. High reward. I get it.” Your frown deepens. “There’s no way to know this will work, though.”

“A good co-star already guarantees you half of the success. And luckily for you, the guy they signed on seems like the real deal. He’s hot, you’re hot. People will pay money to see you two fuck regardless of how good or bad the acting is.”

“Well. That’s reassuring,” you say, voice as flat as a board. “Although I suppose watching porn on mute is always an option if it comes to that.”

“It was a joke!” What worries you is that it doesn’t sound like it is. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve seen some of your co-star’s tapes. He’s got a mouth on him, if you know what I mean. Just let him lead and it’ll go swimmingly.”

“It’s one thing to follow someone’s lead during sex but you want me to - to improvise for God knows how long! That’s just asking for a disaster to happen.”

“You said you were up for a challenge!” Seokjin throws your words back at you, his tone accusing.

“And you said this would be beneficial for my career! How is making a fool out of myself going to help me any? I don’t want to be remembered as the girl who can’t act to save her life.” You want to cry in frustration. If you had wanted to act you would’ve chosen that as your major in college. “I don’t - I can’t do this. I’m not - this isn’t what I signed up for! How do you expect me to convince viewers what they’re watching is real...”

“Just—” Exasperated, he takes a deep breath. Exhales. “Trust me. When have I ever been wrong about film projects.”

Is putting your career at risk really worth it? You’re not sure anymore.

On the bright side, it’ll finally get Seokjin off your back, you reason, trying to remain positive. That in itself is worth celebrating, right?

Fine. You’ll agree to it out of pettiness. Once Seokjin realizes what a terrible idea this entire ordeal is, you won’t hesitate to rub it back in his face. He’ll never hear the end of it.

"Who am I working with, anyway?”

"Ah, hm, well." Hesitation creeps up his voice for the first time, putting you instantly on edge. "...You won't know him. He's new to the scene - got started a month or two ago, I forget."

"Great. Not only am I being used as a lab rat for this director to experiment on but you're also pairing me with a fucking rookie. Jesus.”

"He’s not half bad! He’s not bad at all, actually. I wouldn't be insisting if I didn't trust him not to blow his load early."

"Aren’t I lucky,” you deadpan. “So I don't have to worry about him busting a nut before the director gives the signal?"

“All you’ll have to do is act like a married couple with baby fever,” he talks over you, ignoring your overflowing sarcasm. “And how hard can that be? You’ve been loved up with Jumin for a month now - that’s plenty enough practice if you ask me. I know you’ll be able to sell that romantic shit to the public without too much trouble.”

“It’s Jimin,” you correct from force of habit.

You’re promptly ignored — not that you expected anything less from him.

"Just give it a thought? And get back to me when you make up your mind. The sooner the better. The offer won't stay on the table forever." Even over the line, you can picture Seokjin raising his eyebrows at you, expectant. “If you’re serious about this job, you know what you have to do.”

You both know that you’ll accept the offer. Seokjin’s got you all figured out. As much as you don’t like being pushed around, the need to prove yourself is your main driving factor. The acquaintances who sneer at you, the family members who’ve shun you, the peers who expect you to burn out after the five month mark—you’d rather roll over and die than prove their misconceptions right.

It’s a matter of pride when you sniff and reply, “I’ll think about it.”

But the decision is already made before the call ends.

.

.

SCENE 02 - THE SPERMINATOR. TAKE 02. ROLL B. 

.

Eight days later you find yourself squeezed into a brazenly short dress that zips in the front, more fit for a night out in a club than a dinner at home. It’s so ridiculously tight, you feel like a prey being swallowed down by a snake. There’s no room to breathe. You can’t wait for the scene to start, if only so you can dispose of the piece of fabric and never wear it again.

Unfortunately, your outfit gets worse because thrown over the clubbing attire is a frilly apron with small hearts embroidered along the hem. The mismatch is jarring. You’re not sure what look the stylist is going for but the end result is very...peculiar.

You comfort yourself with the knowledge that it could always be worse.

A quick glance at the digital clock on your phone confirms that you’re running on time. Good. After your last gig, the last thing you want is to spend hours waiting for the personnel to set up the cameras and sound equipment correctly.

Thankfully, today’s team works like a well-oiled machine. All that’s left are the last-minute preparations before the shoot begins.

Your false eyelashes are still drying when Seokjin elbows you sharply in the ribs. You crack open an eye to glare at him. “Ouch - ah, seriously? What is it now?”

“That’s him, that’s him!” Seokjin whispers under his breath, his gaze glued to a point somewhere beyond your shoulder. “Wooow. Aren’t you a lucky bitch? I’d gargle his nutté sauce for breakfast, if you get what I mean. He looks way better in person, damn.”

“Firstly - please never say that out loud again.” You fake a gag. “How do I buy myself a new set of ears?”

Seokjin ignores your dramatics. He shoots you a look. “You let that last guy draw a starfish on your face with his crème de la nut but did you hear me go sick?”

“That’s not the same and you know it!” Your jaw drops in indignation. “And can you stop trying to make nut cream a thing for the love of—”

“What’s this about nut cream?”

You whip your head around, mortification already etched onto your features. Your mouth opens, defense at the ready, only for your throat to clamp up.

“Oh.” You blink up in surprise because - well, Seokjin’s earlier assessment isn’t embellished. The guy is fit as fuck.

You’d seen photos in passing, had even googled his name out of curiosity, but the two-dimensional version of him pales to his real life physique. There’s a sharpness to his features that the camera fails to pick up on, a vibrancy that gets lost in the medium. 

“Hey. I’m Hoseok.” His grip is firm, assertive, and your eyes naturally wander over his form. The loose muscle tee he’s thrown on puts his toned arms on display and makes it easier to admire the seemingly endless expanse of sun-kissed skin. He’s neither too thick nor too spindly, his muscles lean and firm instead of bulging. Strong but not intimidating. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” You swallow, mouth dry.

You expect him to leave it at that like most of your past co-stars usually do. Or worse - for him to abandon all pretenses and cross lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. As someone who has experienced it all - from standoffish to creepy and vile - nothing surprises you anymore.

But unlike your, admittedly low, expectations, his gaze is warm and friendly. He speaks smoothly, leaving no time for an awkward silence to instill itself.

“Yeah, I know who you are! I saw a video or two of yours before - you were featured on the agency’s main page last month, right? Fuckin’ genius, by the way. Best stuff I’ve seen in a long ass time.” An easy grin sits on his face, nothing about it fake or contrived. “I hope we get along today. I haven’t done much work myself - yet anyway - but I hope this can be a good experience for the both of us.”

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seokjin assures, patting your shoulder like a proud parent. “_____ here is the best talent I’ve signed on.”

“That I can believe,” Hoseok chimes, his smile never waning. “I’ve heard good stuff about you. I won’t lie - it reassured me a fuck ton when I heard I’d be working with you. The stuff we’re doing is, well, it’s a bit of a gamble at this point, but I’m sure it’ll go well because I’ll be working with you.”

For a brief, embarrassing moment, you’re robbed of words, unable to respond to his flattery. From experience, you know to be wary of guys like him. Whenever someone lays it on thick they always have an ulterior motive. But what could possibly be his?

“Seokjin’s saying that because I’m the only one who can stand his nagging,” you finally say, your shoulders stiff. Maybe it’s because you’ve just met, but it’s hard to figure him out and it doesn’t help that you’re naturally wary of strangers.

“Oh hush. You love me.” Sensing how guarded you’ve become, Seokjin mercifully offers you an out. “It was nice meeting you, Hoseok. Wish we could stay and chat but she has to get ready to film the pre-interview portion.”

“Oh yeah, that’s cool. Catch you later.”

You offer a quick smile he returns tenfold, its brightness momentarily dazzling you.

Slightly dazed from the intensity of it, you stagger behind Seokjin, sun spots dotting your vision. Your surroundings blur together as your mind tries to recover from the interaction.

“Sooooooooo?” Seokjin sing-songs once you’ve walked far enough to be out of earshot. His brows are raised knowingly, an infuriating type of smugness clinging to his features. “What did I tell you! He’s hot enough to single-highhandedly melt a glacier, huh?”

You scoff, not willing to admit anything. “He’s okay.”

“Oh c’mon. He’s baby daddy material for sure. Which works out well for you since he’s gonna pump one into you later.”

For once the grimace that crosses your face isn’t exaggerated. “Please. Stop. Talking. I’m this close to heaving out my lunch.”

You’re not even joking with that one. Attractive as Hoseok may be, any talk of baby-making is enough to dissipate any smidgens of lust.

The reminder of what the upcoming scene entails and the expectations people carry crash down on you like a pile of bricks. Although you’ve done your best to ignore the fact you’ll be acting today, the meeting with Hoseok yanks you harshly back to reality.

You’re going to act. As a married couple. Trying to conceive a baby.

Three things that have never, ever been on your bucket list are now about to be crossed out in the span of the same afternoon. To that you can only say - what the fuck is my life.

Like a mounting wave before the inevitable crash, panic crests within you. You feel it gradually build and build, flooding your lungs and every crevice of your body with overwhelming anxiety.

Seokjin sighs. “How are you going to make it through today? The whole point of the sex scene is to get you pregnant. Or fake pregnant. You know what I mean.”

“Um...” You try to laugh but it comes out shaky. Seokjin shoots you a concerned look. “I’ll be fine! Really! I can do it. It’s just acting like you said, right? It’s not like he’s actually gonna knock me up in real life. So. Totally fine. It’s fine. Perfect.”

Seokjin’s concern grows. His eyebrows pinch together and his expression turns serious. He asks with no trace of mockery, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay!” you reply. It’s too rushed of an answer to convince him. Your palms feel clammy and you wipe them off your damned apron. “Just. Nervous. Y’know.”

His steps slow to a halt and he places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. The weight, familiar and comforting, grounds you to reality. “Hey. What’s there to be nervous about? You got this.”

“Yeah.” You nod. Maybe if you say it enough times you’ll trick yourself into believing it. “I’ve got this.”

“Look. Let me be honest for a second. I’ve been an agent for eight years now and I’ve seen a lot of talents come and go. No pun intended.” You smile back at him weakly. “You’ve got something...extra a lot of them lacked. I knew the moment I saw you on film you’d go far. The energy you bring onscreen is insane. I know today might seem new and strange - but so was your first ever professionally shot film, right? And you got through that fine. You’ll do great. I know it. And, not to toot my own horn, but I’m always right.”

That earns him a laugh. The nerves are still there but thanks to his pep talk it’s easier to breathe.

Despite being a big pain in the ass, Seokjin is exemplary at his job. Without him, you’re acutely aware you wouldn’t have gotten half as far as you have. Having him by your side is a reassurance in itself.

Someone calls your name, pulling you from your thoughts. When you turn around, you’re face to face with the round, bespectacled face of Director Ryu. You reckon he’s in his early forties but he acts younger than his age. It’s your first time working with him but so far he’s been nice enough, if a little full of himself. Not that you’re unaccustomed with working alongside conceited colleagues.

“Oh good, you’re back. You can get seated for the interview bit.” He points over to a chair placed in front of a pale yellow wall. From close up, you can see a paint job is in order, the old coat chipping off in several places. “Alright, this won’t last long - just need you to answer some questions on tape and we’ll be good to go.”

“Sure thing.” You nod and follow his directions, sitting still while the hair and make-up artist steps up to give your lips a final touch-up.

Strictly speaking, the before and after interviews aren’t a necessity. In your experience, directors mostly film the short question-and-answer sequence when you’re set to film hardcore sex scenes as a way to show viewers everything is consensual and that you thoroughly enjoyed the experience despite whatever might have transpired on screen.

You reckon the director wants to film you today to document the process behind his “groundbreaking film project”. Cue roll of eyes.

Somebody needs to tell him he isn’t inventing anything, you think while watching him fiddle with the camera until he’s completely satisfied with the angle. All he’s done so far is add unnecessary pressure on you. You hope Hoseok is faring better because the amount of performance anxiety you’re experiencing is an instant boner killer.

“You nervous?” the director asks once he’s done adjusting the camera lens.

While by some standards you’re still considered a newbie in the industry, you’ve done this enough times to fall into a routine. Wake-up, breakfast, get ready, arrive before call time, fill out all the paperwork and get ready to shoot your solo stills. It’s familiar enough that you’ve long stopped getting pre-performance jitters.

Today’s rush of anxiety is as surprising as it is unwelcome. They don’t want to hear that particular truth though, so you keep your reply sweet and bubbly.

“Nah,” you grin, wide and easy. “I’m super excited to film today!”

“Oh yeah? Is it perhaps because of your co-star?”

Your smile freezes for a second. Somewhere over the director’s shoulder you can see Seokjin nodding enthusiastically while giving you the double thumbs up. “Hoseok? He’s hot, sure.”

“Ooh. Already on a first name basis?”

“Hm?” you let out a noise of polite confusion, only belatedly realizing that his viewers know him better as his porn alias, J-Hope. But there’s no way in hell you’re going to yell that out loud while he’s fucking an orgasm out of you. Not only does it sound ridiculous but it’ll shatter whatever carefully crafted illusion you manage to build. “Um, yes. We’re getting to know each other. He’s very friendly.”

“I’m sure he is.” And there’s an implication there that doesn’t sit too well with you but thankfully Director Ryu chooses to move on and put that particular subject to rest.

“You ever shoot an insemination scene before?”

“Not yet.” You make sure to keep the smile on your face even if your cheeks are beginning to hurt. “I can’t wait to get to it. It’s a fantasy I’ve always had but never tried out for myself. I’m excited to film a first on camera!”

The director has yet to call you out for your bullshit so you slowly start to relax. Acting is a bit like lying, isn’t it? Maybe you can get through today after all.

You breeze through the rest of the questions, forcing out practiced laughs here and there all whilst keeping your voice syrupy sweet. It’s quick work, especially when you know what to expect. Before you know it, it’s already time to film the pièce de résistance. Everyone that’s allowed on set during filming filters into the kitchen, conversations between crew members dying down as they use their last recreational moments to check their phones.

The director’s filming style exempts you from shooting the customary pre-shoot sex stills which are essentially promotional pictures of you and and your partner in every sex position that you’ll be filming for real later on. You’re thankful for that, at least. Even with all of your on-camera experience, staying perfectly silent and still with someone’s dick inside you is no easy feat. It’s worse when you have to keep eye contact with your co-star and fake sexual gratification because the shot calls for it.

Hoseok waves at you from the other side of the room, the hair and makeup artist dusting some powder across the slope of his nose.

How can he look so relaxed?! You’re barely holding your lunch down. Honestly, it’s a miracle you’re able to now tat the butterflies are back in full force, making a mess of your stomach.

You feel queasy but try not to make it too obvious even as Seokjin comes around to check up on you. The last thing you want to do is make a scene, especially when your onscreen counterpart's demeanor is making you look amateurish in comparison.

Maybe Hoseok is a better actor than you’re able to give most porn stars credit for because try as you might, you fail to detect any nervous undercurrent in his tone. For someone who is supposedly starring in his first major project, he doesn’t seem all too bothered about how it might play out.

How does he do it?! In all honesty, if Seokjin hadn’t informed you of his rookie status, you would be none the wiser.

There’s an ease with which he carries himself, a fluidity in his movements that belies no anxiety or awkwardness. Even from this distance you can tell that there’s never a hint of hesitation in his movements or speech; he doesn’t seem self-conscious in the least. He talks and moves with the assurance of someone who has been in the industry for months, not weeks.

In that moment you envy him. You’re so nervous about the upcoming scene that it’s hard to feign an air of professional detachment.

His boisterous laugh is loud enough to carry across the room and interrupt your line of thought. When you look over at him again, you find him folded in half, hands clutching his sides, and wearing a grin so bright it eclipses the entirety of his face.

“He seems nice.”

You jump, startled by Jimin’s sudden appearance. You hadn’t even heard him draw near. With a sheepish expression, you turn to look up at him only to find him already staring off into the distance. There’s a strange look painting his face, and a small crease in his brow that usually isn’t present. When you follow his line of sight, you’re met with the image of Hoseok talking animatedly to the the small crowd that’s flocked around him.

“Yeah.” You aren’t sure what else to say. Although there’s no sarcasm attached to his words, you can’t help but find Jimin unnaturally tense.

Which makes sense, you concede guiltily. A mere stranger is minutes away from dicking down his girlfriend. You’re not sure how you’d feel if you were to stand in his shoes.

You breathe in deep, silently willing away the knot of distress in your belly. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing. It’s just a job. A profession that Jimin has always been fully aware of, even before you’d begun dating.

Even as you remind yourself of the facts, it does little to dispel the lingering feelings of doubt and guilt.

“Hey.” Jimin frowns at you in concern. “You alright?”

“Yep!” you say then immediately sigh, knowing that lying to your boyfriend is pointless. “I’m just a bit nervous.”

“Nervous?” Jimin’s worry grows, the crease in his brow deepening. “What about?”

“Just—” You gesture around with your hands. “All of this.”

“Oh.” He looks genuinely surprised. “But you don’t usually get nervous... Is it the impregnation thing you’ll have to do? I know you’ve said you’re not a big fan of that. Or... Is it something else?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. It’s a bit of everything yet at the same time nothing you can clearly pinpoint and put a finger on. In all logic, you know that you’re feeling disproportionately stressed out but you can’t stop yourself from feeling how you feel. “It’s not that I don’t want to film. I just - I’m worried I won’t do well.”

Jimin takes your hand between his, running a thumb in soothing circles across the surface of your skin. He repeats the motion several times until your heartbeat is completely synced to his touch.

“You’ll do great. You always do.” The lines of his mouth bend into a smile. “I’ll be on the sidelines cheering you on.”

“My very own cheerleader.” You allow yourself to relax and and smile back fondly.

As much as you worry about Jimin being upset with you filming sex scenes with other actors, he’s never been anything less than the supporting boyfriend you’ve always dreamed of. Seokjin calls Jimin’s constant presence on set maddening, but you’re thankful that your boyfriend sticks by your side while others might flee or shame you.

Suddenly, you’re overcome with emotion. Maybe it’s the stress, or maybe today you’re more hormonal than usual, but your eyes threaten to well up as you grip his palm tightly in your own. “Jimin, I—”

“Okay, lovebirds!” Seokjin claps his hands once, effectively ruining your moment. “Hand-holding time is over. We’re moving onto the more R-rated stuff.”

“Seokjin!” you hiss, upset over his horrible timing.

“It’s fine.” Jimin shakes his head. “He’s right, shoot’s about to start anytime soon. I need to get ready, too.”

“Right.”

Reluctantly, you let go of Jimin’s hand.

“Don’t pout.” He laughs and presses a quick, chaste kiss to your mouth. “I’ll wait for you after filming and we can go grab dinner. Italian sound fine?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” You bob your head eagerly. “I’m literally dying for carbs. Italian sounds more than perfect.”

“Good.” 

You can’t resist sneaking in one last peck before Jimin retreats behind the cameras and you’re pulled to stand in front of a granite kitchen tabletop. Director Ryu is waiting for you, Hoseok already by his side.

From close-up, your co-star looks even more striking. The make-up artist’s work highlights his features without going overboard. The lines of his face are sharp, like every single one has been meticulously drawn. What usually would give someone a hostile and unapproachable impression is balanced out by the liveliness that lights up his eyes and his wide smile that looks almost too big for his face.

“It’ll start in the kitchen and then we’ll work out way to the bedroom.” Director Ryu points down the hallway. “I was thinking of keeping it all in the bedroom but nothing screams domesticity more than kitchen scenes, right?”

“Uh-huh.” You give a polite nod. Next to you, Hoseok coughs into his fist.

“Depending on how this goes we might have to take several takes - just keep that in mind.”

That’s nothing out of the ordinary. Sex scenes are never filmed in one take. There’s always one thing or another - a smoke break, a flaccid dick, a lighting fixture that needs to be changed. A 45 minute porn movie is the result of the editing team that painstakingly goes through, cuts and assembles hours of footage.

“Remember,” Director Ryu instructs, one hand cocked on his hips. “You’re still stuck in that honeymoon phase. All the two of you want to do is fuck like horny bunnies but your husband’s been away all day. Both of you have been waiting for this reunion for hours and hours. I want to feel that level of tension, got it?”

Hoseok nods like a dutiful student, his expression comically serious. You’d laugh if it wasn’t so inappropriate.

“Yep. Ok. Got it.”

You just want the director to stop talking so that you can get this over with quickly. The monologue is just delaying the inevitable.

Director Ryu spends extra minutes setting up the scene, emphasizing how in love and passionate the two of you should behave, describing how long you’ve been wanting to try for a baby, going into explicit detail about what the sex scenes should convey to the viewers. He just goes on and on and on with no end it sight.

At this point even Hoseok is growing restless. His feet refuse to stay still and his eyes dart around the room as if his attention is drawn elsewhere. It’s Hoseok’s constant fidgeting that draws Director Ryu out of his monologue. He finally senses that there’s a unanimous decision to start filming and retires behind the camera to settle himself in his appointed chair.

Hoseok shares a long look with you. “Is he always like that?”

“God, I hope not.” You lower your voice to whisper, “Seokjin - my agent - he says apparently Director Ryu wanted to make a career off of documentaries once he graduated from film school but quickly switched genres once he saw how little filming the mating habits of koalas was earning him.”

“Ah,” Hoseok nods conspiratorially before his features shift into something more serious. “Hey. Before we start, is there anything you’re not comfortable with? I know this scene is supposed to lean towards vanilla but you never know... I’d rather make sure. Just in case.”

You blink, taken aback. Hard limits aren’t really discussed outside of hardcore scenes. Sure, everyone is given a safeword before shoots begin but even screaming out “STOP!” or “Can we take a break from filming?” is enough to put the filmed scene on hold.

“Ah... No. I’m okay. But thanks for asking.” A moment passes and you add, “Is there - are there any words or kinks that bother you?”

Hoseok shakes his head. “Not for this one. Just - if there’s anything you’d rather me not say or do, don’t hesitate.”

You nod in reply, not sure of what else to say. Unfortunately your past experiences with men have made you suspicious of any form of flattery or kindness.

Soon, though, you relax. What reason is there for Hoseok to deceive you? Maybe he still has that rookie mindset. You can relate to the eagerness and the desire to do well you’d had in your early days of filming.

“Alright. Good luck, Hoseok.”

His smile is so bright that it erases your previous doubts. Surely someone with ill-intentions wouldn’t be able to smile like that, right? You return a tentative smile of your own. Something akin to understanding seems to pass between you. Although you don’t know Hoseok and he doesn’t know you, you trust him enough for this scene.

The moment is broken when Director Ryu directs Hoseok to wait outside the camera’s line of vision and you’re left alone in front of the kitchen stove.

Any moment now, you think. A telltale silence falls over the staff members as they all anticipate the director’s signal for the scene to start.

The first few seconds are always tricky. You’re no actress. There’s no switch inside of you that flips on and off as soon as the director commands “ACTION!” and “CUT!”. The world around you doesn’t fade out, your ‘porn star persona’ doesn’t claw its way out from within you and lunge for the nearest available dick. Sometimes, if you’re not attracted to your onscreen partner, you find your mind drifting off, making an inventory of your fridge and wondering what you’ll be able to cook up for dinner with two eggs and leftover rice.

When Director Ryu shouts “ACTION!” and slams down the plate, you freeze up. Usually you have an idea of what to say or do, but the words and actions won’t come to you this time.

Someone behind the cameras lets out a light cough. Oh right, you blink down at the simmering pot of water in front of you. The cameras are recording you making an utter fool out of yourself.

The spike of humiliation forces you into action. You’re more professional than this, damn it. You give the water a tentative stir, movements wooden and stiff. It’s hard to concentrate. All you can do is watch as the water simmers to a boil, the sound of bubbling water like a roaring current in your ears.

A door creaks open, signalling your onscreen husband’s return home.

To your horror, you find that you’re unable to move, as if your limbs had forgotten their primary function.

Before the scene had started, you had envisioned yourself throwing yourself into the arms of your loving husband and welcoming him home with a shower of kisses and words of affection. You had internally rehearsed it, had even thought of what you could say to him between pecks, but the reality is far removed from what you had practiced.

“Darling?” Hoseok’s voice is soft but loud enough for you to hear him over the angry sounds of boiling water. The vowels he uses are rounded, different from the bright pep in his tone from earlier. 

You want to respond but your tongue feels like lead, too heavy in your mouth to articulate and form the proper reply. What are you supposed to call him, anyway? Honey? Hoseok? A nickname derived from his name? What do newlywed spouses call each other? Why couldn’t you give this more thought before the cameras began rolling?

Panic balloons inside you, threatening to burst. For a terrifying and mortifying second, you think that you’ve gone and ruined everything. The muscles in your shoulders bunch up and you half-expect the director to shout ‘CUT!’, give you a public scolding for missing your cue and berate you for your overall ineptitude.

Hoseok’s arms wrap around your middle before you have time to agonize any further. Just as you suspected, his arms are strong, the lean muscles flexing as he readjusts his hold around your waist. What you don’t expect, however, is the unadulterated warmth he radiates. His body burns hot; even through the layers of clothing separating the two of you, his warmth seeps through. But it’s strangely comfortable, not unlike basking in the afternoon sun during the last days of summer. You let yourself melt into his embrace.

“You’re not even going to say hi?”

With your back turned to him, you can’t be sure, but you imagine the pout playing at his lips. He tucks his chin in the crook of your shoulder. If he feels any awkwardness, he doesn’t let it show.

Miraculously, your mouth seems to be in working order again. It takes you a few seconds too long to find the appropriate answer, but it finally comes before the director can cut in to make any remarks.

“If I turn around right now, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you,” you explain. “And - I don’t want to ruin our dinner.”

Just to keep up the pretense, you add a handful of spaghetti into the pot of water.

Hoseok lets out a hum from behind you. He’s standing close enough for you to feel the vibrations low in his throat.

“I hate it,” he says after a stretch of silence.

You pout. “What? My cooking? What’s wrong with it?”

“No, silly. I hate -” he sighs, buries his face in your neck before looking back up so the camera can capture his expression. “I hate not being with you. I missed this.”

He hugs you from behind before kissing your neck. It starts off innocuous - his lips pressing short, chaste kisses down the column of your throat. Quickly, however, his mouth lingers on your skin.

“Ah - don’t. I’m cooking!” you shriek when his teeth scrape over a sensitive spot under your jaw. Your protests are half-hearted and go by unacknowledged. The pot of pasta could overflow right now and no one would care, least of all you.

Hoseok noses your neck while he tightening his grip around your waist, the movement bringing his hips flush against your lower back. You give the pot in front of you a very unenthusiastic stir, attention focused instead on the way his lips tenderly skim the surface of your skin, testing and teasing. The sensation feels nice - and keeps your mind off of the several cameras directed your way.

“But I went all day missing my princess,” he sighs, open mouthed against your neck. “Spent all day thinking about you.”

“Y-you did?”

“Mhm.” He gives your exposed shoulder a peck. Then another. “Thought about your cute little laugh.”

His line catches you off guard. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Porn is often crude and to the point. You’re used to men complimenting your body parts or praising your skills in bed. You’d never minded, either. But Hoseok’s choice of words make you eager in a different way.

“What else?”

“Well, your cooking, for sure. Without you I’d be eating out of ramyeon packets for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

You let out a snort.

“That’s true. Your cooking is so horrible it’s offensive.”

“Hey now. Don’t be mean.” He pokes your cheek before pinching your chin to turn your head towards him. “I can cook a decent omelet.”

Hoseok’s a good few inches taller than you so you have to strain your neck to be able to look him in the eyes. The slight discomfort barely registers. You’re too transfixed by the way he stares at you. It’s hard to place the expression because you’ve never seen it on a fellow actor before. Normally, the men you work with stare you down with hungry and lustful intent, but there’s none of that in Hoseok’s gaze.

The expression on his face cannot be described as innocent, either. He licks his lips, drawing your attention to the pretty lines of his mouth delicately curved into a smile.

“I missed the way you feel in my arms.” His voice sounds deeper, this time. “I missed holding you close to me. Kissing you. Reminding you how much I love you. I missed the look in your eyes when - “

“When?”

He smirks. “You sure you want to hear it? What if you can’t keep your hands off of me after? I don’t want to be held responsible for soggy pasta.”

“Hoseok,” you whine, one of your hands reaching down to slap at the hold around your stomach. 

He tightens his hold around you and your breath hitches, suddenly all too aware of how firm his body feels behind you. The smirk on his face widens as he leans forward to confess his next words.

“I was thinking about how I miss the look on your face whenever I make your pussy sloppy with my cum.”

“Hoseok!”

One moment he’s crooning sweet words of affection, the next he’s spitting out filth. The quick back-and-forth gives you whiplash but you can’t say you dislike it. Unlike the tired and overused clichéd porn scenarios you’ve filmed in the past, Hoseok’s unpredictable behavior has the advantage of keeping you on your toes.

“You missed it too, hm?” He kisses your neck, lips soft and warm. “Kept thinking about how pretty you sound. So, so pretty. Especially when I give you what you want.”

“How would you know what I want?” You turn your head forwards so you can pretend to check up on the cooking pasta. “You were away all day.”

Hoseok’s eyes flash dangerously.

“How would I know?” he parrots back, his tone sweet and mocking. Something about it sends tingles down your spine and has you standing up straighter. “I always know what my pretty wife wants. I know because your body can’t lie to me.”

His hands wander, one of them inching up the material of your frilly apron to reach between your breasts. The movement is slow enough for a camera to zoom in and follow its trail. Hoseok rests his hand on your left breast and gives it a squeeze.

“See?” He repeats the action. “Your heart’s racing like crazy.”

You swallow audibly, finding it hard to come up with a witty riposte.

He continues with a chuckle, “You can’t deny it, can you? Your body’s too honest for your own good. It’s okay. You don’t have to say you missed me. I know.”

His self-assured way of talking makes it easier for you to react. This - the cockiness, the playfulness - you’re familiar with.

You roll your eyes and continue to give the pot in front of you a few additional stirs only for your breath to hitch when he starts to grind his hips against your lower back in time with your stirs.

Fuck is your only coherent thought. He rolls his hips so well it’s impossible not to imagine them doing something else. Your bottom lip grows numb from how hard you bite it.

“Of course I missed you.” You keep your tone as light as possible, determined not to show that his words and actions affect you.

Hoseok’s eyes narrow. He removes his hands from around you but keeps his front pressed against your back. He smiles again, dimples poking through.

“You don’t sound convinced... That’s fine.” It sounds like the beginning of a challenge and you soon learn why.

His nimble fingers play with the knot of your apron and you tense, expecting him to make quick work of your clothes and dive straight into dessert, so to speak. Once again, he surprises you by leaving the apron alone, hands falling to his sides.

His knees hit the floor, the noise startling you. Before you have the chance to truly react, he’s quick to pull your hips backwards until your back is arched. The sudden change in position forces you to adjust your stance so as to keep your balance.

“Hoseok?” you start to question but he cuts you off with a tut and light smack to your ass.

“You just keep your eye on dinner like you were doing before.” His fingers play with the hem of your short dress, stretching the fabric until it bunches up around your hips and leaves your lacy thong on display. “You can do that, right?”

Flustered by the position he’s maneuvered you into, with your hips thrust back obscenely, legs splayed wide and pussy on show, you grip the wooden spoon in your hand with more force than necessary. “It’s just pasta. I can manage.”

Maybe you sound less indifferent than intended because Hoseok seems more amused than offended by your feinted nonchalance. He barks out a laugh, his hands spreading the meat of your cheeks aside to get a better view of your lace-covered bits.

Privately, you wish you could witness his reaction. If there’s anything that turns you on, it’s knowing how much someone else wants you. If feels good to know that you’re wanted and desired. Even if fucking is part of your job description, the act needs to be mutually enjoyable for you to be completely satisfied.

“Sure.” The lilt in his voice is so sweet that it borders on condescending. “While you do that, I think I’ll have my appetizer.”

It’s corny, overused and a little degrading - exactly the type of one-liner you’d ordinarily find in porn - but he gives you no time to call him out for it. As soon as he’s done talking, he wags his tongue out and drags it across the red lace, and the repeated up and down motions quickly dampen your panties.

You notice with great frustration that he takes care to avoid your clit, focusing instead on licking broad stripes over slit and, to your surprise, around your rim.  He doesn’t stop until your underwear drips with the accumulation of your essence and his saliva. The soaked lace rubs against you, the rough texture adding pressure to your most sensitive zones, until you can’t tell if the extra sensation is a blessing or a curse. Your hips jerk forward every so often, unsure if you’d rather lean into or escape his torturous games. Because as amazing as Hoseok’s tongue feels, you know your body well enough to be able to tell that this particular tempo won’t bring you to your peak.

An appetizer, he had called it. That’s exactly what the teasing ministrations feel like - a small sampling before the main course. It’s satisfying and maddening in its own way. Good, but not enough to satisfy your ravenous appetite.

He unearths himself from your dripping core, chin shiny with your juices.

“Keep focus,” he instructs as he slots two fingers inside of you. You’re wet enough that they slide in without too much difficulty, the stretch making your stomach clench. “I thought you said you knew how to cook pasta.”

Against your will, you force yourself to focus on the bubbling water in front of you. As much as you want to push your hips back and ride his fingers until you’re pushed over the edge, you can’t take the humiliation of messing up pasta - even if it is for the sake of a porn scenario.

It’s fucking pasta! You have to be seriously inept to mess up such a simple dish...

But what should have been an effortless task becomes more challenging than expected. Hoseok refuses to go easy on you. If anything, your stubborn silence is all the motivation he needs to thrust his fingers inside of you harder, curving them at an angle that makes your knees wobble. You struggle to keep any incriminating noises at bay but despite your best efforts, several muffled moans slip out one after the other.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the logical side of you points out how dangerous all of this is. What if, during your impending orgasm, your body seizes up and knocks the boiling water everywhere during the process? You quickly switch off the gas stove at the thought. Better be safe than sorry.

Just then, Hoseok adds his tongue to the mix, his fingers relentless in their pursuit of your pleasure. You bite back a curse as the wooden spoon slips from your hold and clatters to the floor.

“Ah fu - Oh God,” you stutter, hands holding on to the edge of the counter for dear life.

You’ve been eaten out God knows how many times in your life, but not many have instinctively known what really gets you going. Hoseok laps at your core, tongue collecting the moisture that seeps through the fabric of your ruined panties, while his fingers scissor you open for his cock.

Your stomach clenches as you imagine how well he’d fill you up. Who the hell would ever want pasta for dinner when Hoseok could feed you his cock instead? Definitely not you, that’s for sure.

It’s easy to picture it. All he’d need to do is stand up, unzip his pants and spear you open with a practiced roll of his hips. Maybe he’d make you toss a salad while he fucks you from behind, slapping your ass whenever you forget to keep stirring the ingredients together. Or perhaps he’d let you ride his dick on the kitchen floor, too impatient to make it to a more comfortable surface.

Your imagination knows no bounds. Once you start, you can’t stop thinking of more lascivious scenarios, each one more daring and debauched than the last. The heat between your legs becomes unbearable and still, you ache for more.

Hoseok pulls away from the apex of your thighs and snorts, the sound pulling you out of your depraved thoughts. The pace of his thrusting slows down without stopping completely, his fingers still pressed deep within you. Your arms tremble as they try to keep you upright, knuckles white from the strength of your grip around the counter’s edge. You exhale shakily.

A whine works its way into your voice. “Why - why’d you stop?”

Ignoring your protests, he pops his fingers out of you and indulges in one last lick of your swollen pussy, before gathering to his feet. He rolls down your dress back over your bum and peers over your shoulder, acting as nothing had ever happened.

“Thought you said you’d take care of dinner, hm?” Hoseok has the gall to hum in disappointment.

Your mouth opens in outrage. “You!”

Hoseok pouts. “I thought we said you wouldn’t blame me for any soggy pasta.”

“You’re impossible,” you say without any real heat to your words.

“But you love me that way.”

He smiles as he leans in to kiss you, lips sticky and warm. You follow the pace he sets as best you can, unaccustomed to the way he takes his time - like you’re a delicacy that demands to be savored and not gulped down. On-screen kisses are usually rushed, messy, with too much tongue. They’re a scripted affair, more for show than out of real affection. When men tuck back your hair behind your ear or palm your cheek, it’s only to better angle your face for the camera.

There is something intimate about the way he holds you, the way he looks at you. Inwardly, you can't help but admire his acting skills. There’s something tender about the way he handles you that’s distinctly different from any of your previous onscreen partners. Sure, you’ve shot vanilla sex scenes before, but never of this variety. None of the male actors’ performances have made you wish, even fleetingly, foolishly, that the scene was real.

Hoseok pulls up for air before your mind can wander off completely, his panting mouth a hairsbreadth away. Lips touching but not quite.

Blearily, you blink your eyes open. You’re close enough that your noses brush against one another, your breaths mingling together. Hoseok’s eyes remain closed throughout, like he doesn’t want the moment to end. He looks so content that you can’t bring yourself to do anything else but melt further into his embrace, gaze drinking in the minute details of his face - like the tiny moles dotting his cheekbone and upper lip and the pretty curve of his eyes.

“And cut!”

You both jump away from each other, startled. For a second there, the storyline you’d been instructed to follow had slipped from your mind. You’re unsure if the lapse in judgement is good or bad but you don’t let the question linger in your thoughts. You’ll have plenty of time to dissect your performance at a later time.

“Good, good. That wasn’t what I was expecting but I don’t think anyone has any objections?” Director Ryu claps his hands. “Fifteen minute break sound good everyone? Then we’ll relocate to the bedroom to shoot the next part.”

There’s a general hum of agreement from the crew members. Chairs and various other equipment scrape the floor as the personnel prepare to migrate to the other room for filming. Jimin’s gaze meets yours briefly but all he can do is smile weakly in your direction before he’s ordered to help push some of the equipment down the hall.

Someone comes up to you with a bottle of water while another steps closer to blot the beads of sweat near your hairline and reapply a layer of lipstick. The make-up artist knits her brows in concentration until she’s satisfied with the touch-ups. She then moves on to Hoseok, make-up palette and brush at the ready, and grumbles loudly about the sticky residue covering his face. You hear Hoseok bellow a laugh, the sound so infectious that even the make-up artist joins in. 

You sip your water through a straw, careful not to smudge your freshly applied lipstick, and check your phone for any missed messages.

“Was all of that okay?”

“Hm?” You look up and are surprised to see Hoseok stare at you expectantly. “I, uh, know some girls aren’t into ass play. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked before jumping the gun but I figured - since you said there wasn’t anything major you were adverse to filming...”

His voice trails off.

“I liked it.” The admission is an easy one. “It did take me by surprise, but - I don’t have any complaints.”

“Ah, really?” Hoseok’s mouth corners upturn in relief. “That’s good to know. I was thinking - for the next scene - what if - I mean, are you okay with calling me Daddy?”

You tilt your head as you mull over the proposition.

“Daddy?”

“It’s not - you don’t have to. But listening to Director Ryu go on earlier made me think of something we could do. I think it fits well with the general idea. What do you think?”

“I’m fine with it.” Using the title doesn’t make you squeamish so you shrug in compliance. It’s not the first you’ve had to incorporate a daddy kink into the scene and it likely won’t be the last. You don’t see why you wouldn’t or shouldn’t do it with Hoseok. “I’ll follow your lead like I’ve been doing.”

It’s only as you’re following him towards the bedroom that you recall that you’ve yet to get to the crux of the scene - the damned impregnation kink. Even though you’re considerably less nervous than you’d been an hour or two ago, the thought of begging someone you barely know for something so intimate makes your stomach flip-flop. You don’t even have unprotected sex with Jimin and he’s your boyfriend.

Speaking of Jimin, you try to sneak in a peck or two before filming but Director Ryu intercepts you before you can make a beeline to where Jimin’s stationed behind a camera.

“How are you feeling?” The overhead light reflects off his round glasses and makes it impossible to hold eye contact unless you want to become semi-permanently blind.

“Good---”

“Wonderful. Well, we’ve positioned cameras here, here, and over there. There’ll be another camera man who’ll film with a handheld camera for closeups. Just keep that in mind. I know we’re giving you free-range to do what you feel is best and most natural but I’d hate to ask you to re-shoot because the camera couldn’t capture the both of you properly.”

You nod and he continues, “Also - please remember that you’re acting as a horny young married couple. I remember at that age I was up for anything, you get what I’m saying? People think just because you put a ring on your finger the sex automatically becomes stale. Fuck that. Show people married couples are freaks in the sheet.”

“Uh... Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He claps a hand over your shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

Freaks in the sheet? What did he expect you to do? Try out all the sex positions in the Kama Sutra?

“What did he want now?” Hoseok leans over to whisper once you’re seated comfortably on the bed. You’re hoping the mics don’t pick up the conversation but would rather not take the risk of being overheard bad-mouthing the director.

Shrugging, you say, “Just that this scene should be spicier.”

Hoseok raises his brow, lips quirking into a smirk. “That so?”

The same cockiness you’d caught a glimpse of during your escapade in the kitchen is back and the memory you associate it with makes the back of your neck prickle with heat. You clear your throat and avert your eyes.

Thankfully Director Ryu interrupts before Hoseok has the chance to fluster you further. You follow each of the director’s voiced directives until you’re comfortably seated on Hoseok’s lap, dress hitched around your waist because of how far your knees are spread on either side of Hoseok’s thighs. There’s a quick, last minute adjustment as Director Ryu ensures that the camera in the left corner picks up on everything it’s supposed to.

Satisfied, he lets you take the reins from there, then gives the cameras the signal to begin rolling.

You don’t waste a moment, taking his earlier commentary to heart. It’s your turn to pepper kisses all over Hoseok’s golden skin, leaving faint traces of rouge behind like an artist signing their own painting. You stop a few times to admire your work. Lip prints and lavender bite marks color his skin and the sight awakens a possessive streak you didn’t know you had.

Your enthusiasm to mark him up gets a little out of hand.

"Mhm." Hoseok grunts when you lick over a sensitive spot under his jaw. "Slow down, princess. There's no rush. We have all night."

He cups his chin between his hands so you have no choice but to relent and direct your gaze up at him. You’re pleased to see that he’s not completely indifferent to your touch; despite his instructions to take it slow, the smoldering look in his eyes tell a different story.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, the pink flesh no doubt swollen. You take the digit in your mouth, unprompted, and run your tongue against its underside, wishing that his cock could fill your mouth instead.

Hoseok makes a noise low in his throat, not quite a growl but close.

"And I intend to take my time with you." The look he levels you with promises a night full of mind-numbing pleasure. Ribbons of heat curl around the base of your spine. "Want to make you feel good."

"You do," you agree, words muffled around the thumb you refuse to let go of.

You take a hold of his wrist and free your mouth, only to quickly replace it with his forefinger and middle finger. The stretch of two digits makes you moan lewdly.

Hoseok’s eyes darken. He lets you play for a few more seconds before he takes back control, his fingers pushing deeper into your mouth until they hit the back of your throat. You swallow down a gag, but his fingers don’t let you rest for long. He drags them over the flat of your tongue, watching as spit dribbles down past the sides of your mouth, and repeats the motion, pumping into your mouth steadily like he would a cock.

As nice as it feels to be filled with his fingers, whether in your cunt or mouth, you’re ready for more. Subconsciously, your hips grind down in his lap, shifting this way and that until you’re perfectly seated over his hardened length.

Drool is pushed out of your mouth as Hoseok squeezes a third fingers in with the other two. You suck harder, hoping that all your efforts will spur Hoseok into finally fucking you. The knowledge that he has to, at one point or another, keeps you from whining and begging pathetically for his cock. You can exercise patience if you put your mind to it; you’re sure of it. 

Your on-screen husband decides to test that resolve.

His other hand starts to wander south, his fingers toying with the short hem of your dress that’s been rucked up even higher with all your rocking and grinding. The movement of your hips slow, your brain unable to keep up with the stimuli coming in all directions.

A crack resounds in the room, the sharp sound startling you more than the sting that accompanies it. Hoseok’s palm rubs over the heated area, only inflaming it further.

“And who told you you could stop?”

The second slap is notably harsher than the first, and your hips automatically lurch forward hoping perhaps to lessen the impact of the sting.

You know he doesn’t expect a verbal answer; his second hand keeps your mouth plugged up, making any attempt at talking unintelligible. It doesn’t stop you from trying, only because you know the muffled protest are greatly appreciated amongst viewers. And if the way Hoseok’s digs his fingers into your smarting ass cheek is any indicator, you’re confident that he also enjoys your squirming and messy display.

“Keep moving, princess. I need both your holes nice and wet.”

The way his voice dips an octave makes your stomach twist in arousal. You long to tell him that you’re sufficiently wet enough for him to slide his cock inside right away but all you manage are pitiful garbled words.

He raises an eyebrow at your delayed response and your hips move before he can smack the globes of your ass for a third time. You have an inkling he’ll only hit harder with the intention of leaving marks of his own all over your skin.

It’s a careful balancing act, but you figure it out as you go. Bounce too fast and the fingers in your mouth will make you gag. Move too slowly for his liking and he won’t hesitate to add to the collection of handprints on your ass.

You lose track of how long he makes you play this game. Your mind focuses on sucking while keeping your jaw slack enough to accomadate the width of three digits. Drool pools down your chin, and you’re certain whatever the make-up artist had done to your lips is now ruined. Worse off are your panties. At the stage they’re at now, you’ll have no choice but to throw them out. Hoseok’s pants might need be as unsalveagable as your thong, you think inwardly, judging by the large, dark wet spot you’re currently sitting on.

“Mmh, good girl.” 

He gently slides his fingers out, strings of saliva attached. He hums in satisfaction at the lewd sight and rubs his fingers across your swollen lips and shiny chin, spreading the fluids and what’s left of your lipstick over your mouth. You swallow, mouth sore from being used roughly for so long.

“This hole is sufficiently wet, I think,” he appraises, eyelashes fluttering before he casts a long look down your body until it reaches where you’re seated on his clothed erection. “Let’s check this one too.”

The way he smirks at you but makes no move to check himself lets you know that he expects you to do the work.

You let your hands trail down your body slowly, cupping your breasts as you do, enjoying his hooded gaze and the way his cock twitches beneath you a bit too much. When you reach the hem of your dress, you lift your hips up to pull the fabric up to your navel giving an unobstructed view of your lace-covered pussy.

Hoseok stare intensifies but you don’t feel any embarrassment from the scrutiny. “Well you certainly look ripe.”

His fingers toy with the delicate string of lace around your hips. He lets the material snap against your skin a few times before he grows bored or impatient with his own game and gives the lace a harsh yank. It tears easily and the leftover scraps fall into his lap.

“... But just to be sure -” His hands grip your waist and manhandle you onto your hands and knees. Your head spins from how suddenly he’s moved you around to his liking that your arms give out and you fall face first into the clean smelling bed sheets. “Gotta give my favorite hole of yours a better look.”

His hands hoist your hips at a higher angle so that your soaked center is visible for the cameras to pan onto. Hoseok slides in two fingers easily, then a third. Loud, obscene noises echo in the otherwise quiet room, noises that are quickly joined by your unabashed moans of pleasure.

Your core is on fire. Hoseok’s fingers are just as good as you remember them to be. No, better. The three fingers pump into you in measured strokes, the drag slow enough to keep you dangling over the edge without pushing you over.

Hoseok spanks your ass, hissing between his teeth as you clench around his fingers, no doubt imagining your inner walls hugging his cock instead. 

“Christ. You’re always such a soft, wet little thing down here,” he croons in dulcet tones. “I could play with you all day.”

You thrust your hips back, shameless.

“Please! Please Daddy, I’ll be so good, I just - please - I nuh, need it. Need your cock fucking me full. I’ll take it so good, you know I will. Want you to - please! Daddy, I need your cum.”

“Shit.”

He fumbles in his haste to flip you onto your back. He crawls over your body, and you watch fascinated as he dives down to kiss you like a man starved. He looks almost feral, pupils so dilated the brown of his eyes is almost gone.

Heat blooms in your stomach as he kisses you deeply. The press of his lips against yours renders you a little less coherent as time ticks on, every brush of his tongue making you a little more dizzy with want.

Everything about him burns. It feels like being kissed by the sun itself. Every caress, every lick and nip leaves you feverish all over, like your drunk off his touch.

"Let me," he says, pinching the zipper of your dress between his thumb and index finger.

You wrap your hand around his and guide his movements. His gaze never leaves yours and it makes shivers run down your back. Even though you're the one controlling his movements for the time being, the look in his eyes makes it abundantly clear that the control you wield is only temporary.

When your dress finally falls open, you try not to preen too much under the reverent look that falls over Hoseok’s face. Your back arches a little off the bed, pert breasts thrust towards him - an appealing offer he doesn’t dare refuse.

Hoseok circles a thumb around your nipple, rubbing and flicking until it hardens into a stiff peak.

You wonder, distantly, how this looks like from the outside looking in. The man in front of you is a stranger in all senses of the word. Yet the way he touches you - like there are years of built-up affection behind every gesture - makes you second guess everything you know.

"Fuckin' love your tits.” He sighs, awe reflected in the dark of his eyes. "Love playing with them. Love how wet it gets you, how hungry your little pussy gets."

"Please,” you mewl, his words igniting a new wave of heat. It rolls over your body, leaving no extremity untouched. You burn from the inside out with raw desire.

You squeeze your own breasts in a bid to get him to touch you more. Hoseok merely chuckles, finding your desperation entertaining. One of his hands reach down between you to play with the wetness that clings to your core like a second skin and it takes everything inside of you not to rub yourself against him like a bitch in heat.

"What is it, princess?" His lips quirk into a smirk like he already knows the answer. "You're looking quite needy. How did you manage to hold it in all this time?"

“Stop teasing,” you growl, the lack of friction making you irritable. "I need your cock. And why - why do you have so many fucking clothes on?”

He chuckles, chest vibrating in amusement.

“Take them off,” you insist. Then, you grudgingly tack on a “Please” for good measure.

As hot as Hoseok looks like in his “work clothes”, he looks infinitely better naked, you decide as he chucks off his button-down shirt and gets started on his leather belt. With each new piece of clothing that gets discarded, the anticipation building inside of you skyrockets.

You take a moment to soak in his lithe figure, not bothering to hide how affected you are by the view. He’s nicely sculpted; you can tell right away that he takes care of himself. Swimming or dancing maybe? You hesitate between the two. His muscles are lean, nothing like the bulging biceps and thick forearms typical of the stereotypical gym rat.

Hoseok’s dick is, unsurprisingly, as pretty as the rest of him. It’s long and curved, a prominent vein running along its underside. The thatch of pubic hair that rests above his dick is neatly trimmed, the dark hair contrasting with the tan skin of his abdomen and the rosy hue of his erect length. Your eyes swoop down his thighs, licking your lips unwittingly at the alluring sight presented to you.

“Daddy,” you say, the whine in your voice unmistakable. “Want your cock.”

For a brief moment you’re tricked into believing he’s given in to your demand, but find yourself disappointed when he contents himself with rubbing his hardened member between your thighs, the glide slippery thanks to the copious amount of your essence that’s pooled there.

“Like this?” Hoseok asks, tone too sweet to be anything but mocking. The head of his cock bumps into your swollen bundle of nerves one, two, three times. You keen, your hips canting upwards in a bid to get more friction. “Want to rut against me until you get nice and creamy?”

He uses his right hand to spread your slick lower lips so that he can nestle his cock snuggly between them. He rolls his hips, the undulations fluid and dirty, and smirks at how you moan brokenly beneath him.

Your stomach clenches. “Need it in me."

"You'll get it," he promises after kissing you sloppily, lips sucking on your tongue. His breath is ragged but his voice steady, firm. "I'll give you everything you need. Make you cum so many times you know who owns this sweet pussy."

He speaks so surely, carries himself with so much confidence, that in the moment you can't help but believe him. The line between staged and reality blurs and you find yourself nodding eagerly, begging him as best you can to give you what you want.

The first tentative push of his dick wipes you clean of coherency. He slowly eases himself into you, reaching forward to lace his fingers with yours. It’s - more intimate than you expected. He squeezes your hand tightly in his when he finally manages to bury his entire length inside of you.

“Perfect.” He kisses the side of your temple before drawing back, his hard cock dragging deliciously against you. With a fluid hip thrust, he slides back in and you feel the stretch moreso this time around. The curvature of his cock has him pressing up against your walls in a way that robs you of breath.

"Daddy! Hh - ah, oh God. You're too b-big."

"Mhm, that's right. Daddy's fat cock is splitting you open. I'll plug you up with it later so none of my cum will leak out."

Every time he pulls back, your pussy clamps down tightly around him, unwilling to be empty even for a second.

Hoseok’s nostrils flare in arousal. He grabs your left tit and squeezes, using it as a hold to better fuck into you. With his body hovering above yours, his hand staking claim of your breast, and his cock drilling into you, you have nowhere to go. Pinned to the bed and unable to do anything but take everything he delivers, you wrap your legs around his waist and moan.

"Daddy's gonna fuck some babies into you,” he rasps, his eyes dark pools of lust. "Gonna breed your sweet pussy over and over. You'll be so full of my cum that you'll be pregnant with my babies for sure."

“Oh fuck. Yes, yes - oh my nhhg.” You sob as Hoseok drives his cock into you with more force. While the piston of his hips isn’t rushed, he pulls out to the tip only to slam back in to the hilt every time. The stretch burns in a good way and the sound of your moans are rivaled only by the wet, obscene sounds from your coupling.

"Fuck. Your cunt just - shit." He cracks down a hand against your ass and you shriek, not expecting it. "You're so tight, holy shit."

"Want it. Want you to fuck me good."

"I will," he says lowly, the promise reverberating deep in his chest. "I'll fuck you until you're begging me to stop. Fill you up so much, you'll be bloated with it."

And it should freak you out, the imagery he paints with his words, but the thought of laying there and him fucking you so well that you won't be able to feel your legs has you gushing out more wetness.

"Mmmh.” Maybe he can feel how soaked you are because he comments, “This is my favorite hole of yours, princess. Always so fuckin' drenched. I bet we’ll have to throw out the sheets again." He chuckles. "You must be hungry for it, right? I made you wait so long. No wonder your pussy is clenching like that. It needs a big, fat cock to milk dry."

“I missed it,” you cry, body skidding a little higher up the duvet each time he fucks into you. Your eyelashes flutter, lids heavy. It’s hard to concentrate, let alone form words, when your brain feels like complete mush. “I - I need your cum. Daddy, please.”

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I've got you. Daddy will feed your cute pussy his cock."

"Th-thank you, Daddy."

"Love you," he murmurs. It’s a quiet confession, lost somewhere in between the mattress creaks, the loud slaps of Hoseok’s hips slamming against yours, and the string of whimpers and groans pulled from your throat. It’s quiet but you hear it.

One of your hands reach up to pull him down by the neck so that your lips meet. He kisses you open-mouthed. It’s a filthy kiss, one that makes you moan into his mouth. You’re certain that if you had been standing your knees would have wobbled.

When you let up for air, Hoseok’s staring you down, his red-bitten lips plump and shiny.

"Love this pussy. So sweet and wet for me. Always for fucking swollen, like it's waiting to get a pounding. Love that. Love how eager you are to be bred by my thick cock."

The impregnation kink is - a bit much. You've never really imagined having kids, at least not anytime soon. You can’t even keep your plants alive for fuck’s sake.

But the way he suggests it is nothing like what you had imagined. His suggestions are - vulgar and primal. Like the urge to fuck you full of his cum is biological and he can’t smother it.

For a moment, you let yourself entertain the thought of being his breeding bitch - of laying on your back and letting him fuck load after load of cum inside you until your pussy physically can't accommodate any more. Of not having any other worries or thoughts but take his cock every moment of the day.

"You just got tighter.” He curses under his breath, voice thick with arousal.  "Such a warm little hole. Taking everything I give it. You'd take anything if it meant getting bred by me, right?"

“Yes, yes,” you chant, pleasure coiling inside of you. “Give me more! I need it."

"Shit. You can't handle more, princess," he tries to reason. "Daddy needs to be gentle with you. Your hole is so small, it'll hurt if I go harder."

"Daddy promised to fuck me.” You whine, uncaring if you sound too bratty and demanding. "B- Breed my hole. It's yours. Puh-please use me."

"God." Hoseok groans, his features twisting in what looks to be pain or pleasure. With tremendous effort he pulls himself out of you and your eyes widen in panic.

“What? Daddy why? I thought—”

He shushes you, reaching somewhere overhead to grab a fluffy pillow. "Just wait a sec, okay? There you go.”

The pillow is placed underneath your hips, keeping them elevated. When Hoseok takes his glistening cock in hand and directs it back in, you both moan in unison.

"Oh fuck, I’m gonna, ah,” you gasp as your mind goes blank with pleasure. The new angle is heaven on earth. It’s almost too much, too quick, but Hoseok’s firm grip on your hips prevents you from alleviating the pressure.

"Take it." He grunts, brows knit together. Every powerful snap of his hips makes your breasts bounce, your breath hitch. Without his hands keeping you pinned down, your head would have collided with the headboard by now. "Be a good princess and take your fucking."

He gains momentum, the new angle facilitating the slide of his cock. He drags the flat of his palm down your thigh and takes a hold of your knee before hoisting it up over your shoulder. The stretch burns the back of your calves but you’re so fucked out, you can’t even find the words to complain.

When you glance up, it’s to fall upon the sight of Hoseok brushing his sweaty fringe out of his face. His cheeks are flushed pink, his skin dewy from the film of perspiration wrapped around his body. Beads of sweat trickle down his heaving chest but he chooses to forgo a quick break. On the contrary, he pushes in deeper like he’s determined to carve out a permanent space for his cock.

"Just gonna keep you here,” he huffs, his eyes the shade of cloudless night sky. “Everyday I'll fuck my cum back inside of you so that you'll always stay full. Want to fuck you forever. Don't want this to end."

"Want it too," you sob, orgasm hovering just on the periphery. "Want you to keep me full forever. Ugh - oh fuck! Hoseok- I'm—"

"You gonna cum around my cock, princess?" He angles his hips downwards, relishing in the wanton cry it elicits. "Gonna give me everything?"

"I'm yours," you profess, jaw slack with pleasure.

It doesn’t take much more for the orgasm to crash over you, Hoseok fucks you through it, groaning as your inner walls spasm around him. He breathes out curses, lip drawn tight between his lips, and doesn’t wait for the last waves of your orgasm to abate to chase after his own end.

In the throes of your pleasure, it doesn’t register then that Hoseok has been holding back all this time. If you thought he had been fucking you hard before, it’s nothing compared to now. He growls and bends forward, forcing your leg to stretch even more, and pushes in and out of you at a pace that makes you scream.

You don’t even have time to come down from your first high that you’re already thrown towards your second. Hoseok plugs your mouth up using two digits, his fingers a firm pressure against your tongue. Your eyes roll back, too overwhelmed from the feeling of being stuffed on both ends.

“God, I could fuck your holes all fucking day.” His rhythm begins to falter as the pressure inside of him grows, his movements frantic and less controlled than they’ve ever been. “How about that? I’ll fuck my princess’ mouth properly next time, stretch it out nicely. Then you’ll let me have your ass, hm?”

Shit, shit, you whimper around his fingers, spit bubbling down the sides on your mouth. It’s scary knowing you have no way to stop the oncoming destruction.

“Yeah, I can tell you love that. You’re gonna cream my dick again, aren’t you?” You can’t tell if the sound he makes is a laugh or a grunt. All you know is that you feel like you’re about to burst. “C’mon, be a good girl and milk my cum out. You better get every last drop.”

There’s an underlying threat in his command. You do your best to obey his words, not wanting to disappoint.

Hoseok pushes his cock in as deep as it can go and grinds his hips into yours. His cock reaches so deep that you swear he might hit your cervix. And considering the nature of the scene you’re portraying, maybe that’s what he intends.

He swipes his fingers through the mess of your cunt, zeroing in on your sensitive clit. He swirls some of your fluids over it before giving it a sharp pinch that makes you cry out. Your hips fly off the pillow but Hoseok is quick to pin you back down. The never-ending drag of his cock along your walls paired with the rough ministrations to your clit is all you need for the pressure inside you to snap.

Above you, Hoseok moans, low and throaty, as he finally dumps rope after rope of warm cum inside of you. He throws his head back, exposing the collar of purplish bruises you sucked onto his skin earlier. Something about the view satisfies you immensely - not that you’d dare voice these thoughts out loud.

Hoseok’s strength gives out and he sags onto your body, his breath warm against your skin. He feels hot, like a furnace, but strangely it’s not uncomfortable. It’s almost like having a personal heating pad; the soreness of your muscles melts away with each passing moment.

Much to your displeasure, your post-coital bliss doesn’t last forever. He's given the signal to pull out and obeys, careful to keep your hips propped up so that his load of cum won’t slosh out. He’s still got a role to play, after all, and the end goal is to get you pregnant.

A cameraman walks forward to zoom in on your swollen and used pussy - physical proof of your exploits. The haze lifts. You become more aware of the people standing on the outskirts of your vision, lighting or sound equipment in hand.

“And that’s a wrap!” Director Ryu calls, his cheeks stretched to accommodate the width of his grin. “Good job everybody!”

You breathe out a sigh, glad your day is finally over. Seokjin walks up to you with a robe for you to throw on and you nod in thanks, slipping the satin gown over your sweaty body.

Around you, the staff start milling about, putting the equipment away and gathering their belongings. You pay them no heed, your attention focused on getting changing into showering and changing into comfortable clothes. You’re in the middle of taming your messy hair when your stomach erupts into growls, reminding you of your hungry state. What you’d do for a big slice of piz—

You remember your date with Jimin and speed up, not wanting to make him wait around for you any longer. It’s not hard to spot him - he’s waiting outside of your dressing room, can of coke in hand.

Something about his smile feels off.

Maybe it’s the way his eye corners don’t crease or the slight strain the curve of his mouth that betray him.

Your expression falls. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing - it’s nothing, don’t worry,” he says after a short, tense moment of silence. The look on your face must have reflected your feelings of doubt because he proceeds by reaching out and pulling you tight against him. Pressed up against his shirt, you can smell the faintest trace of the fabric softener he uses and its scent, familiar and sweet, mollifies you somewhat. “You did amazing today, baby. As usual.”

The compliment you’ve been waiting for makes the sides of your lips rise automatically. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Almost too well.” He hums, one of his hands stroking the back of your head.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit, “ you admit. “The results wouldn’t have been half as good if Hoseok hadn’t been my partner. He’s new in the game but he doesn’t act like it, does he?”

“He doesn’t, no.” Jimin agrees. “He’s... he’s something, alright.”

Your grin widens. All your worrying had been for nothing, in the end. The shoot had gone without a hitch, all of the set members coming up to you with praises of a job well done. You can’t recall the last time any of your performances had elicited such a response post-filming. Even Director Ryu looks particularly pleased, a permanent grin etched onto his features as he reviews the tapes. The knowledge that you’ve done well fills you with a pleasant giddiness that warms your insides and makes your cheeks hurt from how wide your smile stretches.

“Oh good, you’re still here.” Hoseok beams. A damp towel hangs around his neck and the ends of his hair are wet like he’s just gone and doused his head under the bathroom faucet. “I was worried you had left. I just - thanks for earlier. I had a lot of fun! If the chance presents itself, I hope we can work together again.”

“Thank you.” You want to praise him too, know that his performance deserves it, but your next words are cut off before they have the chance to form. Jimin steps closer to you, his grip on your hip tightening suddenly.

When you glance up to check on your boyfriend, he’s sporting a serious expression that you’ve rarely seen before. He doesn’t look angry, but it’s clear as day that he isn’t too pleased with the present situation. His face is closed off, cold, unwelcoming - so drastically different from the usual cherubic sweetness you’re accustomed to seeing.

You’re at a loss for words, unsure of who to address first. What’s going on?

Hoseok senses the sudden change in atmosphere and chooses to tactfully retreat.

“Good work, man.” He nods at Jimin and then shoots you a wave. “See you around sometime, ______ !”

Your eyes follow his exit before you turn to face Jimin again, hoping the smile on your face masks the worry you feel bubbling on the inside.

“Jimin what - I mean, are you sure you're okay?”

Jimin returns a strained smile of his own. “I’m fine.”

Your gaze lands on his right hand that’s still squeezing your waist. It borders on uncomfortable but you try not to let it show. You must not do a very good job at schooling your features because Jimin quickly apologizes for his behavior.

“Sorry.” Jimin lets you go once he notices your discomfort. “I just - I don’t know. You’re right, I’m not acting like myself. I think...seeing you say that stuff and act that way just - I’m not sure why, I guess - Since usually the sex isn’t like that, it caught me off guard.”

“You didn’t like that I acted like I was in love with him.”

“Would anyone?” he shoots back, smile sardonic. “It just looked so convincing in the moment. I guess it got me worked up.”

Sure, Hoseok is hot. If you had to work with him again, you would in a heartbeat. It’s not often you land a colleague you’re so sexually compatible with, who also happens to be so well-mannered and good-looking. It’s like hitting the jackpot, really.

But - just because you’d fuck him again for professional reasons, doesn’t mean that you’re interested in him beyond that.

“Jimin. I don’t want to be with anybody else but you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” The muscles in his face relax. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

.

.

It’s not until later, as he fucks you uncharacteristically hard in the backseat of his car parked in the back lot of the film studio, that you begin to wonder if things really are as idyllic as you believe them to be.

.

.

.

[iwantitiwriteit]

Love Lockdown - Part 2

Big Girl With a Brave Face

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Summary: You brace yourself for your FaceTime with Chris.

Warnings: Angst, Pandemic backdrop, Profanity

Notes: More heart strumming feels! Read the previous part! Gonna try and put these up on Monday’s starting next week 8/10, along with In My Feelings Monday™, when my asks will be open for all your romantic musings! Let’s get sweet and sappy y’all! I know you wanna 🥰 

The sun shines down, a crisp wind whisking by you every so often; applause for your hard work in the garden. You found a circadian rhythm. Grasp, pull, dump. Grasp, pull, dump. It afforded you an opportunity to get lost in thought… and memory. 

You just don’t get it, do you?

Baby, I want to!

Why didn’t you say anything?

Would it have mattered?

I think we can both agree we need the space…

We need to talk…

I love you.

I love you too.

“Are you okay Aunty?” Iris’ innocent voice drifts into your trance but doesn’t break it completely.

You absentmindedly respond. “Uh huh. Why do you ask?”

“Probably ‘cos you're pulling at those weeds so ferociously I think you might’ve got a few good plants,” Ines answers for her younger sister, the teenage ‘tude snapping you to reality.

You assess your handiwork and sure enough, in your pile of weeds, some good plants lie there with them, undeservedly plucked from the earth. “Oh, my bad,” you sheepishly apologize.

“It’s okay. The only difference between a weed and a flower is judgment. Here,” Ines shuffles over to your spot. 

“Ines, you’re wise beyond your years, you know that?” You stand up, placing your palms on your lower back, arching and stretching in a moment of respite. Looking over your nieces tending to the greenery you botched, their youthful vigor bring a genuine smile to your face. Those have been few and far in between these days. 

“I know, right? Could you tell my mom for me?” she kids, making you laugh. “It couldn’t have been that long since it was you and Mama doing this,” Ines smirks at you briefly before refocusing on rerooting.

You chuckle, “Ha! Feels like a lifetime ago. But, yeah, it really hasn’t been that long. Guess I just kinda lost touch.”

“Do you miss it? Do you miss being here?” Iris asks. 

“Umm… honestly?” The both of them look up at you, eyes wide and expectant. “I thought I didn’t. L.A. can be blinding in that way. But now that I’m here, I feel a little more… myself. Not to mention that I’ve missed you girls soo much! C’mere!”

A niece under each arm, hugging your middle tightly, you can feel how much they’ve missed you as well. You want to be a better aunt to them. Your love for your family is as expansive as the family farm you marvel at in front of you. Acres of green going beyond the quaint garden near the house, with the barn just behind the rustic office and rec building where the farmers are currently gathered for lunch just a few feet away. But your feelings were much like half your sister’s employees as of late; they didn’t show, especially in crisis.

Through one of the windows, you catch sight of a familiar profile; hand to his temple pressing deep into his smooth, mahogany skin, thick, dark brows knitted together in concentration, plump lips puckered as he writes furiously, occasionally taking a bite of his sandwich. He must feel your eyes because he looks up to meet them, breaking focus from his working lunch. The hand that was to his temple is now raised for a tentative wave, just as the corner of his mouth is raised for a beautiful, sweet smile. 

Your shoulders tense, your wave is curt, and your smile is barely there. You avert your eyes not wanting to see the effect of your abrupt actions. 

“I know Keith is glad you’re back, too.” You look down to see Iris looking up at you, her 10 year old face contorted into her best suggestive look. 

Ines rolls her eyes at her sister’s antics, “Oh, stop it! She’s already got the most perfect, dreamy boyfriend, remember?”

“Well, I’ve never met him. Have you? How do we know if he’s even real?”

“She’s got a point. Why haven’t we met him yet?”

“If he thinks he's too good to come down south, meet your family, let me tell you something Aunty, that’s not the kind of man you should be with.”

“I don’t think Aunty had ‘take dating advice from a child’ on her quarantine to-do list. Maybe he’s just busy; he is a movie star— correction— a superhero! Superhero equals stable income, stable income means husband material. Simple math.”

“Well, Keith has a stable and would never be too busy for her!”

“Keith runs a stable… a horse stable. Not exactly a selling point, right Aunty?”

“Aunty, tell her she’s wrong!”

The girls get to bickering and you wipe your forehead, not too sure if it’s from the heat or the interrogation you’re enduring. You check your watch. 1:39 pm.

“Shit!” Your exclamation silences your nieces as they whip their heads towards you. “Sorry ladies,” you offer an apologetic smile for the obscenity. “I, uh, gotta get ready for a call. Let’s turn it in early, yeah?” They race in the house without a second thought, and you trail behind them.

You remove your shoes in the mud room, then stalk down the hall toward the main part of the house. You wave to your sister as you pass her home office where she’s pacing, busy on the phone, swamped in paperwork. She waves you over with a confused face and shrugs as she sees her girls buzzing around.

You go to lean in the door jamb of her office as she asks, “What brings y’all inside so early? Wasn’t expecting you to be back in for another couple hours.”

“I have that FaceTime call at 2 I gotta get ready for, remember?”

“Right, right… remind me again. It’s for a writing gig?” she asks, sifting through her mountain of papers, as distracted as she was this morning when you told her your afternoon plans.

“Uh, no. It’s um, with… Chris,” your voice trails off with each word.

Your sister whips her head around, interest now piqued. “Really? That’s good, right?”

You shrug and sigh, indifference in your expression, “It’s, y'know… whatever, Mina.”

Wilhelmina furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Before you could contemplate an excuse, she puts a finger up to you, “Yes, thank you, I’m trying to get in touch with…” she answers to the person on the other line.

Your watch buzzes with your 15 minute reminder for your FaceTime with Chris. “I gotta go,” you tell your sister, before turning to head upstairs. The ascension to the second level feels like a death march, the impending doom of your relationship finally setting in. Each step feels increasingly weighted. Once at the top of the staircase, you pinch the bridge of your nose as if that will alleviate your anxieties. 

“Let’s get you ready,” Wilhelmina’s maternal voice drifts to you as she comes up the stairs, melting your nerves a little. She shoots you a pity smile before ushering you into your guest room, where you make a B-line for the bathroom.

You take your time and delicately wash away the grime and sweat from your face. It’s like a Neutrogena commercial, the way you come up from the sink, staring yourself in the mirror. You take note of the creases in your forehead caused by your tense brows, the pain in your eyes, your overall sullen expression. And this feeling. This feeling is like being suspended mid-air, knowing the dreadful drop was any minute now.

You know very well who is in control of the drop. You just don’t know when you gave up that control to him. The only thing you can do now is go with grace. In an effort to have some sense of control, you did what anyone in your situation would do: You turned to Google.

“what to do when your boyfriend is about to break up with you” is what you typed into the search engine this morning. You felt like a teenager. Young and dumb. Like you’d never been in a relationship before. Like you’d never been broken up with before. None of this is new. And yet, it is. You hadn’t been here before. You hadn’t known this feeling before.

The feeling of knowing the one to make the dreadful drop happen is the same one that you love more than you knew was even possible, and damn did it hurt like hell. But could it have hurt more than knowing you’re the one that brought him to this point? Especially when you know these deep feelings are requited? The love is requited.

Who knows. You just file these feelings away for later in the hopes that it’ll inspire your pen. Right now it’s time to put on a brave face. You’ve gotten so good at it.

“So, what brought this on?” Wilhelmina inquiries after a few minutes of you lollygagging in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Oh, umm… well, he called last night. It was the first time we talked since—”

“You got here.” 

“Yeah, but who’s counting,” your deadpan earns you a disapproving look from your sister. You’ve learned to ignore it. You check the time. 5 til. “Ugh, I don’t have time to pretty myself up. Breakups are ugly anyways; guess I’ll have to be, too,” you joke, leaving Whilelmina bewildered.

“Wait, what? You’re dumping him? I know it’s tough, trust me, I get it, but—”

“No... he’s gonna dump me,” you correct her.

“What would make you think that?”

“I don’t know, maybe cos he said ‘we need to talk… for real’,” you mock his deep voice; it’s how you read his text last night in your head, “and we all know what that means…”

“Hold up, it doesn’t necessarily mean that!”

“C’mon Mina! It’s textbook breakup prep!”

“Maybe for a teenager, but he’s a grown ass man. If he says he wants to talk, he probably just wants to talk.”

“Yeah, about dumping you…” Ines mumbles under her breath from the doorway. Wilhelmina stares daggers into her mouthy daughter, and she shrinks away to mind her business.

You continue to get ready, mainly focusing on laying your edges before finding a new shirt. “So, why would he suggest we quarantine separately knowing we had issues we were working on?” you debate your sister.

“Because like he said: you need some space. Totally normal for maintaining a healthy relationship.”

“Is it though? Cos when I say “I need space”, I’m thinking about making an exit. And that’s on a good, non-pandemic day. Hell, our issues alone would make me bow out. Now you add this stressful shit on top?”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Her simple question makes you stop in tracks, your brave face wavering for just a moment. “B-Because— it doesn’t matter. He’s ending things with me, in,” you check the time, “3 minutes. And I don’t blame him! I’ve been a mess lately! An emotional wreck lately! You should’ve heard me last night, it was gross!”

Wilhelmina starts to chuckle at your dramatics, but you can tell she’s laughing at you, not with you. “What’s so funny?”

“Sweetheart, you’d have to show emotions to be an emotional wreck. I think you skipped a few steps.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes as you peel off your sweaty shirt and toss it in the laundry basket. You take your wash cloth to dab your underarms before putting on a nicer top. A proper shower will have to wait til later.

“I’ll have you know that I do, in fact, have emotions. I just channel them into my writing, to avoid sapping them all over any- and everyone… like some people I know,” you quirk your brow and tilt your head in Wilhelmina‘s direction.

“Girl, whatever! From what you told me, Chris is as much a romantic as I am, maybe even more so. You don’t hate it as much as you let on. Just admit it.”

You slowly turn away from Wilhelmina to primp yourself in the full length mirror. She follows you, glaring at you in hopes she will break you down. You decide to throw her a bone.

“Last night, I told him how we should’ve been together right now. There was even a quiver in my voice because I do really, really miss him. It was all so, so...” Your sister’s hands are clutching her chest, eyes glazed like she was watching a romcom. She’d finally gotten through to you. “… so pathetic.” Or so she’d thought. The sound of frustration that came from her amused you greatly, your eyes now glazed from crying of laughter. 

“See, that’s what the hell I'm talking about! If he brings emotion— vulnerability— out of you, why do you resist? He’s worth keeping around, sis. I would think you: an artist, a writer for god’s sakes, would find some value in that.”

You stare straight ahead, fixing imaginary stray curls in your hair, and avoiding eye contact with Wilhelmina. She awaits your response, brows raised, neck craned toward you, hands below her chest with palms up, as if to say ‘Sooo...???’. You wondered how long she’d stay like that before you said something. “Are you done?”

Your sister sighs, and it’s quickly followed by ringing from your laptop. You both look in its direction, then at each other. The moment you’d been bracing for all day is here. You hesitantly move towards the chair at your desk where your laptop is sat. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Wilhelmina says before excusing herself. You almost didn’t want her to go. But you’ve got to be a big girl with a brave face.

“One last thing?” you twist in your chair to look at her in your doorway, “I know who made you believe that big girls don’t cry, but it’s bullshit. It’s good to feel. It’s okay to show it sometimes, too. Especially with the ones who showed and proved they won’t judge you for it,” she motions to your still ringing computer before closing your door.

You turn back to your desk, swallowing thickly. Here goes. You answer the call and Chris’ smiling face fills your screen. That beautiful face that’s worth doing right by.

“Hey baby! For a second there, I thought you wouldn’t answer,” he nervously chuckles. 

You smile at him but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He senses your apprehension. Even through a screen, he’s perceptive. Chris starts to small talk, rambling about work and the weather, intending to ease your guard down before getting to the tough stuff. But it’s absolutely painful pretending to be strangers. 

“Chris?”

“Yes honey?”

“I don’t wanna do this with you.”

Part 3

[pastelsandpining]

Spring of Wisdom

Summary: Zelda has a realization on Mount Lanayru. Everything she’s ever known is falling apart. Based on a concept @embyrinitalics wrote into their Whumptober works about the gods of Hyrule being kind of dead.

Words: 1681

Warnings: a lot of angst, honestly it’s just Zelda realizing they’re a little doomed. If there’s something I need to tag let me know, but proceed with caution anyway!

Masterlist

______

Her hands hit the solid concrete that laid under the water, but her knees were what landed a hard hit against the edge of the block. The icy water, whose burn she had at last gotten used to, began a new assault on the torn skin, sending a stinging sensation all throughout her legs. She hissed when her hands joined in—she must’ve scraped them as well.

The parts of her body that hadn’t yet met the water before this felt frozen solid. The water did nothing to warm them. The mountain, decorated by icy crystals that glittered in the sun but never shed so much as a drop, would take her too. She was sure of it. She didn’t have the strength to stand again. But just for a moment, she thought that this would be a far better end than what was coming. If she froze to death right here, became just another part of the mountain’s cold surface, while praying and begging for her people to be saved—they could not say that she hadn’t tried. 

Yet her wish—had she been wishing for that, truly?—would not come true. Not today. Gentle hands, warm hands pulled her gingerly back to her feet. His fingertips felt like ice, numb against her bare arms. But if he felt like ice, then to him, she must have felt frozen solid. She nearly lost her footing again, tripping over her own weakness, and she slowly curled her fingers deep into his tunic. They hurt to move, stiff and frozen, and burned against the warmth his body emitted, but she held on tighter.

She’d become accustomed to the cold of the water. When her hips and legs left their sanctuary, the winds sunk their teeth into her flesh and sent a shiver so violent that she nearly fell for a third time.

Had it not been for his arms holding her, guiding her, she would’ve. And if she did, she didn’t know if she would ever get up again.

A strangled, pathetic sound, somewhere between a whine and a sob, left her lips when he let go of her. Why did he let go? He was so, so warm. 

And then he was draping her coat, heavy with Rito feathers and silky soft to the touch, around her shoulders. The heat of a fire licked at her calves, trying to heal the bites of the cold. She didn’t know how long it’d taken him to do any of it. Time was not of her concern right now, because they were already out of it. 

Her cheeks, rosy and pale and like blocks of ice, stung so much at the sudden warmth that she flinched away. But her eyes finally drifted from the point of nothingness and found her knight, who slowly pressed his hands against her cheeks again.

“Zelda..?” he asked, his voice so soft it was carried away on the winds. Had he been speaking the whole time?

She just shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut and burying into the warmth he was trying to bring back to her body. 

She didn’t say anything for a very long time. She just sat, curled up against the only comfort she had, staring past the fire. The sky was starting to change color, fading from the bright blue to a hazy orange. The sun was setting on her seventeenth birthday, and what a birthday it’d been, nearly freezing to death.

“We should go,” Link said, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. “It’ll just get colder at night.”

Zelda nodded, but she didn’t move more than that. She didn’t want to go down and face her kingdom, her friends, with the knowledge that she’d come to realize. 

“Do you believe in Hylia?” she asked at last, her voice scratchy and quiet. It hurt to speak, like the wind had frozen her chords and the water iced her very core. 

“Do we have a choice?” he answered, running his thumb over her hands. Her eyes drifted over to the sword laying besides them, the one that signified being chosen by Hylia herself, and she knew that no, they didn’t.

“The legend says that she shed her divinity so she could walk the earth besides her hero and protect the Triforce.” The words made her dizzy. She buried her face further into Link’s shoulder and took a breath. “She became mortal and died. That’s what we do. We die. There is no goddess to pray to—no god that will help us.”

Her voice trembled and cracked. Her world, everything she’d known her entire life, was crumbling right in front of her. She held the blood of the goddess in her veins, only because she was not a deity anymore. The statues were silent because she wasn’t there. Prayer would awaken nothing, yet she’d spent years upon years of precious time in springs that drained her of every drop of happiness and patience—only for, what, nothing? Nothing but the realization at too late a time? 

And if the goddess somehow did still exist, she would not reside in a statue.

The answer was quite simple, really. The goddess was silent because she did not know the answer either. The goddess wore the face and dress of a princess who knew next to nothing about who she was, or how to unlock the powers. The goddess hardly knew if those powers actually existed, and whether they were in her at all. And a goddess who prays to herself can accomplish nothing.

A sob wrenched from her chest. What more could she do? Praying wouldn’t work, and she could no longer contribute in the only way she knew how. The Calamity was coming, and their princess, their goddess, was nothing more than a crying child with the weight of the world crushing her shoulders. 

The tears were hot on her cheeks. It was another burn to add to the pile. 

Link’s fingers loosened from her hands and found her hair instead. The comfort he provided was immense, but it didn’t calm her racing heart. 

“H-how can I go down there and- and tell them-“ she hiccupped, lifting her head to bury her face in her hands. 

“Zelda..”

“I can’t.” 

His fingers tried to detangle the clumps of damp hair. In any other circumstance, it might’ve been enjoyable. But all she could do was tremble and try to brave through the oncoming wave of panic. 

“I can’t do it,” she said again, lifting her head to look at Link. His eyes, so sad for her but so full of admiration, made her heart break further. 

“Maybe sometimes,” Link began, brushing at her tears with a feather soft touch, “the heroes just don’t win.”

“But my kingdom— goddesses, we can’t just leave them all to die!” she cried, grabbing at his coat with still frozen fingers. “I can’t— what do I do?”

“The Calamity might not wake for another month, or year,” he tried. “And until it does, we keep doing everything we can. The only reason we’ve gotten as far as we have is because of you. You’re brilliant, Zelda. And if prayer can’t awaken the power, then we can always try something else.”

He looked so sincere that it hurt. 

“I wish I could stay here,” she whispered, ducking her head. “With you. No Calamity, no goddess, no sword..”

“We would freeze to death, or die of starvation,” Link replied, leaning his head against hers. 

“Better than dying to the Calamity,” she muttered. As optimistic as Link had tried to be, she knew better. She had no choice but to come to terms with the idea that maybe the heroes wouldn’t win this one. There would be no legend to tell about the princess and the Hero—not this time. She would have to meet with the Sheikah soon and ask their progress on the medicinal shrine, because it was starting to look like they were going to need it.

“You’re not going to die, Princess,” Link said. Zelda had half a mind to laugh. “I was told to protect you with my life, and I will.”

“Do not let your loyalty to your duty blind you, Link.”

“It’s not out of duty, Zelda.”

She lifted her gaze to his eyes at last, but all she found was sincerity and something else that brought the warmth back into her body in full. All she could do was look at him for a moment, because he made her feel like everything was miles and miles away. And up here, far above any watchful eyes, she wanted to leave all sense of duty behind and just exist with him.

But the statue of Hylia, cold with a taunting smile, watched her from its perch. The warmth was fading. Zelda bit her lip. The space between them was very small, so she leaned her head back and took a deep breath, moving to stand. Her legs cried out and shook beneath her weight and Link had to catch her, but she tugged the jacket tighter and pushed onwards.

“We need to go,” she said, stepping over a rock. “I need to get to my father. We have to prepare for the worst—start evacuations. Get our people out. Revali and Mipha can take their people, they have the easiest escape routes available. Perhaps Daruk and the Gorons will be safe on Death Mountain. I can’t imagine even a demon could withstand the heat. You and Urbosa will work with the soldiers to round up the remaining populations—get them as far from Hyrule as possible.”

“What will you do?” Link asked. She felt his hand wrap around her own, pulling her back down to the ground. 

“Whatever I can. I’ll talk with my father. We’ll come up with a plan.”

“And what happens after we get everyone out?” 

Zelda turned her head to look at him. The sense of dread that she’d woken up with that morning was rapidly flooding back in tenfold. But she straightened her shoulders and gripped his hand tighter.

“We fight,” she said.

[ktheist]

↳ previous chapter. 

vampire!reader x human!jungkook

x

There’s a knock.

But its echo is drowned by Jungkook’s companion’s moans. He thinks he’s closer to going deaf with every wretched shrill. Relief washes over him when you burst through the door until dread takes its place as your frame slumps to the ground.

“Jungkook, baby,” his companion screams as she gathers the sheets over her chest, cowering behind him like a terrified banshee, “get her out of here!”

“Nayeon.” he pushes her hand off his chest, “I think you should leave.”

The yellow wide eyes is not something he revels in as he rushes to your side, night robe loosely hanging over his otherwise naked frame. True as it is, his reasons in fearing for you is grounded when he comes in contact with something wet and thick as he carries you to his bed.

His companion shrieks for the umpteenth time. Not because she fears getting her limbs soaked by your blood but because of the impending doom your presence alone brings.

She quickly dresses, leaving with her golden tails between her legs. But not without a warning. If she’s here, the others are coming.

Jungkook pays no mind to her as he presses a wet cloth over your waist. It takes several dips into the now blood-cloaked pail before he sighs in relief. At least the wound’s healed up, partially.

“We’ve to leave,” you croak out, hand grasping onto his sleeve just before he disposes of the cloth into the pail, “now.”

“Not yet,” he covers your hand with his, “you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

There’s irony in those words as you laugh or heave or both before hissing from the stabbing pain on your side. Jungkook doesn’t say a word yet the stare is soul-piercing, knowing.

“I’ll get dressed,” he walks over the closet, forsaking the bathrobe for actual wear, “you should change too. I’ve plenty of -”

It’s the first he’s heard you grumble. And he’d like to think from the distaste of the mention of his nightly companions but he can’t rule the gnarly wound being a reason for that as well.

You scrunch your nose at the overwhelming stench of rotten flesh, “zombies, really?”

“It was a one time thing.” Jungkook rolls his eyes as he slings your arm over his shoulders, “and apparently the only thing that fits you.”

x

“The mistress,” the ogre sneers at him through the rear view mirror, “she alive, ain’t she?”

“You’ll do well not to butt your nose into other people’s business,” you sit straighter, the mortal loyally assisting you as you extend a hand over the gap between the driver and passenger seat, dropping the bag of coins with a thud.

The creature drops his gaze as he snorts, “yes, mistress.”

The moon light that the cab drives into is barely enough for Jungkook to fare in the dark. He would have tripped without you holding him up.

“I’m fine,” he says, chest puffed and shoulder squared.

If not for your painful chortle, he would have noticed the death-like silence of the forest much sooner. Feel the cold air prickle his skin. Ignore the pair of eyes within the bushes better.

“Wailing Woods.” He states, the name itself sending shivers down his spine. And he hasn’t seen a witch in action. Yet.

“Someone did his research,” you smirk from next to him.

Unlike him, you’re far too placid to be breaching the magical territory.

“Who goes there,” a shrill-like voice echoes from the puff of smoke by the forest line.

“I must speak with the Warlock,” it’s the first time he catches the pitch in your tone, so dissimilar to the interchanging teasing and stern ones he’s associated you with, “it’s a matter of urgency.”

A woman steps out of the hut when the smoke clears out. Light pouring over the ground as tens of eyes surround you.

“Please,” Jungkook begs, “she’s injured.”

“Why,” though hers are the only pair of eyes not glinting evilly, he has a feeling her keen interest is not one he should look forward to, “a human as peace-offering.”

“Touch a hair on his head,” your bared fangs glisten in the moon light, feral and dangerous yet if push comes to shove, he will, without a second’s hesitation, let them bite into him and suck him dry, “and I’ll rip yours off.”

The ear-piercing laugh doesn’t come off as a surprise but her next words is all but a joke, “pray that the bloodsucker is on good terms with him, boy.” With a flick of her hand, a broom shoots out from the hut, halting just inches from him and you as it levitates, “or you’ll make a fine doll for my collection.”

He doesn’t need instructions as he leans down and sweeps you into his arm before balancing his weight on the spindly stick. He’s surprised that he didn’t fall off his back as the broom zooms past trees and creatures his eyes couldn’t catch.

The mansion it dropped you and him at eerily welcomes you. The doors creaking to a shut behind him as the orbs lining the walls catch blue fires.

“Boo!” A shadow jumps from behind him as the lights switches on.

He watches as the man no older than his laughs for a good quarter minute, “come on, that was spooky right?”

“Taehyung,” you barely manage to pry your eyes open as the man - Taehyung - swallows his laughter when he notices you in Jungkook’s arms.

Jungkook takes a step back, eyes hardened before they turn to mush when you place a hand on his chest. Reluctance governs his movements as he lets you down on your feet.

“___!” Taehyung cups both of your hands, “how long has it been? Six? Seven decades?”

“I’m in a bit of a pinch, Tae.” You lift the shirt, noting the acceleration of Jungkook’s heart as he roots himself on your side.

“My,” Taehyung’s eyes clouds with a sort of weariness that ages him. The lines on his forehead, the sag in his shoulders all give away to the years he’s lived and the two times he’s seen such a wound, “that’s a bit more than a pinch, don’t you think?”

x

Taehyung clears his throat to make his presence known. The scene of a mortal holding a vampire as if they were lovers must be new to him. As are you. A tray hovers over to just the top of your lap.

“What’s in this?” Jungkook demands. He’s been on edge since you got here. You don’t blame him, his world’s been thrown up side down since a few hours ago and it surprises you that he’s holding up this well.

“The thing that’s going to help little miss reckless here.”

You chuckle and wheeze a second later as the motion of sitting up tears on the wound. Jungkook is on your side in no time. Arm propped under your neck, hand pressing the chalice to your mouth.

One sip and you’re recoiling. Crimson eyes glaring at the Warlock as he shrugs guiltlessly, “what did you think? That medicine’s going to be tasteless once you’ve changed, hmm?”

“It reeks of an old man’s sweaty feet,” Jungkook gags, the stench of witchcraft stronger on mortals as it is on vampires.

“Oh honey, no,” he scrunches his nose as though willing a bad memory away, “an old man’s sweaty feet smells better than this.”

“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” the mortal cringes before turning to you, bringing the chalice to your mouth yet again, rendering you choice but to swallow the bile and finish the whole thing in one go.

“Don’t touch it,” Taehyung warns once the chalice retreats back to the kitchen, or lair or whatever he calls his potion-brewing room as Jungkook lifts the blanket draped over you, “you’ll mess with the magic that’s keeping her from bleeding on my silk sheets.”

“The bandage needs -”

“Yeah, okay, night night,” the magician’s words are rushed, lacking the apathy of a half-souled wizards as he flicks his hand.

Jungkook slumps against the headboard before leaning off the edge of the bed only to have the purple pillow previously resting on the couch to swoop in beneath his head.

“He doesn’t know,” those dead eyes looks straight at you as though he’s done with your bullshit.

“Doesn’t need to,” you throw your gaze to the fires ducking and sneaking around the woods, “but I’ll need you to let him stay for as long as he needs to after I...”

The sigh he lets out is inevitable. Motioning something with his hand, Jungkook’s body lifts from the bed as he takes his spot. Dark red blood leaks through the ground Feverflew leaves picked on a full moon’s midnight. “You’re in luck,” he loosely remarked as he prepared the medication.

Red tendrils of red begin to spread around the initial wound. A minute circle at first sight but a clear indication of lines forming a skull upon closer inspection. Taehyung wipes the remnants of the herbs with a towel dipped in some murky yellow liquid that still has vapor fluttering above the cauldron but soothing to the touch.

“On one conditions,” he turns to face you just before he steps out of the room, cauldron, wet cloth and a Jungkook levitating over the space between the bed and door frame. Taehyung waves them away only to give you a hard stare, “you gotta tell him you’re dying. It’s not gonna come from me when he wakes up in a bed of your ashes. For the love of Merlin, do it for the girl whose brother begged me to save all those decades ago.”

x

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[maluminspace]

Fallen Angel

Genre: angst

Pairings: Michael Clifford/Reader (kind of)

Word Count: 2.2k

Requested: by @ghost0fy0u for spooky!sos 2019

Trigger Warnings: feelings of hopelessness/homelessness

A/N: I’m so sorry I made this so emo! I really hope it turned out okay 💗

——

Michael felt naked without his wings. 

The mortal clothes he’d been given prior to his exile from the heavens did very little to combat that feeling. He very much doubted that he could feel more humiliated than he did right now, even if every inch of his milky skin was on display to the crowds of people flooding the streets around him.

Before today, Michael had spent very little time on earth. He’d both admired and despised it (depending upon the events he’d been surveying) from the heavens throughout the countless years he’d had the privilege of being an angel.

Perhaps he should have made more of an effort to visit earth, familiarise himself with the planet he was probably always doomed to end up on.

It was easy for him to remember why he’d rarely felt the need to descend from the heavens, though. If the pouring rain and the cold wind biting at every inch of the exposed skin of his hands and face, weren’t enough to make him despise this planet - the overwhelming sense of dread, hatred, loneliness and general despair seeping from every soul that passed him, certainly was. Earth was a cold and bitter place in more ways than one.

Even though the loss of one’s wings meant that they became, to all intents and purposes, mortal - Michael had some lingering abilities, like his heightened sense of awareness regarding those around him, that would no doubt fade with time. That alone was a bittersweet thought. One the one hand, losing the last remnants of the majestic feature he was broke his heart. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how long he could survive when his own despair was crippled beneath the weight of thousands of others’. 

Michael knew that there was very little hope of him regaining his wings. Exiled angles are very rarely able to redeem themselves enough to be allowed back into the heavens. Of course, he had to have hope that he could be one of those few that are able to prove their worth. 

It could be said that Michael’s banishment was unjust. Some would argue that he wasn’t to blame for the events which had led to this but none of that mattered now. What’s done is done and the decision could not be overturned, no matter how much Michael wishes it could be.

Wrapping his long beige coat further around himself, Michael scanned the many neon signs around him. Before he could plan any sort of redemption quest, he needed to eat, shower and sleep. 

He’d been given a small amount of money before he’d been banished. Michael knew that he had to spend it wisely if he was to make it through the first days of his new mortal life. That meant that the luxurious looking hotel opposite him wasn’t an option. One night in there would probably leave him penniless. 

Unfortunately the former angel knew he’d have to look elsewhere for shelter. He’d been deposited in a place where no budget accommodation seemed to be situated. 

Despite the heavy rain continuing to drench him, Michael forced himself to start walking. Various people bumped into him and cursed at him for not looking where he was going as he made his way along the pavement. 

He walked until his feet hurt, until the glaring lights of the city had lessened to just the odd neon sign over bars and diners, until he was soaked to the very bone and until he literally had no more strength to continue. 

Michael had no choice but stop at the next available place that he might be able to get a room at. That place just so happened to be the tiny hotel that you worked at on the outskirts of the city.

Michael pushed open the door, his exhausted eyes scanning the dishevelled lobby before he stumbled over to the reception desk. This definitely wouldn’t be his first choice of accommodation but he couldn’t afford to be picky and if he didn’t rest soon he was sure he’d pass out.

You were dealing with a disgruntled customer that was complaining about the faulty T.V in their room. Michael simply waited patiently until you’d reassured the resident that you’d send the handyman to him as soon as he was finished fixing a broken lock in another room.

When the angry resident finally scuttled off up the stairs, Michael stepped closer to the desk. He was exhausted and colder than he’d ever felt in his life. The fallen angel had no idea how much he was shivering until your friendly face took on a concerned expression. 

“Hi there, are you okay?” You asked, your attempted smile falling flat as you took in the disheveled appearance of the stranger.

Michael nodded, trying to steady himself by placing his trembling hands on the desk that lay between you. “I need a room, p-please.” He stuttered, teeth chattering uncontrollably.

The worry on your face deepened before you yelled for your colleague. When the very bored looking teenager sloped into the room, you rolled your eyes at him. “Will you man the desk while I settle this man into his room please?” You asked, your tone clipped and a little stern. 

The teenager ran his eyes over Michael, something like sympathy or pity twinkling within their depths as he nodded. “We only have one charity room left available, it’s the smallest one and it’s right next to the main road.”

You glowered at your co-worker. “You need a lesson on manners and tact!” You huffed as you grabbed the key for room four. Turning back to Michael, you smiled brightly, gesturing down the hallway off of the lobby that led to the ground floor rooms. “Right this way, sir.”

Michael frowned, confusion clouding his handsome features. “Don’t I need to pay first?” He asked, reaching into his pockets with his shaking fingers. His knowledge of earth was limited but he remembered being taught about earth’s money and payment practices.

You glanced around the lobby, ensuring that no other customers were around before offering him a small smile. “We always try to help out people in your situation, sir...” you reply quietly. “I’ll explain everything once we’ve gotten you into some dry clothes, yeah?”

Still confused, Michael followed you. He didn’t know why he hadn’t had to pay but now wasn’t the time to question it. The corridor leading away from the lobby was lit by harsh fluorescent lights. One of them was flickering ominously as you led Michael past the rooms with peeling door numbers. 

Once you reached room four, you unlocked it with the old fashioned key and flicked on the light. The single bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling hummed to life, illuminating the small, unkempt room. The greying paint on the walls had long since began to peel and the hideously patterned carpet had numerous stains littering it. The bed looked comfortable, though and the freshly laundered sheets gave off a fresh fragrance that somehow made the room feel a little more homely. There was a single lamp on one of the bedside tables and old TV attached to the wall with a metal bracket. Besides these and the the rickety old desk, complete with chair and wardrobe, the tiny room was pretty empty.

Your grumpy teenage colleague had been right. This room was probably the worst you had to offer but it was definitely more appealing than sleeping on the streets. “I know it doesn’t look like much...” you smile apologetically. “But it’s somewhere dry and warm for you to sleep whilst you get back on your feet.”

For a moment Michael was confused at how you knew he was in need of this support and kindness. It was only when he felt a wave of your sympathy and determination to help, that he realised you thought that he was homeless. With a sickening jolt, Michael realised that you were entirely right. He wasn’t any different from the unlucky souls he’d passed on his way here, the people begging on street corners, wrapped in distressed clothing and emanating the most heartbreaking despair.

Michael hadn’t even realised that he was crying until he felt your hand on his shoulder. He met your gaze through glassy eyes and felt himself crumple to his knees.

You dropped down beside him without hesitation and cautiously wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I know it seems hopeless now.” You whispered delicately. “I’ve seen dozens of people in your situation turn their lives around, though. It might take some time and it’ll definitely take some hard work but we’re here to help.”

Michael sniffled, subconsciously shifting closer to you. “We?” He asked weakly, glancing back at you for a moment. 

Your smile faltered a little, obviously confused by something. “You mean you weren’t sent by one of the homeless charities?” You asked.

Shaking his head, Michael wiped away the latest tear that trickled down his cheek. “I was just looking for a room for the night... I stumbled upon this place.”

“Oh!” You gasped. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were... We help out people that are in a tough spot, y’know - people who’re homeless, in need of a starting point to get their live on a more stable track. I really should have made sure before...”

Despite his pretty hopeless situation, a watery laugh escaped Michael. “Well I guess I stumbled into entirely the right place then.” He shrugged. “That’s exactly what I need right now.”

Your face brightened as you got to your feet and offered Michael a helping hand. “Wow, what’re the chances of finding us by accident? You really must have someone watching over you.”

Michael bristled, knowing full well what your throw-away gesture of pointing towards the sky meant. There didn’t seem to be much chance of anyone ‘up there’ wanting to help you out. “I think it was just dumb luck.” He replied. 

“Well whatever it was that got you here, I’m glad because now we can help you.” You reiterated, helping Michael back to his feet. “First you need to get out of these wet clothes and take a nice warm shower, I’ll bring you some fresh pyjamas and something to eat when you’re done, okay? There’s towels and a robe in the bathroom so you don’t freeze while you wait.”

Still feeling dazed by the day’s events Michael simply followed your instructions - sloping into the tiny bathroom and closing the door. He heard you leave the room just before he turned on the shower. Things already seemed a tiny bit less hopeless now the he knew there was some kindness on this otherwise unforgiving planet. 

Once he’d located the old bath robe hanging on the back of the door and the fluffy towel on the little metal rail next to the walk-in shower, Michael shuffled out of his wet clothes. He caught a quick glimpse of his pale body in the mirror over the sink and another wave of grief for the loss of his beautiful wings hit him. There were two long red marks where they’d once been attached to his back. He tried and failed to hold back a fresh wave of tears as he stepped into the shower. 

The water was just a little too hot for his delicate skin, but Michael sort of welcomed the slight pain. It helped to numb his whirring brain and besides, even that felt better than being too cold.

By the time he’d warmed up and washed his hair, Michael figured he’d been longer in the shower than he perhaps should have been. He turned off the shower and stepped out into the bathroom, hastily drying himself before slipping on the bath robe. It was far too big for him but it was warm and comfortable, much better than his sopping wet clothes.

When he opened the bathroom door, Michael was shocked to see that the harsh ceiling light had been turned off. The overbearing light that had filled the room earlier, had been replaced with the much softer glow of the table lamp.

“Ah that’s better!” You grinned at him, forcing Michael’s attention to the bed that you’d perched on the end of. “You look comfier already...”

Michael returned your smile, unable to resist the kindness radiating from you. “I feel a little better, thank you.”

You nod, seemingly pleased by the small statement. “Our cook heated up some soup for you and I smuggled some bead and a slice of cake out for you as well. Do you need anything else before I leave you to get some rest?”

The scent of the creamy soup made Michael’s tummy rumble as he sat down at the rickety chair by the desk. “I don’t think so, thank you.” He replied.

Seemingly happy with Michael’s reply, you get to your feet. “I’ve left you a clean set of pyjamas on the bed and some of our donated clothes in the wardrobe for tomorrow. We can help you get more stuff sorted over the next few days, okay?”

Michael nodded gratefully. “How do I even start to repay you for your kindness?” He asked, already tucking into the soup you’d given to him.

“We never usually ask for anything, but some of our residents like to help out the charitable organisations in our network. We work with some charity shops, organise soup kitchens, that sort of thing.” You explained, “but there’s no pressure. Especially not whilst you’re still finding your feet.”

Michael swallowed his latest mouthful of soup, savouring the rich taste. “Well I want to do whatever I can to help.” He insisted, “today has been the worst of my life but you made everything seem a little less hopeless, thank you.”

The softness in you your smile was undeniable as you squeezed Michael’s shoulder gently. “I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time.”

Maybe it was what remained of his angelic abilities that allowed him to feel just how sincere your words were. Or perhaps everyone found you this easy to read because you obviously wore your heart on your sleeve. Either way Michael’s heart felt genuinely warmed by you, and he just knew that you were destined to be a big part of his life. Perhaps one day, he’d even realise that you were his true destiny all along.

Tag list: @clffrd @byxthexway @afuckingunicornn @lukesahoy @thrillchaser @moonchildsblack @calumbbyyy @h0tsos @valentinelrh @sexgodashton @megz1985 @myfalsedevotion @aulxna @honeyedlashton @tea4sykes @spookymashton

[papa-rhys]

Drunkard: pt 2 (Javier X f!Reader)

Note: I’m in a perpetual state of trying to decide if I prefer soft of rough Javier. But here’s some of the former before I go to bed. Enjoy!

~Link to Part 1 will be in the reblogs!~

Category: Smut/fluff

Warnings: none (although the C word is used once and some people don’t like that, so I’m just warning now)

Word count: 2475

“Hey there, stranger,” Karen says, smiling at you knowingly and taking a sip from her coffee cup. “You look great,” she adds sarcastically.

“I feel like I’m dead,” you grumble, your head still fuzzy from the alarming amount of whiskey you’d absorbed into your veins last night. That’s about all you remember, mind you – the rest is a blur and you dread to think about what kinds of things you got up to during your inebriated rampage around camp.

“You look a lot better than you did last night,” she tells you. “Crawlin’ across the ground all soaked in whiskey. It was quite the sight,” she chuckles into her coffee cup.

“I did what?” you ask. “What exactly did I do last night?”

Karen clears her throat and turns coy – worryingly so. “You should talk to Javier,” she tells you with a sly smirk.

“Oh God,” you groan, raising your palm to your face in hopes of covering your overwhelming shame. There are a million and one things you could have said or done to Javier last night and every single one of them flashes through your mind like a freight train, sparking horror and a looming sense of doom in your chest. “I’ll see you later,” you tell Karen, speaking the words breathlessly as you leave her to enjoy her morning coffee in peace.

You stand in the centre of camp, nervously scanning your surroundings in search of Javier and secretly hoping you don’t find him. But you do and he makes eye contact with you across the camp so there’s no turning back now. You head to where he stands next to a large rock just outside camp and you approach him just as he sheaths the knife that he was just sharpening.

“Hola,” he smiles. “You look like shit.”

“The way I look doesn’t hold a candle to the way I feel,” you assure him. There are a few moments of pause before you speak again. “About last night,” you start, leaning against the rock and almost mirroring him as he does the same. “I am so sorry.”

“Do you even know what you’re apologising for?”

“Honestly? I have no clue.”

Javier chuckles and you find some relief in it. If he’s laughing, then you suppose whatever you’d done the night before hadn’t left any hard feelings.

“Well aside from crawling toward me like a dog, climbing into my lap and confessing your undying love for me, you also pulled me into bed with you and pretty much begged me to sleep with you,” he says smugly. “Oh, and then there’s the kiss…”

You lean your head back against the rock. “Oh my God,” you whisper, almost on the verge of tears and once again covering your face with your hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

You’re almost crying from the crushing embarrassment and Javier steps closer to you. “Here,” he says, taking your hands away from your face. He tilts your chin up to get a better look at you and your cheeks burn pink under the heat of his gaze. In a move as smooth as butter and very much welcomed, he leans in and kisses you. The kiss is drawn out and delicate and you’re very glad that this is the one you’ll remember as opposed to last night’s. Lord knows what kind of sloppy wet mess of a kiss you’d subjected this poor man to in the midst of your drunken haze. You suppose he’d much rather forget that one too.

Javier pulls away from kiss, although only putting a few inches of distance between your lips and his.  “Last night, I told you that if you still wanted me to fuck me when you’d sobered up, then all you had to do was come and find me,” he says. “Well you’ve me, so now I’ll ask; do you still want me to fuck you?” You bite your lip and nod. “Okay then,” he smiles, taking you by the hand and whisking you away into dense trees.

Everything is moving so fast. A few minutes ago, you were chatting to Karen – a few minutes before that, you were asleep – and now, you’re being pinned against a tree by Javier as his hand finds its way down the front of your jeans. Funny how life turns out.

He smiles at the wetness that he finds as he glides his fingers back and forth over your folds and you take in a sharp breath when two of those fingers slide up into you.

This isn’t quite what you’d pictured when people had raved about early morning sex. You’d always imagined two freshly-awoken yet perfectly immaculate love birds tumbling through soft linen sheets as sunlight pours the net-curtained window. But as Javier leave a trail of kisses on your neck – your head still aching and the bark of the tree scratching at the skin on the back of your arms as his fingers slide in and out of you – you decide that this somehow feels a lot sweeter than the fantasy that preceded it.

Javier’s free hand strays from your jawline and finds itself wandering up inside your untucked shirt, softly caressing the skin at your waist. You grip onto his upper arm – your fingers curling around his bicep and bunching up the fabric of his white dress shirt. He kisses you – passionately, but still softly – his lips feeling rough against yours and leaving you with an undeniable ache to find out what they would feel like against the soft skin below your belt.

“Lay down,” he pants, breaking the kiss and withdrawing his fingers from you.

You do as he says, laying down in the grass and grinning widely as he kneels down between your legs.

He tugs at your jeans, pulling them down – along with your undergarments – and yanking them off at your ankles. He tosses your jeans to one side and pushes your knees up whilst simultaneously spreading them apart. He looks at you for a moment before his gaze wanders south and he takes his bottom lip between his teeth and eyes your cunt like it’s a three-course meal. And then he lays down on his stomach and buries his head between your thighs – this tongue swirling around your clit. You almost jolt up, bending double at the sensation as it sends chills through body. You manage to refrain from clamping your legs shut and trapping Javier in what he’d probably think of as the most heavenly bear trap in existence – but only just. He mumbles something in between laps of his tongue, but you can’t for the life of your pin down what it was he said. Turns out it’s difficult to focus when someone has the most sensitive part of you in their mouth – who’d have thunk it?

“What?” you ask him through another sharp gasp as he gently sucks at your clit.

“I said,” he smiles, lifting his head up to look at you. “I was thinking about this all night.”

“Oh really?” you smirk.

He puts his head back down again and hums as he takes your clit into his mouth again and sucks – this time harder – sending a shudder through your gut.

“Fuck! Where the hell did you learn that?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief as you arch your back, trying to suppress the urge to rut up against his face until you come from the friction.

Javier leaves a few kisses on your folds; kisses that he dots in a line running from up your stomach and over the top of your shirt as he crawls on top of you. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he smiles, playfully – his eyes gleaming.

“Is that so?” you giggle. “You’re a real ladies man, huh?”

“Well I don’t like to brag, but…” He smiles down at you and you crane your neck up to kiss him.

“Well, why don’t you put all that practice to good use,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his as you speak.

He reaches down and unbuckles his belt, the clinking of the metal being music to your ears amongst the ambient sounds of the forest that surrounds you both. You watch him excitedly, waiting in anticipation for him to unbutton his jeans. You’ve thought about this scenario countless times in the seclusion of your tent. Imagined the words he’d whisper in your ear; the way your toes would curl as he fucks you into your bedroll. And now the moment has arrived and it seems like he’s taking an eternity to pull himself out of his jeans. But after a few moments of wondering if he’s doing it on purpose, just to tease you, he’s finally finished with his buttons and you bite your lip to hold back the giddy giggle that threatens to bubble to the surface.

You look at him hungrily – you eyes flitting from his eyes, to his lips, to the belt that hangs loosely on either side of his hips, and back up to his eyes again. Before you can say anything, Javier’s lips are pressed against yours again and you damn near bite holes in his bottom lip as he pushes his way inside you. You take him all the way to the base and the involuntary moan that escapes you trails off into laughter as Javier kisses your throat, smiling at the vibration your laughter causes underneath his lips.

“Did I catch you off guard there?” he asks in a low, smooth voice. “My apologies,” he adds with a devilishly mischievous smile.

“Fuck you,” you giggle, cupping his jaw with your hand and going in for another kiss.

The way he fucks you is slow and sensual and although you feel the need to rock against him to gain more friction, you’re enjoying this softer side of Javier. You move with him, rolling your hips in time with him and letting your lips curl into a smile as he speaks the odd phrase in Spanish between heavy, desperate breaths. He raises his hand – the other hand used to hold him up as he hovers over you – and brushes some hair out of your face, tucking it neatly away behind your ear. He looks down at your so lovingly, with an unmistakable look of adoration in his face as he watches you smile underneath his weight and you find yourself wondering if he’s secretly been dreaming of this for as long as you have. The look in his face – that level of pure love – those feelings take more than one night to develop. There’s no way your sloppy drunken kiss had sparked such strong feelings towards you. No. These feelings have been here a while.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly, almost whispering.

You nod your head, keeping your eyes locked with him and smiling warmly. “Of course,” you assure him; your voice unexpectedly hoarse.

He keeps going; his movements long and drawn out and slow, but just as sweet and shudder-inducing as fast ones as he pushes all the way inside you as far as possible each time. With a tingling sensation mounting in your gut, your breath hitches in your throat and you throw your head back as far as you can, picking up leaves and twigs in your hair, no doubt. You grip Javier’s arms tightly.

“Si, si,” he mutters, watching you intently as you arch your back slowly and begin to breath quick and shallow breaths. “Let it go, chica,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

His own breaths quicken and he speeds up ever-so-slightly – his eyes scanning the length of your body as you lay underneath him – your back bowing and your toes curling just like you’d imagined they would. He smiles gleefully as you let out a strained “fuck” before jolting up slightly and throwing your arm around his neck, giving him the perfect opportunity to nibble at your collar bone.

The wave crashes over you, washing away any sense or rationality and leaving you to flop back down into the grass and close your eyes as you try to comprehend who you are and what the hell your name is.

Javier chuckles to himself, delighting in the way your thighs clamp around his waist as he keeps fucking you through the waves of oversensitivity that you’re feeling on your way down from your peak. He snakes his hand up your shirt cups your breast before thumbing open your shirt presses a few sweet kisses to the centre of your breastbone before delicately taking a handful again.

You’re on the tail end on your wave now and your mind is slowly restoring itself to the level of an adult human once again. You open your eyes and look up at Javier, who has his eyes squeezed shut as he pants his way through his own orgasm, letting out small soft moans and the odd profanity here and there. You raise your hand to his face, pushing his hair out of the way before brushing your thumb over his goatee and holding his chin between your thumb and forefinger.

He spills into you with a moan that trails into a soft “mierda” under his breath; the relief washing over his face and his features softening. He rocks forward a few more times before slowing to a halt and opening his eyes. He gazes down at you through sleepy hues; all the tension melting from his body as he slowly pulls out and rolls onto the grass beside you.

“Ay,” he breathes, letting out a hard sigh and resting his arm underneath his head. “Fuck.”

You roll onto your side and snuggle up to him, resting your hand over his rapidly beating heart and watching carefully as the steady pounding of it moves your hand up and down with his chest.

“If only I could start all my mornings like that,” you comment.

“It sure as hell beats coffee.”

“Are you offering?” you smile.

“Well, I’m always happy to help.”

“Such a gentleman,” you grin.

“How dare you; I’m nothing of the sort,” he jokes.

You chuckle sweetly. “Okay, mean Mr Outlaw,” you tease, pressing a finger to his lips as they creep up into the cutest smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“My secret?” he echoes, moving your hand away from his mouth with a chuckle. “What secret is that?”

“That you’re soft as raw cotton,” you smile.

“No,” he protests, trying to avoid your hand as you attempt to pinch your cheek. “I’m not. I’m a big scary outlaw and you can’t prove otherwise.”

“Sure thing,” you say, biting your lip, propping your self up on your elbow, and giving him a long, gentle kiss. “Like I said; you’re secret’s safe with me.”

“Ay,” he smiles softly, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip. “Thank you kindly.”

[autumnspritesworld]

WangXian Week Day 1

Here’s my ficlet for the first day of @wangxianweek! There’s a happy fluffy ending I promise

firsts | longing | modern au

tell me there was worth, in all the ways that it would break

(read it on ao3)

before

Years have passed, and Lan WangJi still thinks of a dead man at night.

Wracked with equal amounts of self-loathing and bone-deep longing, he spends those dreadful hours between nine p.m. and five a.m. wishing, regretting, pondering, fantasizing. It’s nothing short of torture - but what could he do to avoid it? It’s not like there’s anyone awake in these hours for him to talk to, to try to keep his mind off of all these ghostly feelings. It’s not like he can decide not to retire to his bed at night, in favor of simply staying awake constantly; he may not sleep well, but he does sleep some, and although the nightmares still plague him regularly, he’d turn into a walking corpse within a week if he completely forewent sleep. 

And it’s not like he can forget about Wei Ying, either. It’s not like he can simply find someone else to fill the gaping hole that the Yiling Patriarch left in Lan Wangji’s heart. No, Lan Wangji has long since made peace with the fact that he will likely die alone. It’s what he deserves - after all, Wei Ying had to die alone, as well. All because Lan WangJi failed to protect him.

At night, he replays all those critical moments in his mind, those points of no return, and he keeps himself awake thinking of what he could have done differently. Maybe if he hadn’t pressed Wei Ying so frantically to come back with him to the Cloud Recesses on the night Wen Chao died, Wei Ying would have ended up there of his own volition eventually. Maybe if he’d gotten to Wei Ying quicker on the day Jiang YanLi died, he would’ve been able to stop him from using that infernal Tiger Seal. Maybe if he’d hidden Wei Ying away better after he used it, if he hadn’t gone back to Gusu to accept his well-deserved torture, if he’d dodged his punishment just once in his life, he and Wei Ying could’ve made a life together, even as fugitives.

Some nights, he thinks of what he could have done, and he cries. When this happens, he doesn’t cry quietly - he always feels as if something, some beast made of grief and fury and regret, is trying to claw its way from between his ribs; deep, heaving sobs wrack his body for hours on end, and he is always powerless to stop it; he can only thank the gods that his jingshi is relatively secluded, and it is not likely anyone will hear him.

It’s mostly during those moments that he anticipates the moment when he will finally break. Because surely, life is not sustainable under such an emotional weight as the one that is slowly smothering his mind and heart. Sometimes, he thinks he comes close - he hasn’t a clue what it will be like to cave under the pressure at last, but whatever this caving consists of, he has come within a hair’s breadth of it. And every time, he has managed to stay sane - whether by some sort of primal self-preservation instinct, or simply by panicking, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to break, to let his feelings, memories and wishes finally crush him, but sometimes he wonders if that’s where things are headed.

There are times when he functions just fine - during the day, mostly, when he has to stuff down the screaming beasts and ghosts inside him and hide them behind the stoic mask of the Second Jade of Lan. He thinks he must present a good front, because no one treats him as if anything is wrong. But he has no idea when he became such a good actor; because no matter how busy he is, how serene his face appears, he is constantly thinking of him. 

His smile - the one he had when he was a boy of fifteen, long before war corrupted them all; his quick wit, enough to stun and infuriate elders from every Sect; his longing for justice, even when things were at their bleakest for him. His playful banter with little A-Yuan, his dedication to the remnants of the Wen Sect, his unshakable confidence that everything would be all right in the end.

His sculpted body as he stood in the cold springs beside Lan WangJi when they were teenagers; when Lan WangJi felt, for the first time, stirrings of desire for another. His long neck as his head tilted back, allowing a small, glistening drop of wine to roll down from his lips, tracing a heavenly path down the column of his throat that Lan WangJi yearned to follow with his own tongue. The way his lips had tasted, soft and tentative, uncertain and sweet against his own, that day on Phoenix Mountain when Lan WangJi had, regrettably, caved to his more primal impulses.

Lan WangJi thinks of these moments at night, and he imagines even more. He imagines Wei Ying being alive now, and he imagines him reciprocating Lan WangJi’s terrifying, all-encompassing feelings. He imagines Wei Ying pulling off his forehead ribbon again - this time with intent in his eyes, pressing his lips to the skin it covered the moment before. He imagines spending these long nights with the warm body of the only man he has ever loved by his side. And some nights, he fights the urge as long as he can, until his ache is so deep that all he can do is guiltily take himself in hand as he imagines himself repeating that stolen kiss in the field over and over and over - their kisses growing more heated, their hands and lips wandering, Wei Ying calling his name again in that infuriating, devastating way of his -

- and when he spills over his fist on those nights, he almost always snaps back to reality to find tears blurring his vision and fingers of ice gripping his heart. How sick can he be, thinking about a dead man this way? He’s unhealthy, he knows that. This is further proof - he cannot move on, he never will, he’s doomed to endure these lonely, sleepless nights until the inevitable night he finally breaks - whatever that may entail.

after

It’s been a long time since Lan WangJi has been back in his jingshi, so maybe that’s why he’s suddenly finding himself having trouble sleeping. He’s actually slept remarkably well these past few months, in comparison to the last decade of torturous solitude.

He’s almost happy to be awake now, though. His body associates this room with pain and restlessness - to be here with Wei Ying finally, finally by his side makes him think that, maybe, he can start patching those dark memories over with new ones.

The new memories will be of soft moonlight trailing in through the window, falling over a pale shoulder and long, elegant neck, glistening over inky black hair and illuminating the blessed rise and fall of his lover’s breath beneath the sheets. Recollections of moments where Lan WangJi came close to losing himself give way to ones of bite-marks and bruises blooming softly over Wei Ying’s skin, of the little sounds he lets out as he dreams, of the natural scent of him that Lan WangJi forgot about until it started suffusing whatever Mo Xuanyu’s own scent had been.

Lan WangJi shifts forward to wrap his arms around Wei Ying’s middle and to press his lips below his ear. Wei Ying stirs, heaving a sigh; soon enough, he turns around to blink blearily at Lan WangJi.

“Lan Zhan, you’re awake?” he rasps, his lips stretching in a yawn.

“Mn.” Lan WangJi tucks a strand of hair behind his beloved’s ear.

Wei Ying furrows his brow, making Lan WangJi’s heart melt a little more. “Why?”

The corners of Lan WangJi’s lips quirk upward. “I’m happy.”

“Happy about what?”

So many people would have been satisfied with HanGuang-Jun’s brief, curt answers, his unwillingness to speak more than necessary. To many, it makes him appear wise, powerful - sometimes more attractive, even.

How he’d missed Wei Ying’s refusal to take him at first glance, again and again. The incessant questions, sometimes meant to tease, sometimes from genuine curiosity, always out of love - they are what Lan WangJi has to look forward to now, every day for the rest of his life.

He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Wei Ying’s lips. 

“Mmm,” Wei Ying hums when they break apart. A sleepy smile spreads lazily across his face, and his half-lidded eyes say more than all the words in his vocabulary probably ever could.

And this is where we complement each other, Lan WangJi thinks to himself, you challenge me to open up, and I’m the only one who can render you speechless.

Wei Ying shifts closer, tucking himself in where he fits perfectly, right under Lan WangJi’s chin. They twine their bodies together in the way they’ve become accustomed to, and Lan WangJi falls into a better slumber than he’s had in years.

[sea-and-storm]

ESCAPE :  Drabble (Ghoa)

OOC:  This is my part of a round robin series of posts based around the final fight in the Cigarettes & Fireflies plotline. (Which is why it might not make the most sense if you read it standalone without context.) I’d highly suggest reading the other posts in the series that the others have written because 1.) this scene was amazing to play out and, 2.)  they’re all amazing writers seriously go read their stuff *wheeeeeeeze*.  

You can find the other posts collected in the RPC thread, starting here!

There was little that made Ghoa more anxious than uncertainties, and this day of the final fight was teeming with them. She was unsure if Saltborn would win his match. She was unsure of what Shael and Tserende were plotting. Worst of all, if all of the planning came to naught, she was unsure of exactly what manner of unpleasant fate Elam Grave had in mind for her and her treachery.

Though if one thing was certain, it was that the Mankhadi woman was going to fight tooth and nail before she let anyone take her life or her freedom away from her.

That unease had weighed on her from the time that she had first opened her eyes that morning, settling like a heavy stone in the pit on her stomach. Despite its weight, she had carried herself well, just as she had been instructed to never let on that anything was amiss. No one could know that beneath her usual calm, polished exterior and coy smiles, she felt almost nervous enough to retch when she took her place on the dais between Elam and Hikomoro. No one could see under the gloves that she wore just how white her knuckles had become as she closed her fists tight, watching Saltborn's fight. She couldn't help but feel dread watching that monstrous opponent of his, even knowing that the poison of her making coursed through his system. Would it be enough..?

Then, with that final thrust of the blade through the beast-like Roegadyn's heart, it was ended and -- at the same -- everything began to happen so very, very quickly.

"The victor of the final match!" the announcer cried. "Saltborn of the Cove!"

Ghoa's eyes followed Elam as he rose triumphantly from his seat upon the proclamation of victory, and with the motion her eyes moved past him to someone else. To Nabi, whose golden eyes were filled with an unspoken warning. But she barely had any time to linger on it before the compromised linkpearl activated and Shael's voice was in her ear.

"Ghoa. I want you to stand perfectly still. I have Grave in my sights."

Still she was unsure of exactly what the woman was planning, but between Nabi's urgent look as she tried to slip away from the dais and the former code of opposites that she and Shael had spoken in.. Gods, she hoped she was interpreting it all correctly.

In her position so close to Grave and with him undoubtedly having heard Shael's message all the same as she, she knew there was no way that she could possibly rise and sneak away like Nabi had done.. Or had attempted to do, at least, before Nei had stopped her. For her, it was now or never, and hesitating even just a second longer would put her at risk. And so, wasting no time, she pushed herself up onto her feet -- and she ran.

No one stopped her until she reached the exit to the dais, where the guards were waiting in her way. Her mind was already racing, trying to figure out a way to get past them, when she heard Musa's voice calling out on the dais behind her.

"Let them pass."

Surprised, she chanced a glance over her shoulder at the man, confusion striking her not only at the order the older sponsor had given but the fact that he was now, it seemed, in a standoff with Nei. Had the two not been working together? Just what was happening there..?

Yet she hardly had the time to ponder it now before another voice was calling out.

"Torrad," Elam growled. "Stop her."

Ghoa's head snapped around to find the tongueless brick wall of a man stepping up between her and her chance at freedom. Her heart was racing, a hissed curse leaving her lips, before she steeled her nerves and started forward to try and dart past him. It was a move doomed to fail from the start, as Torrad's hand wrapped tight around her thin wrist like a manacle, yanking her harshly back towards him. But that left her other hand free, and that would be his mistake.

When she had dressed that morning, she hadn't even bothered trying to think of a way to smuggle in a weapon. Even before her intentions had been discovered, the guards at the entrance had thoroughly checked her person before each match. Now, she knew the scrutiny would only increase. It would be impossible to sneak in a knife or poison. She hadn't even risked bringing her ringbands, just in case.

But she was nothing if not creative when backed into a corner.

Prepared for the backwards tug, Ghoa's free hand snapped up to the furs around her neck. Her fingers wrapped around the golden flower brooch that held the white fur mantle in place about her shoulders and tugged it free. Using the momentum of the pull, the Xaela spun in on Torrad with purpose. In the back of her mind, she could hear the advice Edric had once given her when he had tried to teach her how to defend herself. And as soon as she spotted an opening in the man's armor on the underside of his arm, she buried the sharpened end of the pin as deeply as she could -- which still, admittedly, wasn't terribly deep -- into the man's bicep.

The retaliation had seemed to surprise the man, though didn't deter him in the slightest. His hold upon her tightened as he scoffed, and before she could even try to twist out of the way, his armored hand had come crashing across her face. The force of the blow made stars rise and burst behind her eyes. She could taste copper on her tongue, though she wasn't sure if it came from her lip or her nose. Both, perhaps. Dizzily staggering, only Torrad's grip kept her upright as he spun her around to march her back to Elam.

For a moment, she couldn't help but wonder if it was enough. Had she sunk the pin deep enough? She hadn't even had time to see before the man struck her. If she hadn't, if it hadn't worked, then she..

She felt the man's steps slow, almost causing him to stagger. He didn't make it another step before he fell to a knee and his grip around her wrist loosened. The pin, laced with the same Mankhadi paralytic poison that had laced the gifted knife that Nabi had once used against Elam himself, had struck true.

There wasn't any time to celebrate or to feel relief. Her vision was still blurred and her head swimming when she found herself freed, but she lurched towards the exit again. The first few steps were swaying and unsteady before she seemed to find her feet again, bolting into the crowd below scrambling for the exit amidst the chaos, the violence, and the sound of gunshots.

But if she had survived and escaped the dais, the panicked mob wasn't about to stop her now. She squeezed her petite body through whatever narrow gaps she could. When no spaces presented themselves, she made them by shoving, kicking, clawing, even biting her way through. The Xaela was nothing short of hellsbent on getting out of that hellish nightmare of a place, on surviving, and no one and nothing were going to stop her.

[voronyaro]

Upon a trip through Dunland, three days after her companion Coruhuron and Sarte part, he to return to their charges, she to lead the Warg Riders away from the group.

Close to midnight, deep within Dunland, the Gravenwood.

Orcish screaming was aggravating. The creature lurched toward her, flailing it's butcher knife of a sword in nothing less than madness and yelling it's empty curses. Sarte was annoyed. She was too bored to speed her walk and too disinterested to even brace for a fight. She couldn’t even bring herself to fake effort. She hated their voices and their smell and this was the third day of her pursuit. And hunting had never been her favourite pastime but now it might as well be the sound of metal against metal for how tedious she found it.

The orc ran face first into her grip, her powerful fingers gouging into it's blackened cheeks as she finally gagged it's hollering with her palm. It didn't matter that it's flailing cut a line of blood down her thigh and she couldn't even find the inspiration to look into it's gaze and take pleasure from it's abject fear. With a careless lash of her arm and flick of her wrist she simply crushed it's skull against the tree beside her, feeling rather than seeing how the bones shattered against her grip, like glass. Dull.

And the reason for her spiritlessness was so mundane it annoyed her even more. She was just tired. The young were draining. Coruhuron's recklessness and badgering was wearying. Aecthel's sharp questions were tiresome. New acquaintances required so much energy. And now she was alone, wounded, and struggling to find the effort required to give a damn about any of it. It was an expected consequence, a familiar malaise, but one that still put her in a foul mood.

As she shook the ichor from her hand and glanced about the carnage of her own little ambush, she had reason to be grateful that her irritation had a healthy direction. Dead Uruks, dead wargs, dead orcs. No matter how frustratingly simple the task was it was good to see it done, alike to the satisfaction of an organised armoury or clean dishes. At least her anhedonia had not spread so far just yet.

She tossed her head and was halfway through a weary sigh before a sudden sharp bark echoed through the canopy and she snapped her gaze to an orc who, apparently, had been a little late to the event. It was different to the rest, standing at the edge of her massacre, snarling and spitting through it's teeth as it's eyes spun in fear, struck petrified to it's place.

It was a reedy creature, all repulsively lean muscle. Bands of metal and iron-wire stitching seemed all that was holding it together and it's skin was a blotchy grey and polluted brown.

"D-d-d-d-drok-Bujar, Dru-Matum! Dru-Gorgol!" It shrieked, breaking whatever spell held it to turn and flee. Or try too. It took no time or effort for Sarte to bend to the ground and find a weapon. The stone that struck the back of it’s head sent it crashing soundly to the forest floor, doomed to hopelessly try and crawl away before Sarte was upon it, dragging it to it’s back and dropping a heavy knee onto it’s chest. There was little sense to be made of it’s black speech babbling until she had a warning hand around it’s eerily thin neck.

“Gorgol is an old name of mine.” She speaks low, more as a statement than for the sake of curiosity. Still, it draws something from her captive, hissed through frothing teeth. “Raabt survives. Survived it all! Survived Gorgol! Can again, will again!” And it surged to thrash and struggle under her grip, to claw uselessly at her leg and torso before a well controlled squeeze of it’s throat stilled it once more.

“Was this the last of this pack?” She asked, her tone monotonous, her gaze utterly implacable. She had a duty and she would fulfil it no matter how tedious she found it. Raabt’s jaw trembled, its momentary confidence dying by the second though it still held strong for now. And Sarte had no patience, her temper worn to a single thread, begging to snap and toss away this chance in favour of more bloodshed.

She surged in close, her own teeth bared, the light in her eyes a harsh and dreadful glow as her throat grated in a guttural growl.

“Gashn! izg zuub olkurz ob dug grish drûsh jut,” the threat already turned Raabt a vile shade of green but Sarte’ strangle hold tightened and she spat on, “Izg shaplag kraat Raabt agh runk-ul ishi prrall, tram-ub tarthur maath fraut ob koh.”

It’s trembling was pitiful. Reduced to a whimpering mess with but a few words, a disgusting and cowardly thing, as they all were. And she could take no pleasure in it’s terror today, not even sadism could grasp her attention and she couldn’t be bothered to try.

At the very least the orc did not hold it’s silence any longer.

“Raabt is last! Raabt the survivor, always last! Gorgol caught him but Gorgol is too late! Raabt already told the bird, yes! Told that the Gorgol is all alone! No friends to help! Saruman-fool will be the end for Gorgol, burn bite gnash chew, bones into the pits to feast, revenge, reven-!”

She ripped it’s jaw from it’s skull in her haste to silence the babbling, letting it gurgle and bleed out into the forest floor. At the very least, her job was done.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Nearer to Morning, now closer towards the Gap of Rohan.

A little time later and Sarte found herself leaning her back against a rock in the middle of a softly flowing river. The icy cold water slowly soaked away the ichor staining her skin and clothes, but that was the most effort she could put towards her own wellbeing. Her Hroa was strong but her Fea was weary.

She, again, had cause to be grateful for her solitude. She absolutely refused to allow anyone to see her this way, to even for a moment consider this her natural state. She had no time for those Eldar who drowned themselves in the apathy of Age. As if care and passion had ever been anything but a choice, as if they could have seen all the things there were to see, felt everything there was to feel. Sluggards, cowards. So what if it got harder? It was still their responsibility to try, not flee west at every discomfort.

Even animals did not abandon their homes so recklessly.

But that made these moments even more unbearable. To have to look into the sky and tell herself it was beautiful, that she still enjoyed the sound of running water, that the slowly oozing bite to her shoulder hurt, that these things mattered at all. She knew she had move again before she was discovered, but the lack of a clear objective in her mind meant she had nothing to heave her from this paralysis. Stars… what had triggered it? She had been wearied by elven society before, dealt with more than her fair share of reckless soldiers and curious children before. What was it about these ones?

Perhaps… they were too familiar.

Coruhuron hounded after battle like a being possessed, as though he had no mind for anything but vengeance, a fury so potent he had no care for himself and little to spare for others. Just ancient enough for the flames of the fight to be all that can grasp him, not yet wise enough to know how to change. Dark, terrible, burning, sadistic, his loyalty all that binds him… yes, she recognised that all too well. He seemed like both the embodiment of her younger years, and a consequence of them.

She had been him, once. And it was a tiring to remember it.

And Aecthel, eyes so bright and curious, a heart full of valour and with such a vast capacity for compassion. Young enough to rightfully demand the world be better, to still believe that her efforts and the efforts of others could do just that despite all the hardship and ugliness she had already endured. Aecthel was alike to… a silhouette, as though Sarte was seeing the ghost of someone long dead. Recognised, but not remembered. A child she had lost so long ago but whom now looked upon her with betrayal and empathy both and asked ‘How could you do this to us?’

She had been her once. And it was painful to not remember it.

The forest about her creaked through her introspection, the mist of the morning gathering in the base of her little valley as birds chirruped their dramatics. Cold water stung at her slowly numbing skin and she sat so still that a shoal of minnows peaked from their hideaways to come and encircle her fingers and pick at the gash down her thigh.

“Shall we mourn here deedless forever,” She murmured to herself, Quenya slipping from her tongue as easily as the water passed its stones, “a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless…” a small and sudden smirk, her fingers playing a moment in the rushing water, “river?”

She gave a small sigh. The revelation of what she had perhaps already known, but never spoken into reality, seemed to have lifted a little weight from her chest. Knowing the ‘why’ always made the ‘what’ a far more manageable burden to bear. She glanced down to her new finned friends, their manner seeming slower suddenly, more focused upon her than a moment before. A dozen silver eyes stared up at her unblinkingly, flitting here and there, but staying in the circle of her palm.

Her mother tongue ever had such an effect upon the good creatures of the world, a small tether that still held the Noldor to this Middle Earth. Small, but important, and enough for her.

“Though the road be long and hard, the end shall be fair, after all.” She hummed, watching the fish dance at the cadence of her speech even as she wondered how they could hear it beneath the water.

And so Sarte took a deep and bolstering breath and set to work. She resolved not to leave her seat until she loved the sound of water, was curious of minnows and yet disliked the pain of biting teeth enough to flee from both.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Translations:

Drok-Bujar, Dru-Matum! Dru-Gorgol! Bastardized black speech meaning: The demon-knight, dreaded-death, dreaded-butcher!

Gashn! izg zuub olkurz ob dug grish drûsh jut Bastardized black speech meaning: Speak, or I will drain your body of it’s filth blood and fill it with water.

Izg shaplag kraat Raabt agh runk-ul ishi prrall, tram-ub tarthur maath fraut ob koh. Bastardized black speech meaning: I will rinse away Raabt and hang it low in a Holly Tree, it will be defiled/ravaged by sweet roots for the rest of time.

Translations are extended since black speech has no extensions, 'I will rinse away Raabt' would be 'Raabt rinse away' but with a not-english-compatible future tense suffix. Also 'you' has been changed to 'it' here, Hravanis is not verbally acknowledging the Orc as an individual.

[tenscupcake]

electrostatic potential (32/?)

ten/rose. adult this ch. I FUCKIN DID IT! i got an update out! hope those of you that are still here enjoy this chap, and that it’s maybe somewhat worth the long wait. i like this chap. thanks oodles to @aroseofstone​ for the late night beta. summary: as the doctor and rose traverse time and space looking for adventure, they slowly fall victim to a mysterious energy that can manipulate their emotions. Though confused and unnerved by the cerebral affliction, neither of them understands its cause, or realizes that it could jeopardize their friendship. What will it take for them to discover the truth? this chapter on ao3 | back to chapter 1 on ao3

Staring up at the brilliant rainbow of explosions in the sky, his arm looped through Rose’s and weeks’ worth of professional sporting events waiting for them, the Doctor should be ecstatic. He was, in fact, until a few seconds ago, when the entertainment in the sky and the asphalt beneath his trainers and Rose’s presence next to him were all overridden by his merciless time sense.

One persistent timeline tugs hard on his mind, dulling all his senses of the real world until he has no choice but to direct his attention inward.

Without Rose here to shine a light to drive them away, the images hit him full force.

Fleets of Daleks race through a dark sky, slaughtering indiscriminately.

New holes are torn in the walls separating the universes, creating vacuums into the Void.

There’s a cold, dreary beach beneath a grey sky, wind whipping through his hair as if to warn of an approaching storm.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, Rose is screaming...

The details – locations and causes and outcomes – elude him, but these vague flickers are hauntingly familiar. Like the timeline they ignored the other night. And suddenly it’s all unambiguous in one respect: this is a potential future where they’re separated.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, through a thick fog that muffles the sound, the Doctor can tell fireworks are still booming through the sky. And that Rose is saying something over the ruckus.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the nasty images from his mind before they can get any clearer. Trying to pay attention to what Rose is saying.

“Don’t you reckon, Doctor?” she asks, nudging his arm. Waiting for a response to a question he hadn’t heard.

“There’s something in the air. Something’s coming,” he says, trying but failing to shake the fog from his mind, the leaching pessimism the visions have left behind.

“Where?” she asks, searching the display of explosions in the sky for what he’s referring to.

“A storm’s approaching.” He’s trying to explain why he hasn’t been paying attention, why his mood has suddenly plummeted and he can hardly think about anything but the dread settling in his stomach. Why else would anything she asked him go unnoticed, if it weren’t for something as horrendous as a premonition of such a distasteful timeline?

But his brain isn’t functioning properly yet, bogged down by the weight of what few glimpses he’d gotten, so he’s failing spectacularly. She’s not understanding.

“Sky looks clear to me,” Rose says in a light tone, nudging his arm again, trying to lift him out of his mood.

“No, not here. There’s something...” He’s quiet for a few moments, trying to decide just how much he wants to reveal right here in the middle of the street. Or whether he should tell her about any of this at all.

“What, Doctor?”

“I saw something,” he breathes, dropping his head and squeezing his thumb and index finger into his eyes, as though it will dispel the images and noises haunting him.

Instead of asking more vague questions, Rose squeezes his hand a little tighter, nudging at the edges of his mind with hers. Asking permission to shortcut this ineffectual conversation. It’s so easy for her now; when they started he had to tear down walls for them to unite mentally, but a delicate membrane seems to be all that separates their minds now, always ready to give way at the slightest poke from Rose’s mind.

He can’t believe they hardly made it a day before his newfound optimism about their relationship – which he thought was newly immortal – was called into question. He should’ve known better.

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to show her this at all, spoil the perfect evening they were having with this insufferable negativity.

Chances are he’ll slip up while they’re connected at some point later on and divulge everything to her, but even so, he doesn’t want that to happen right now. In the middle of a crowded street where dozens of strangers could recognize him from the torch lighting ceremony, or show concern over a crying woman accompanied by an older-looking man.

He fortifies that membrane, thickening his defences just a little bit, but Rose persists through his attempts to resist.

Impulsively, he lets go of her hand.

“It’s nothing,” he says, too harshly.

Rose’s features contort into a deep frown immediately.

“Can’t be nothin’, or you’d let me see it,” she accuses.

“Just not now,” he amends, trying to soften his voice but failing. “What did you ask me?” he asks.

“It’s nothin’,” she says, clearly just emulating the way he’d said it. Still, he doesn’t want to irritate her further; he deserves to be mocked right now. So he lets it drop.

“All right then,” he shrugs. “Say, where’d you get those cakes with the ball bearings? I could do with a couple more.” He looks around the street, as though there will be a vendor cart serving up the cakes like hot dogs, but of course, the search comes up empty.

“Was a shop,” she says, not looking at him and clearly frustrated. “Few blocks away. Limited edition Olympics thing.”

“Want to go back?” he asks.

“Think they’re out,” she mutters.

“How do you know?”

“I got the last one.”

The Doctor sighs. Somehow, he thinks she’s lying.

“Rose, what’s wrong?” It’s less a question, more a demand.

“Dunno why you won’t tell me what’s goin’ on,” she answers immediately. For that at least, he’s grateful: they’ve danced around their problems for hours on end before, reached record levels of communication failure.

And he figured as much.

“I just didn’t want to spoil the night.”

“Well you ‘ave now anyway, haven’t ya?”

The Doctor runs his hand down his face. She’s right. He should’ve just been better at masking his emotions. It just took him too long to get a handle on himself after something like that. It always does. He wonders what brought it on: a decision someone made? The events of today, settling a few puzzle pieces into place that makes that particular timeline feasible? Ugh, whatever it is, he’d like to undo it. But he can’t.

Them being here at the games could be the very thing that’s sending them careening into that very timeline, but he’d never know it. There’s nothing he can do to steer them into one over the other, and the very thought is enough to send him into a spiral of panic. Maybe it’s best to loop Rose into this, after all. She might be able to soothe him. She always finds a way to do that somehow.

“Want to head back to the TARDIS?” he asks during a lull in the ongoing explosions.

“To talk?” she asks.

He takes a few deep breaths, staring back at her while the fireworks pick up again. It’s jarring, hearing the bursts and fizzling in the sky and distant cheers but feeling so desolate inside. Like he doesn’t even belong in this dimension right now, but he’s trapped here against his will. Rose looks just as out of place amidst the celebration: worried, her eyes shining with unshed tears and that disappointment in him that makes his stomach turn because he knows he deserves it.

When they forged this bond between them stronger, when they made this unquestionable commitment, there hadn’t been a qualification that they’d only share the positives. He knew this was going to be the reality of their connection, having to share both the good and the bad. He just thought they’d get to enjoy a little while longer in their bubble of happiness over Rose’s acquired immortality before it was violently popped.

“Okay,” he agrees, too softly to be heard over the noise. But he nods, too, so she understands what he means anyway.

Without hesitation hesitation, she takes his hand in hers again and leads him back towards the TARDIS.

---

“You sure about this, Rose?” the Doctor asks when Rose insists on getting straight to it as soon as the TARDIS doors close behind them.

“Just come out with it, Doctor,” she says, exasperated. “Bloody hell,” she adds, under her breath. At this point she must know he can always hear her when she does that, but she doesn’t seem to care that he can.

Without vacillating anymore, he beckons her closer to him and touches his fingertips to her temple (it’s still the easiest place to form a link, even if it’s possible anywhere now).

He shows her everything he’s able to, all the flickers of doom he’d seen and heard and felt. Doesn’t bother censoring it, because she’s going to find out the lot of it eventually.

The Doctor can feel the fear seeping into her bones as she experiences it second-hand. The flipside of this connection: she can’t hide its effect on her, either. Once she’s seen it all, he pulls his hand back and stares down at her, watching her pained face and waiting for her eyes to open.

“What is that?” she asks, failing to mask her anxiety.

“The future,” he says morosely. “A future.” He shrugs. “I can’t know for certain.”

“But we’re not together,” Rose says, desperately, as though she’s asking him to fix it for her right now.

“You could feel that, too?” he asks. It hadn’t been explicitly shown, it was merely a sense that permeated the timeline: grief. A mind aching with loneliness.

She merely nods. It’s a moment before she speaks again, but when she does, it’s with a new, but familiar, determination.

“That’s not gonna happen,” she insists.

“Rose, you can’t know that,” he reprimands her gently.

“Yes, I can. We won’t let it.”

The Doctor bites his tongue, taking a deep breath instead of arguing again.

“It’s like we talked about last night. We’ve beaten everything else the universe has thrown at us. This storm approachin’, whatever it is? It can’t be worse than the one that nearly bloody killed me.”

The Doctor lets out a morbid chuckle, though he knows that can’t possibly be true. He has to take a moment to mull over a way to speak without hurting her.

“It’s just... clawing at my mind, Rose. Telling me we’re not safe yet. That we may never be.”

“How can we live our lives like that?” she asks.

“I can’t help it! That’s how I see the universe. Every waking second, I can see what is, what was, what could be, what must not. That's the burden of a Time Lord, Rose.”

“I know!” She clenches her fists by her face, trying to rein in her frustration. “It’s not the fact you can see it that’s upsetting, and you bloody well know that! It’s that you’re dwelling on it. What about all those nice futures we saw, those are all just as likely, aren’t they? Maybe this one’s a chance in a million.”

“Maybe,” he hedges. “But they tend to make themselves known once a timeline has branched off to make it possible.”

“Well...” He can tell she’s scrambling now, to find a way to cheer him up despite everything. “Maybe ‘s only possible now because I saved you. If you’d been trapped in that drawing forever...” she trails off, evidently pleased with her hypothesis. “Nothing would be possible.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledges again, but his own mind remains unconvinced.

“It’s all gonna work out,” she says, rubbing his arm.

“We just finished discussing the fact that you can’t regenerate,” the Doctor snaps, throwing up his arms so that Rose’s hand falls.

“I wasn’t dead,” she voices the thought out loud, getting it out in the open. “I was there, I could tell.”

“But that doesn’t mean –”

“Well, if I’m alive, I’m never gonna leave you, so. That’s that.”

“How can you be so cavalier about this?” he asks, genuinely baffled.

“’M not tryin’ to be cavalier. ‘M scared. Especially for you. Just trying to tell you that if I have any say in it, we’re not going to get split up. That’s what I was sayin’ earlier, actually. The universe keeps trying to split us up. But it never will.”

“Never say never,” he cautions.

“I’ll do what I like,” she counters.

He can’t help but smile. That’s his Rose. Her tenacious optimism is contagious. Even though he’s resisting it with ever fibre of his being, it’s starting to seep in. It’ll probably take ten conversations like this before he comes to terms with this fully, but the process has already started. After more than two years with Rose, he still doesn’t understand how she’s so positive all the time. How she’s so good at lifting him out of his lowest lows.

He opens his arms for her, and she clasps her hands in his before sinking against his chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck. He rubs his thumbs along her hands, and this time, when she offers to reignite their link again, he accepts.

It’s like his veins are suddenly flooded with a warm, liquid sedative. Her optimism and love for him instantly numb his anxiety. She reminds him of what they’d seen the previous night: the rings in his hand, the renovated TARDIS probably decades in the future. As long as she’s here in his mind, her sheer determination to not let this frightening future happen seems like enough to prevent it. Rose Tyler has single-handedly altered the course of history twice now; he really shouldn’t put it past her to do it again.

We’ve got more games to see, Rose reminds him. Maybe we can keep the TARDIS right here for a while. Harder for trouble to find us if we stay put, I reckon.

Fine with me.

He’s tempted to guide them into the Vortex and stay there indefinitely, letting whatever storm this is pass them by unnoticed.

Oh, rubbish, pipes Rose. You’d be bored in a week.

Oi, he retorts gracelessly, would not. Long as you’re there.

You’re sweet.

Well.

He pauses, letting her compliment wash over him. She always seems to like it when he says anything remotely romantic. He should really try to do it more.

Still, he adds. I’m all right with keeping things quiet for a bit.

Me, too.

Want to head to bed? he asks.

Mine or yours?

Mine. He shrugs. If you want.

I do.

They hold hands down the corridor, only parting ways when Rose tells him she needs to wash up and get her pyjamas. Luckily, the TARDIS has placed their rooms directly across from one another for their convenience.

The Doctor heads into his room, crumpling to the floor to wrestle off his shoes before peeling off his suit. Down to just his shirt and boxers, he heads into his en suite to brush his teeth, and wonders whether he shouldn’t just take a shower. Nice and fresh for Rose. Glancing into his spacious shower, his gaze catches on various items he doesn’t recognize. Approaching slowly, he sees 3 unfamiliar soaps, a shampoo and conditioner bottle on the shelf next to his products, and a pink razor that he definitely doesn’t own on the soap ledge.

Oh, blimey.

He turns around, scanning the sink area. Two toothbrushes are perched in his holder. He opens the drawer containing his toothpaste to find two different kinds inside.

Mentally berating the TARDIS, he calls for Rose as he heads back through the door to go and find her before she goes hunting for her missing things. This ship has never been subtle, and does have a tendency for audacity, but it never fails to shock him whenever she pulls these sort of stunts.

He nearly runs into Rose in the doorway to his room.

“Rose,” he repeats, quieter. “The TARDIS, she –”

“Moved my things?” she finishes.

He nods, and points his thumb back towards the loo attached to his room.

“If you’re not ready for that, I will absolutely have a talk with her and make sure –”

“Are you?” she asks.

“I...” he stumbles over his tongue, not expecting her to turn the question back on him. “I don’t mind it.” He shakes his head, cringing at how that must sound to her.

“I’ll probably just keep it, then, if that’s okay. I mean, you did invite me to stay the night, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he nods with enthusiasm, trying to recover. “Yes.”

“Good.” She pinches his bum as she walks past him towards the bathroom.

He walks in slowly after her. She squirts toothpaste onto her toothbrush without seeming like this arrangement is odd, and he watches her for a moment while he contemplates whether he should still take a shower.

“D’you nee’ the shink?” She gestures down to it, her mouth dripping with green froth.

“No, I, er... no.”

Well, if anything will show her he’s actually okay with this, this might.

He pulls off his shirt and pushes off his boxers, enjoying the way Rose’s mouth falls open when she sees him suddenly naked in the mirror.

She turns around, as though checking if the mirror had deceived her.

“What’re y’doin’?” she mumbles through her toothbrush.

“Quick shower.” He reaches around her to collect his own toothbrush, then for the toothpaste and squeezes some on it and quickly steps into the shower and closes the curtain behind himself. Aiming for efficiency, he starts brushing even as he turns the water on and adjusts the temperature for something comfortable. Then something occurs to him.

“Want to join?” he asks, poking his head around the curtain.

She shakes her head.

“Took one before we left.”

It feels a bit too soon for that, anyway. She’s probably not in a very sexy mood, after what just happened. He certainly isn’t. Hopefully someday, though.

He’s done in a short two minutes, and she’s still washing her face when he emerges. He wraps a towel around the good bits and replaces his toothbrush before heading back to his room to get some fresh clothes, not particularly caring if he drips all over the floor. He gets a fresh pair of underwear and a t-shirt for the night, and rubs his towel over his head aggressively to try to dry it as best as he can. Sleeping with wet hair will surely leave him with the worst bedhead imaginable in the morning, but he can always wet it again tomorrow to set it straight.

He hops up onto his bed, making sure to leave plenty of room to one side. He tends to sleep near the middle, but he’d generally slept on the left side of the bed at the hut, so he does the same tonight. He wonders if Rose likes the right naturally, or has a preference at all.

It’s quiet in his room as he waits for her to join him. Aside from the sound of the faucet and Rose tinkering about in there, a bit too quiet. He finds himself missing the constant push and pull of the tide, the gentle slap and spray of water against the wood beneath the hut. He suddenly wishes they were still back there now. He was starting to feel oddly safe there.

Rose has never slept in here before. Each time they’ve wound up in the same bed before, it was either someplace outside the TARDIS they’d accepted hospitality that couldn’t manage to secure them separate beds, or in Rose’s room when she’d asked him to stay after a harrowing day or another. It doesn’t feel wrong though, or premature, her staying here tonight. The thought of always having her getting ready for bed in the loo attached to his bedroom, always settling under his covers, never again having to say goodnight to her in the hallway or the console room and miss her until morning... it’s a brilliant thought. 

Well, he supposes the problem of their mismatched sleep requirements remains. They’ll still be more or less apart while she’s sleeping three or four times more often than he is. But if he does start to miss her while he’s mucking about in the middle of the night, he can still climb into bed and be comforted by her presence. It’s no longer off-limits.

The rules for their relationship have changed so quickly it makes him dizzy when he thinks about it.

Rose emerges the loo and hurries over to the bed, hopping up next to him with what he thinks is some excitement.

The first thing she does is reach for his face, cradling his cheek in her hand as she leans down to press her lips to his. It only takes a moment for them to reconstruct the bridge between their minds, a second to wordlessly agree on where they’d like to relax.

When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by warm sunlight and familiar foliage. Rose pulls back and drops her hand from his face, opting to take his hand in hers instead as they both breathe a little easier in this place.

The divine golden light that consumed the garden the previous night has faded, confirming his theory the effects of Bad Wolf on her psyche were only temporary.

While Rose is wearing the same thing she is in reality – a pair of pink pyjamas, when the Doctor glances down he finds himself fully outfitted in his brown suit, tie and everything.

“I don’t wear this all the time, you know,” he complains, gesturing to the clothes.

“You do, though,” she teases, grinning up at him. “Before this week, I think there’ve been, like, five times I’ve ever seen you not wearin’ it.”

“Well, it’s not what I’m wearing now, is it?”

“Suppose not,” she admits. “I reckon It’s just my brain’s default picture of you.” After a moment of thought, she closes her eyes, her forehead scrunching up in concentration.

By the time she opens them again, his suit has been swapped for the clothes he’d just put on: dark blue boxers and a plain, light blue t-shirt.

“I was only teasing,” he says.

“I know. Still good practice, though.” She shrugs.

A proud grin spreads across his face. She’s a natural at this.

“Nicely done.”

“C’mon,” she says, tugging his hand. “Haven’t been this way yet.”

She leads him down a colourful cobblestone path that extends for only a few dozen feet before it slowly winds up a hill. Though it zig-zags back and forth like switchbacks on a mountain trail, it’s neither steep nor strenuous. Flowers line the trail as it ascends, some stemming directly from the rich green grass, others popping out from tall bushes. They maintain a leisurely pace, savouring the opportunity to escape from reality and admire the scenery. Relax. As the elevation gently climbs, the flora slowly changes colours. Red nearest the bottom, shifting through species from orange to yellow to green... all the way to purple when they near the top. 

A quaint slatted bench lined with wrought iron greets them when they reach the summit, an invitation to admire the view below. There’s a small, aged wooden sign, too, presumably there to inform visitors of the hill’s name. But there’s only nonsense written on it, an assortment of letters that don’t form words in any language carved and painted into the wood.

“How comes it doesn’t have the right name?” Rose asks, nodding to the sign.

“Well, you don’t remember it,” he explains softly. “I can only enhance memories that have faded. I can’t recall things you never saw. It looks real from a distance, but up close, things like books and signs are either empty or gibberish. I can insert something I think is appropriate, if you’d like.”

Rose doesn’t respond aloud, but seems agreeable to such a gesture.

Without being prompted further, he changes it to read ‘Rainbow Crest.’

“Fitting.” She smiles.

The Doctor holds out his arm, indicating she sit down. The view of the garden must be spectacular from up here; he can imagine why Rose wanted them to come this way.

But Rose shakes her head. “C’mere,” she tugs on his arm. “I wanna show you somethin’ first.”

She leads him toward couple of paths that lead off from the top of the hill, to a few special, fenced-off trees and bushes with their own signs and descriptions. But the scenery quickly starts to warp and fade away as it becomes clear Rose has something else to show him here. The path beneath them is replaced by familiar metal grating, the natural green of plants is replaced by the soft green glow of the time rotor.

They’re inside the TARDIS.

“The Doctor always said the TARDIS was telepathic,” a younger Rose explains to a sceptical Mickey. “This thing is alive,” she gestures emphatically to the console. “It can listen.”

“Well, it’s not listenin’ now, is it?” Mickey retorts, unconvinced.

When was this? The Doctor racks his brain for when this conversation might have taken place. Mickey did not travel with them for very long.

“We need to get inside it,” Rose insists. “Last time I saw you, with the Slitheen, this middle bit opened, and there was this light, and the Doctor said it was the heart of the TARDIS. If we can open it, I can make contact. I can tell it what to do.”

Yes. Rose.

Startled, the Doctor glances around the TARDIS to find the source of the encouragement, but quickly realizes no one had spoken. It was the TARDIS herself, quietly spurring Rose on.

Oh.

The Doctor’s hearts nearly come to a stop. The Doctor isn’t here. Or, he isn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t originally present in this memory. As this conversation was taking place, the Doctor was aboard Satellite Five, facing certain death by a fleet of Daleks 200,000 years in the future.

Rose isn’t reacting very strongly to having heard the TARDIS in her mind; she hadn’t heard it the same way he had. To her, it was merely a sense in her mind, calling her to connect, rather than the concrete words that he can interpret.

“Rose,” Mickey interrupts his and past-Rose’s thoughts.

“Mmm?” Rose answers.

She’s formulating a way to execute this plan already, staring down the console without paying Mickey much attention.

“If you go back, you're going to die.”

“That's a risk I've got to take, because there's nothing left for me here.”

“Nothing?” Mickey asks, as surprised as he is wounded.

“No.” Past-Rose is dead set on it.

“Okay,” Mickey concedes. “If that's what you think, let's get this thing open.”

Memories blur a bit from there, as she drags the Doctor forward through time to a point when Mickey is no longer with her in the TARDIS.

Instead, he’s behind the wheel of a hulking yellow truck just outside the doors. A thick chain connects its rear bumper to a panel of the console; its diesel engine roars from outside as Rose and Jackie shout for him to go faster. Tires squeal and metal creaks and groans under the magnificent force until...

The panel explodes from its place on the console, yanked outside the TARDIS along with the chain attached to it.

The blinding golden light emanating from the mutilated panel calls to her again... Rose...

She’s helpless to turn away from it, and after merely a few seconds of staring into the heart of the TARDIS, Rose is consumed by it. The TARDIS doors slam closed of their own accord as the Bad Wolf is born.

The Doctor doesn’t have any time to process what he’s just seen before another, entirely different vivid memory takes its place.

They’re back on Tarohanda, standing just outside Kalei and his family’s home as rain pours in buckets down on the sand, thunder rolling deafeningly around his ears.

A chill runs down his spine as the Doctor realizes precisely which moment in their timeline this is.

The Doctor is just about to realize the storm is moving too quickly, to turn to Rose and to try to tell her they need to go back inside.

But he’s viewing this memory from a different perspective now. Without context of his own, the Doctor would never know that he was present here with Rose at all. She’s not looking at him, staring instead straight into the storm, eyes fixated on the sea as the lightning strikes illuminate the dark sky just off the coast.

Rose... the storm itself seems to call her as the rain falls ever harder, the strikes come ever closer.

There’s a pull deep in her gut, a force she can’t overcome, an instinct as powerful as the one to flee from death.

And so she takes off running through the sand, without so much as bothering to glance over at the Doctor. In this moment, it’s as if he doesn’t exist, the only thing that matters is running in the direction of this call...

Rose...

As quickly as he’d been sucked into these memories, he’s spat back out of them, the stormy afternoon shrinking out of existence as the garden materializes in front of him again.

He buckles at the waist as he catches his breath, taking in everything he’d just seen and felt.

No matter how bad it’s gotten, Bad Wolf has always protected Rose. Kept the two of them together, even when time and space and Daleks have tried to rip them apart. Even when when Rose listening to Bad Wolf’s ethereal call has seemed too dangerous, directly put her in the path of death, even, it’s always been to preserve what they have now. The chance of a future together.

This storm he saw approaching earlier? They’ll stick that out together, too. That’s what Rose was trying to tell him by showing him all this. Bad Wolf was created to get Rose back to him. She wouldn’t have let them get separated. There’s been so much proof of that up until this point.

If she needs to, she will tear apart universes to keep them together.

It’s mythical. Totally against science and logic and everything he believes in. Well, everything except one thing. He believes in Rose Tyler. More than anything. And the Bad Wolf is an impossible concoction of Rose’s determination combined with the TARDIS’ immense power, and both of their concern for him. With that kind of potency, how could she leave any stone unturned? Why go through all that trouble and then, even with full knowledge of all potential futures, merely prolong the inevitable?

He believes in Rose Tyler. He trusts the TARDIS. And he’s suddenly overflowing with faith.

Rather than spoiling such an experience with words, he closes the short distance between them and kisses her soundly. A slow kiss filled with such emotion from them both that he struggles to hold back tears.

“Please don’t leave me.” He pleads between kisses. The downside of Rose and the TARDIS giving him this kind of hope is that it makes him ever more worried he’ll be crushed if he holds onto it.

“Won’t. Can’t.”

They hold one another like they’re about to lose one another forever, tightly and with an edge of possessiveness. But their lips brush together like they’re made of the most fragile materials in the universe, slow and gentle and savouring one another. Both terrified these promises will be broken, it takes a long while of kissing and reassurance before their passion calms and they break away.

“Thank you, Rose.” His forehead rests on hers.

“C’mon, let’s sit.”

Rose leads him to the bench, and they sit huddled closely together in the centre of it, his arm around her shoulders, her resting her head on his chest. They’re quiet for a few minutes, basking in the shared sense of peace their closeness brings as they admire the view.

It is indeed spectacular. They can see the whole garden from here. Some of it is familiar: the pagoda and cherry trees by the pond, the Roman staircase and courtyard of lavenders, the archway of roses leading to a red and pink garden. Other parts they have yet to explore. But they’ve got time to see it all. Centuries of it, he hopes.

But after enough time of staring out at the abundance of flowers in the garden, it reminds Rose of something.

“Those flowers Kalei kept givin’ you, what were they?” she asks, lifting her head.

The Doctor lets out a grumbling sigh.

“I told you I’d remember.”

“I know.” He doesn’t bother putting it off. “The Kaelondaians use them as aphrodisiacs,” he admits, bracing himself for whatever her reaction may be.

“Sounds harmless,” she says.

Huh.

“Not necessarily,” he says. If nothing else, trying to validate his hesitance to confess the truth. “There’s no way to be certain, but it’s safe to assume it’s not like the aphrodisiacs one might find on Earth.”

“How d’you mean?”

“The ones that exist on Earth are extremely mild. But chemicals in the universe exist that can bring about much more intense symptoms. And since the Kaelondians are neither human nor Gallifreyan, I have no idea how it may affect either of our biology. It might do nothing; or affect one or both of us strongly.”

“What do you mean ‘strongly’?”

“Well, some can affect the nervous system, heightening sensitivity. Others act on the brain, artificially elevating libido to supernatural levels. And it can take a long time to wear off. I’d have to run some tests, determine the active compounds to be certain.”

“D’you want to run tests?” she asks.

What?

“Do you want me to?” he asks, surprised.

She shrugs. “I dunno. ‘S long as it’s not dangerous, could be fun.”

“Well, I don’t think we need flowers to have fun.” He scoffs, a little indignant.

“True. We don’t.” Her tone is strangely playful. Almost flirtatious.

The Doctor gasps as Rose tries to communicate just how much she believes that. He turns to her, feeling his face heat up as desire sneaks up on them both in a rush.

While he’s still trying to catch up to her level, she lifts up to kiss him. After the stressful day they’ve had (especially one he’d intended to be fairly stress-free), it feels so good to be intimate again that it escalates quickly from there. Rose climbing onto his lap, hands wandering, hips rocking forward. Both of them finding the bright sunlight and wooden park bench less than ideal for what they have planned, they ease their way out of the garden and back to the Doctor’s bed. They both lose focus as they return to the real world and things get heated, their link focused on pure sensation.

Before he knows it, they’re both shirtless and Rose is lying on top of him, nibbling on neck as she grinds gently against him. It doesn’t matter much there’s still two layers of clothes between them, his physiology is screaming with impatience for release in a short matter of minutes. It helps that she knows the sensitive spots on his neck and that he can feel every little zing of friction that she can (this particular activity is undeniably more effective for her than it is for him). But even if she weren’t touching him at all, he thinks it might be just as effective. She’s become something of an expert at knowing how to turn him on from the inside out.

As much as he’d like to continue in the fashion they’re going now and watch Rose on top, his traitorous mind goes back to Rose’s offer from this morning. Curiosity-driven as he is, he can’t stop trying to imagine what it’d be like. His only frame of reference is being inside her, and his knowledge of how her mouth feels when it’s against his. Combining them could be something totally unique. He hasn’t thought much of it before today, but since Rose enjoys it, and she really did influence this incarnation so much…

Thought so, Rose’s voice suddenly cuts through his mind.

She doesn’t waste any time after that, her lips descending down from his neck to his chest as she lifts up onto her knees to move around more easily.

Oh, blimey she’s moving fast.

Fast enough that nerves start to set in.

“Rose, you really don’t have to right –”

He was going to say now, but with her hand firmly on his torso, she sends a very strong, wordless message for him to shut up.

I know I don’t have to, she says more clearly. I want to.

He swallows hard but doesn’t protest any further, trying to prepare himself for this. He’s glad he decided to take a shower, after all.

Rose is so eager to grant his request that when she slides his boxers down off his hips she doesn’t even bother to take them completely off – just bunches them around his thighs.

Rose takes his length lightly in her fist, and he takes a deep breath. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He’s done it for her; there’s nothing embarrassing about it.

Lowering her head, she takes the tip of his length between her lips, running her tongue in a circle as she suckles gently. He breathes out a string of curses in Gallifreyan, the words getting squeakier and less intelligible as he goes. His eyes roll back so far it almost hurts.

He’s hesitant to say anything is better than being inside her properly. But even if it’s not better, it’s just as magnificent. He never thought he’d say it, but even though she’s barely started, he thinks it’s an instant tie.

It’s just different in all the right ways. Still warm, with enough wetness to make the friction all pleasure no pain. But the variety inherent in having Rose controlling every single aspect of it, the contrast of texture between her soft lips and rough tongue, the glorious unpredictability of how far she’ll take him in on each dip of her head...

Even if his eyes were open, he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to see anything. it’s too much.

Rose lets out a moan that sends tiny vibrations through his length. She tries to mute it but it’s high and desperate for more. She can feel this too, and she’s enjoying it. Thoroughly.

He rushes out a few more high-pitched curses on a rough exhale. He’s not normally one for cursing but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s too much Rose, it’s too much,” he pleads, but she knows he’s lying. She can feel everything. It’s only too much because he’s going to finish in about five seconds and embarrass himself.

She lowers her mouth a bit more, just barely grazing her teeth, sucking gently as she goes. He begs her and non-existent deities and every star he can think of that he’ll last a little bit longer. She starts to sink down a bit further, then pulls back, dragging the length of her tongue along his length as she does. Again and again in a slow rhythm that feels so good he never wants it to end, but that’s exactly why it will. And soon.

He might as well enjoy the five seconds he’s got. He wrenches open his eyes and sees her, hair falling around his hips, her eyes closed. Watching him disappear between her wet pink lips is too much. The coil can’t tighten any more. His fingers and toes curl in tandem as he groans, trying to stave off his own biology to a degree he’s never done before.

She senses he’s tensing up, and slows down even more, intent on dragging this out as long as she can. She moans again, clenching the fist at the base of his length. That’s all it takes, though. He feels every muscle in his body seize up, his eyes screw shut again, his hips thrusting up into her mouth as it cascades over him. He curses and gasps his way through it, all the while Rose whimpers with pleasure as she laps at every drop.

All he can do for a while is lie there, limp and in disbelief as he catches his breath. He senses Rose lying down beside him, equally breathless, but he can’t muster the stamina to open his eyes to greet her. You’d think he’d just run twenty miles with the way he’s gasping for breath.

And yet his times senses tell him that only lasted forty-two seconds. And suddenly he is absolutely mortified.

He eventually manages to open his eyes, but for a long minute he just stares up at the ceiling in horror rather than over at her, feeling like an absolute adolescent.

Rose touches a hand to his arm and effortlessly reopens their link.

Don’t be embarrassed, she says. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just that good.

“Good?” he says sarcastically, turning to her with a smirk. “No, Rose…” He covers his face with one hand, shaking his head. Good doesn’t cover it. He’s never experienced anything like that before.

“I’ll have to make a habit of it, then,” she grins, her tongue poking between her teeth.

The Doctor growls and rolls on top of her, claiming her mouth. He grinds against her out of habit and possessiveness, and he can already feel himself throbbing to life again against her thigh. Just thinking about what she’d just done… how it felt… her mouth, warm and wet and her tongue, coarse and curious…

He groans indecently into her mouth. Oops. Somehow he’s already hard again.

He can feel her pleasant surprise through the link, but she’s not ready to stop kissing him yet. She likes it when he gets a little rough, when their teeth click a little, she can nibble on his bottom lip, and she can hardly breathe between deep kisses.

“You know… I was serious. We could stay on the TARDIS forever,” he suggests when she finally pulls back for air. “Or at least… for a long time.”

Rose raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Where’s this comin’ from?”

“You know… safety. That’s all. You’re right. It’s dangerous out there.” He lowers his lips to her neck, grinding against her a little harder.

“Time for another round?” she asks, grinning as she pulls his head back to look at her.

“Rose, I can’t possibly… ask…”

“None of that.” She shakes her head. “It feels good for me too, remember?” She’s already making her way down his body, nipping at his skin and soothing it with her lips as she goes.

She’s taking his length in her gorgeous mouth again before he can stop her.

He clenches his fists in the sheets, trying to brace himself for another round of this. He doesn’t know what he’s ever done in his ten lives to deserve this.

“Just bein’ you’s enough,” she breathes against his length, glancing up to meet his eyes.

As she cradles his balls in her other hand and lowers her mouth once more, he realizes how much power she has over him. She could use this for leverage to get basically anything she wants, and he’s fairly sure she knows it.

But right now he can’t convince himself that’s a bad thing.

[talizorahs]

Gency 43

thank you toki for the ask!! im going to trawl through all these prompts i swear

ask me?

—

43. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me” / Gency

read it on ao3

“ Brrrzt .” The comm crackles and all three of their cleanup team start in surprise. Winston had ordered radio silence until Alpha had infiltrated the rogue processing centre deep in the Russian hinterlands. “We’re - we’re…. brrrrzt …”

“Alpha? Do you read?” Seventy-Six is crisp and clean, but dread sets in over Genji. This wasn’t expected to be an easy mission for the infiltration team. Complications were expected, but not so early in the plan.

“Heavy fire. Need - brrrrzt …. Evac-”

The terrorists weren’t meant to be well-armed, just smart. That is why the one-and-only Jesse McCree had been leading the charge into the chilled plant, rumored to be holed up with prototype Eradicators. Not fully working ones, just prototypes, incapable of firefight.

Perhaps not. Rumors were often wrong. Seventy-Six’s forehead lines deepen as he scowls at his comm like it’s offended him, then scuffs his cheek with his gloved thumb.

“Get a move on, Beta,” he growls, rifle upended over their makeshift cover in the snow. It’s fucking freezing, but they barrel over the hill and towards the distant echoes of gunfire.

Genji’s sword arm is itching for a fight, elected for recon and cleanup today much to his dismay, but it meant Lena got to sit at McCree’s right hand and slip into her old slipstream groove. Seventy-Six is antsy, too, and Lúcio had been oddly quiet during their brief stakeout.

“Get me some eyes down there, Beta. What’s going on? What happened?” Winston sounds urgent, his words hot in their ears, even tucked away safely back at Gibraltar.

“Your intel was wrong,” Seventy-Six answers, cut and dry, despite the high-speed charge he leads through the snow towards their doomed Alpha team. He sounds - angry, almost. “Eradicators are up full force.”

Now, dismay: “Alpha…?”

“On our way to them.” A beat, then Seventy-Six adds more softly, “It’s not an easy job, Winston.” It’s the sort of tone he used to reserve for wounded soldiers and funeral eulogies; the sort of tone he used on Genji once.

Winston doesn’t like it, either. “I didn’t ask for your counsel. Alpha are my responsibility, I’ll deal with them. You do your job, get them out.”

“Hey, guys,” Lúcio interjects, more a whimper than a bang, “we’re approaching. We got this, big guy.” Then, a glance at Seventy-Six, “Sir.”

Sure enough, over the oppressive haze of the snow, a building rises up out of the white, and the sound of gunfire suddenly reaches Genji’s eardrums full force. So does the renewed hiss of the comm in their ears.

“Jack?” Genji’s heart stops with his feet as they enter the outskirts compound: Angela.

Seventy-Six has a hand to his visor, peering through the snow at the concrete highrise of the facility. Looking for entry points, as calm as a soldier. He’s lucky the visor hides his eyes. “Ziegler? We’re here, what’s your status? Where’s McCree?”

“Jack…. I….” She breathes harshly, setting Genji’s heart on edge. “They got out. I think. Escaped the ambush… Those eradicators never were fast.”

There’s still gunfire piercing through the snow, but Genji can’t hear it through the comm on Angela’s end.

“The scientists?”

“Went after the Jesse and Lena.”

“And you? Doctor Ziegler? Are you alright?” She certainly doesn’t sound alright, hence the question slips urgently from Genji’s lips at Seventy-Six’s incompetent silence as he thinks, or perhaps tries to get through the others. It’s not important.

“I…. I was hit. It’s not major - but -”

“Where are you,” demands Genji, without missing a beat.

“Stuck - a little. Jesse tried, but they had to leave me. Promised he’d come back…. But…. they sound occupied. I don’t know - I don’t-”

“I can’t raise them,” Seventy-Six adds, then spares a glance to the two of them, where Lúcio also comes up with nothing but static. At least the snowfall isn’t so bad here they have a clear connection to Angela. Injured, trapped in a firefight, alone, Angela.

Genji’s dread settles into icicles through his heart, much colder than the wind which bites at his joints. That decides for him, and the insistent twitch of his arm for the weight of his sword, to end these men for putting Angela in harm’s way.

“I’m going to get her.”

He’s halfway over the wall, enough to ignore Seventy-Six’s objections, then again over the comms. He blocks him out - literally - and tunes into Angela instead, whose breathing is laboured, harsh and fast, like she’s sweating out a bad fever.

“Angela? I’m coming. Jack and Lúcio - they’ll find the others. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Genji…?”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

She huffs, almost like a laugh, Genji can’t tell over the scratchy texture of the comms. “They…. should have had you. Instead of me. This wouldn’t have happened…. otherwise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The information was wrong, they were waiting for you. That’s not your fault, or McCree’s, or Lena’s.”

“Oh… you’re right. You’re always right. About this mission, too, working with Seventy-Six - Jack. You said to me…. about…. bad feelings.”

She’s rambling, trying to keep talking, so Genji speeds up. He’s over the security walls easily, then slips into the building, between the empty shipping crates which previously contained the supposedly inactive Eradicator units. Alpha was tasked to sneak in right through the front door, in with the merchandise, but didn’t count on their cargo wanting the blankets back - by the sounds of it.

With the units compromised, it was then planned for them to go on and take back the scientists, with the threatened life of their oppressive creations. Seventy-Six, Lúcio and Genji were to assist with this once the men were secured.

McCree had it planned to a T. Lena and him were happy with their gunpower, and Angela knew her way around the back of an Eradicator, and a man’s mind. She was their decommissioning and bargaining chip in shutting down these terrorists before more forces could be deployed to the Russian omnics.

A genius. Genji’s appreciation for her skills and work ran for miles, even before he got to his deep admiration for the woman herself. She knew this, of course, and entertained him and the changed man he was. They made good company for each other, in the turmoil Overwatch was as it resurfaced out of the ashes, with some flames rekindled more than others.

“I’m inside, Angela. Run it down with me. Where are you?”

She takes a moment to answer, “… back room, two corridors down. Yes, two. Or three? I don’t - don’t remember. Genji, I don’t remember, it’s…. Three. Must be. We ran from them, as fast as we could but-” She inhales sharply, like she’s been shot, likely what she’s remembering.

Genji grits his teeth, darting down the main corridor, noting easily the signs of battle - scuff marks, shells, bullet holes. A used flashbang. This had been less than three minutes ago and yet, not fast enough.

God damn Seventy-Six. God damn Overwatch. Angela deserved better than trapped in a freezing back room, her comrades forced to leave her, Jack Morrison more concerned about their mission than his friend’s life.

“I hope Jesse and Lena are alright,” she breathes, as Genji stakes out the second corridor to be sure, every room and cupboard in the vicinity. “Jesse was - apologising. He does…. a lot of that now. He reminds me a lot of Reyes, you know?”

That makes Genji wince, so does the splotch of blood as he turns the corner into another stretch of doors. There’s bullet holes in the far wall, scorch marks, and tracks on the floor. The bots had been through here.

“Said he - didn’t want to leave. But I got stuck…. He was already hit, Lena was running out of charge. I…. I had to let them. Couldn’t let them get hurt.”

“The rest of Beta went to find them. You don’t have to worry.”

She seems to deflate at that, albeit shakily.

“Jack will take good care of them. I…. I know he will. Despite all the bad things we say about him. He…. means well, Genji.”

He’s not having this discussion with a half-delirious, likely cold and trapped Angela. Finding her was the first predicament, rescuing her from wherever she was stuck, was another story. The blood trail was leading him deeper into the maze of doors, until eventually he came to it - a door slightly ajar, he could see movement inside, and lights, too. The Caduceus, maybe? Angela must have used it on herself to treat her wound however serious it was.

“Angela?”

He reaches for the comfort of his sword over his shurikens, wanting that weight in his hand, so he can replace it with Angela’s hand as they escape this wretched place.

Except - it’s not that simple.

“Genji…”

She’s there, alright, trapped in a stand off with two Eradicators at the corner of the room. There’s blood soaked through her white suit, slick on one of her hands which is pressed to her side. Her other hand is curled around her gun, which waveringly points at one Eradicator. The other points its gun at her, orange eyes narrowed, but eerily completely still.

Waiting.

Genji freezes, too.

“It’s… okay. You can come closer. I…. figured it out.” He approaches cautiously, sword trained on the omnic which threatens her life. She’s standing, he realizes, wobbling on her own two feet despite her wound. Sweating, too, and trembling. Bleeding. Smiling at him, like she’s still the doctor and he’s a patient who needs reassuringly. “Prototypes…”

He stops between the two bots. The one Angela has subdued is frozen mid-fight, gun raised to reload, not to attack. The other has come to its defense. There they have stopped, and so has Angela, who this whole time, could not have moved at the risk of her own life.

He dreads so much it eats itself into full blown fear. He has to get her out of here before something happens, before whatever holds them here breaks, and a bullet lodges itself between her eyes.

“The reason they’re so…. dangerous. Is they are self-preserving. Won’t harm let harm come to itself, or each other. Like humans. What we always feared…. being replaced, or bettered.” She coughs out something like a laugh, her raised arm trembling visibly, finger hovering on the trigger of the tiny blaster. “Here… it is. Self-preservation, robot form. They won’t harm me…. unless I shoot the other.”

Now Genji understands: stuck. Injured, too. Cold, uncomfortable. And Seventy-Six too far away to contact for aid, chasing down the others, because he had run off without thinking.

Fear bites at him, shortening his breath. Angela smiles again, painfully.

“It’s… alright. Genji. I’ve had…. had time. To think. I can do it, if you take out the other.”

“No!” he answers immediately, stepping forward, but shying - yet the bots do not make a move, at his movement or raised voice. “No,” he says, again, insistent. “I won’t let them harm you.”

She huffs that strange laugh again. Genji doesn’t like it. “I…. I don’t think you have a choice.”

Genji grinds his jaw in frustration, looking between the two bots, and Angela, who shouldn’t have the strength to waver on her feet for as long as she has. He doesn’t have long before she collapses and the decision is made for him.

The sword bounces in his hand as he looks again with renewed vigor, and the shurikens itch at his wrist. He could time them together, or perhaps with a dash of his sword - either could work, but that’s not good enough to bid Angela’s life on.

“Genji…” she implores gently, at what must have been helpless painted across the green visor. “I am…. alright. I can do this.”

“No,” he answers back, firmly, sparing her a single glance - seeing her fingers tremble and her knees shake can only stir so much fear into his human heart. “I always have a choice. You told me this. That is why I am here, because I had a choice. I chose Overwatch. I chose you. And I choose the same again, now.”

He readies his sword, calls upon the tethers to the spirits, opens himself to the green which pours into the room. He breathes it in like smoke, then with a cry, it happens more quickly than how he ended to Hanzo’s blade all those years ago.

A shout, a flash of green, orange, yellow. A scream, a tangle of limbs, a crash as mangled bots clutter to the floor. Then - nothing.

The dragon releases Genji, and he releases his sword. Angela is crumped on the floor unmoving, one of the ruined bots guns is smoking. Fear takes him, propels him forward to her side, where he takes her hand and her head, cradles her off that cold and awful concrete floor.

“Angela? Angela!” He shakes her, desperate for a response, and there it is as he wishes - the pinch of her face as she shifts minutely in his arms. “Squeeze my hand, Angela.” He needs that confirmation, solid in his metal fingers, so he can move her somewhere safe. “I need to know you can hear me.”

“Can…. can…. Hear you. Genji,” she murmurs back, ever so softly, that he collapses in relief against her. The faceplate comes back on command, so he can touch his forehead to hers and feel the flutter of her breath against his cheek. “Didn’t…. didn’t get me….”

And sure enough, it didn’t. In the wall behind where Angela’s head had been, there was a clean rifle mark. She was solid and breathing in his arms, alive and safe.

“You’re safe,” he breathes in return, sparing a glance to the smoking remains of the omnics, too. Self-preservation - he can’t imagine the calculating drive they hold to stay alive, or how Angela Ziegler still beat them with a hole in her side.

Her hand is still pressed to the wound, so he covers it with his own, pressing down hard. She hisses in pain, shifting uncomfortable in his arms, while he murmurs apologies and tries to figure out the best way to get them both back to the entrance, to find Jack and the others and get out of here.

“S’not…. bad. Genji. M’okay.”

“Slurring at me isn’t a good convincer.”

She chuckles, eyes sliding open to find his face. She smiles again, that reassuring smile he wishes he could wipe off her face, because she’s the injured one, not him. It makes a change, but not one he wishes to get used to.

“Got me there.”

He uses that pause to shift a limp arm around his neck, to get the both of them up off the ground. His other hand stays pushed firmly to her side, to keep that wound well within his reach, and to support her as Genji rises to his feet.

Angela hangs from his side, head drooping, then shifts so her chin lulls into the crook of his shoulder. He wishes at times like these, he were still a men, so she had the warm comfort of his skin as they make this trek back. Of course, she doesn’t seem to mind, settling there all the same, not complaining as Genji starts them at a slow pace back the way he came.

“Thank you,” Angela starts, as they leave the room, Genji not sparing a glance to the destroyed Eradicators behind him, “for rescuing me. And saving my life. I…. I would be surely dead without you.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself,” he answers equally as earnesty in return.

There’s that huff again, and she raises her head to spare a glance at his face. It’s there, with seemingly the last of her strength, she lifts her chin to plant a kiss on his cheek.

The blush warms his face, and her shy smile warms his heart, setting the gentle pace back to the front door. Seventy-Six and McCree are nowhere in sight in the cargo bay, so Genji deposits them both behind a larger crate, shielded from the wind and snow. Angela curls into his shoulder, breathing slow. He tucks his chin on top of her head, an arm around her shoulders, and his other hand still pressed to her side.

“Winston? Are you there?” Seventy-Six had been able to reach Gibraltar from their trek over here, the long-distance comms should work for Genji from in here.

To his relief, there’s a breathless, immediate answer, “Reading you. We’ve had silence for the past ten minutes, what is going on down there.”

“I have Angela - Doctor Ziegler. She’s injured, we need immediate evac. The others are still unaccounted for. It’s…. just us.”

The gorilla sighs deeply. “I can dispatch a shuttle from Omsk, E.T.A. about six and a half minutes. It can’t stay, not if the zone is still red with Eradicators. I need you all out of there, Genji. Safe and well, too, if possible.”

“I understand. You…. want me to go after the others?”

He sighs again. “I… no. Angela. How is she?”

She stirs at her name, raking in a breath to look at Genji. “Here, Winston. She’s alright, still conscious, but bleeding badly from left side. Laser wound, looks deep. Faced off with two omnics alone.”

“Alone?”

“Complicated…. Winston,” she breathes in answer, a hint of a smirk in her voice. “Tell you once we’re all home safe.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Doctor.” Then, to Genji: “You can’t leave her?”

“I could, but the location of the other bots and the others are unknown. Or she could freeze. I…. I don’t know what the best course of action is, Winston.”

“You…. could hook up the Staff,” Angela suggests, curling deeper into Genji’s side as she does. There’s a shiver, a certain glassiness in her eyes he doesn’t like. Of course, the Caduceus is strapped to her back, in favour of the gun in the stand off with the Eradicators. “I can wait. Will… be okay, you two. Promise.”

“Genji, we need the others here. The shuttle’s dispatched, looking at less than six minutes for E.T.A. You all need to get out of….”

The rest of what he says is drowned out by shouting, gunfire, and the unmistakable sound of Jesse’s boots hard on the concrete. Genji starts at the noise, neck craning, and Angela is just as agree to see the rest of her team safe.

“Left! One more!” That’s Seventy-Six, out of breath, but alive.

There’s a hum of soothing music that settles over them both as the voices near - Lúcio boosts the group into the cargo bay, and makes Angela sigh into his side, glad for the relief. If it’s for the appearance of the others, or of Lúcio’s ambient biotic emitters, it’s unclear. Likely both.

Jesse grunts, fires off all six shots in his revolver, and then Lena blinks into existence beside them. As in, completely beside them, on top of Genji’s foot. She stumbles, then falls flat into his lap, and Angela’s, too.

All three of them blink in surprise. Then, Lena splits into a massive grin, and hugs them both with a cry. “You’re both alright! And Angie! Oh, Angie, I’m so glad you’re alive, Genji found you, I’m so relieved-”

Six more shots ring out, cutting Lena off. There’s a crash, deafening in the sudden silence, but it’s definitely a bot which crashes to the ground as metal scatters across the concrete wherever the last of the fight took place.

“That’s the last of them,” Seventy-Six breathes a deep sigh of a relief. “You couldn’t get Angela or Genji up on the comms?” Is his next question, despite Genji’s quarrels before.

“No, sir,” McCree answers, “I’m-”

“They’re hereeeeeeee! Jesse! I found them! Fell over them! Literally!”

Angela’s smile is somehow filled with pain than before as Lena sprawls across them both, grinning like it’s Christmas. Seventy-Six, McCree and Lúcio all appear at once from around the corner of the crate, and the relief is written all over their faces, too.

McCree is holding his arm, but still swaggers like nothing’s wrong. Lúcio hones in on Angela immediately, where Lena gives way, the medic getting to work settling her against the crate with the hum of his music growing in a slow crescendo.

“You found her, then.” Of course, Seventy-Six is ever-short with Genji, in a quiet conversation while the others fuss other Angela. “You were stupid for running off without orders, but I’m fucking glad you found her.”

“Me too.”

“It won’t happen again, will it.”

“No.”

“Good.” Seventy-Six straightens, then glances out to the snow billowing past the entrance. “Winston, it’s Morrison. Everybody’s secure. We need a ride out of here.”

“Already sorted,” Genji says, with a slight incline of his head. He’s trying not to be smug about it. “I comm’d before, and was about to go and look you for all. Luckily, we all found each other. And are safe.”

“Lucky indeed,” agrees Seventy-Six.

“What about the scientists?” Their absence suddenly flags to Genji, whom they were tasked to capture, not be rescued from. “Did they…?”

“Escaped.”

“Unfortunate.”

“It is, but it was that, or McCree come home without his other arm.” Now Morrison does sound relieved again, that he managed to save all of them - Angela from the omnics, and Jesse from whatever horrors they faced tracking down the last of the bots and their creators. It sounded tense, perhaps as bad as Angela’s ordeal trapped with something not quite human pointing a gun to her head. “I know I made the right choice.” He gives McCree a sparing look as he hovers over Angela now, then gives Genji a nod. “…. Thank you, really. For helping to bring her home.”

“You all did well, given the extreme circumstances,” Winston joins in again over the comm, picking his moment. Genji settles back into the crate, smoothing his hand over Angela’s, who squeezes back as she speaks with the others. “The shuttle should be arriving shortly. Let’s get you all home.”

Genji likes the idea, even if home that night is sat up beside a hospital bad, with a miserably perched Angela on uncomfortable pillows. Returning home to Gibraltar is better, even empty-handed after their mission, because Angela is there and gets time to rest and recover. He doesn’t mind the extra company he gets to keep with her, not one bit.

[euphoric-melancholyy]

On Sleepless Roads (1/3)

This fic is a love letter to the characters of Emma Swan and Killian Jones. It is a fic that has been in the works for over nine months and I am so excited to share it with everyone. It started with filming spoilers of our favorite female protagonist being stabbed on a dark, foggy night in Storybrooke and it grew from there. Season 6 Canon divergence. 

(Tagging @acrobat-elle and @lovebecomeshim upon request.) 

Ao3    FF   Part 2  Part 3

One night of peace is all they were granted before the next crisis began. One night to recover from the aftermath of darkness and secrets, hell and death, before Mr. Hyde made his presence in town known. But with Killian by her side, it didn’t seem to matter in the long run. The moment she saw him above the place his body had been laid to rest, a question in the call of her name, she decided to fight for her own happiness. Maybe the savior could have a happy ending as well. Maybe this was it.

That was what she had believed before she found herself here.

“Ah, the infamous Savior. Do you really think yourself a match for me?” She can’t see his face, the cloaked figure that’s far too reminiscent of past Dark Ones. With the edge of his blade threatening Henry’s throat, she draws her sword, sighing in relief when the action grants her son’s release. Killian grabs Henry the moment he’s near.  

Cold air bites at her skin, slips into the gap between her sweater and back, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She tightens her grip on her father's sword. “I think you’ll find yourself surprised.”

“Perhaps. But you can’t fight wounded.” She feels the ground give beneath her first - knees stinging with a thud as they hit concrete. There’s a thick sticky crimson covering her hands where she’s holding them at her side and oh god -

The dagger poking out of torn flesh burns - a hot searing pain that stifles her breathing. It hurts. It aches, throbbing with a sharp pain paralleled by nothing she has felt before. Her cry is a high pitched wince as her body curves into itself and dammit it hurts. She tries to focus on the roughness of the unpaved road at her knees, but she can feel the sensation fading, can feel herself fading with it. The moment she moves, a small shift as her legs give out, it comes back with a fury.

Muffled words grow louder as the world around her comes back into focus, Killian’s panicked voice the only thing she can hear.

“What’s wrong? Emma, Emma, love talk to me!”

Her eyes burn too, and she tries to blink against the dust clouding them, moaning in pain at the knife lodged into her side. “Killian,” she breathes, leaning into his chest as his arms wrap around her. Magic pulsates beneath her palms but does nothing to heal the wound or stop the bleeding. “Son of a bitch.” It's gritted between closed teeth, and she tries again to no avail.

Killian’s hand is cold as it roams across her shoulders and down to her back, frantically searching for something he can’t seem to find. He repeats her name, a panicked fear she can feel rise in his chest with every inhale.

“I’m-” His hand finds hers with calloused fingers pressing further into the wound - adding kerosene to what might have been a dulling spark. She reels forward as the lights flicker on, an anguished cry at the contact. It seems to summon Henry, the absolute last person she wants to see her in this state. But before she can tell him to leave, he's scavenging for keys as Killian lifts her into his arms. Her request would have fallen on deaf ears anyway.

“Come on, Swan. I’m getting you to a hospital.”

-/-/-

She wakes to white, blinking in finally clear vision. The persistent beeping from machines and wires twisted around her arm only add to her disorient and she hears more than feels the familiar crinkle of leather shifting next to her. Curved, cool metal rests atop her hand that she now registers as being interlocked with Killian’s. It’s a second of blissful peace - another stolen quiet moment that only a couple nights ago, she thought they’d never have again. She turns her head to his, thumb reaching up to smooth the worry lines etched into his forehead. Reality, however, is setting back in, and with it is a rising panic. “What happened?”

“Your faithful pirate and son brought you in a few hours ago,” Dr. Whale begins. She wants to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he seems to be Storybrooke’s only doctor. In the end she settles for avoiding eye contact. “You were pretty out of it, something about being stabbed. But whatever it was, you were in a lot of pain. So, I sedated you and ran some tests.”

“What are you talking about? I was stabbed.” She looks to Killian, the confusion furrowing his brows creating a deep anxiety in her chest.

“Hook, would you like to tell her what you told me?” Whale asks.

Killian nods, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Love, what do you remember?”

“We were in front of Gold’s shop and Hyde had one of his minions there, a guy in a black cloak, so I couldn’t see his face. He threatened to hurt Henry, so I pulled my sword and the next thing I know, he stabs me. Then you brought me here.”

“Emma,” It’s barely a whisper, his face breaking. There’s an unease that settles in the silence that follows. It’s the first chance she gets to really look at him. His leather jacket is hanging on the arm of his chair, and instead he’s donning a pair navy pajama pants she bought him with a plain white tee. His hair is a complete mess and she itches to run her fingers through it, tame what sleep and worry has done. He gives her a soft smile, saddened blue eyes staring into emerald, and she bites her bottom lip. “We were sleeping- you woke up screaming. . .You weren’t stabbed.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can muster. When Henry first came to her door, telling a tale of a cursed town and parents that loved her and sent her through a magical wardrobe to protect her from the doom they were to face from the Evil Queen, it was the first of many times where Emma Swan had difficulty in discerning reality from fantasy. Everything she knew was flipped on it’s axis, and yet her gut told her it was right. But this. . .

She would have put everything she had on it being real. How could something so vividly painful not be? It’s not as if Emma is unfamiliar with nightmares-- she spent the majority of her life learning to differentiate between the shadows in her dreams and the ones in her waking hours.

Maybe her sanity was left in the Underworld.

“You’ve been through a lot lately, between all that drama with your parents and then becoming The Dark One. Not to mention losing our boy here-”

“What exactly are you getting to, Whale?” She interrupts, the fear and anxiety shifting into anger.

“Maybe I’m not the doctor you should be seeing. Maybe, and I’m not a psychologist, but maybe your subconscious was channeling what happened with Hook, how he died, into your dream. You’ve been under almost constant stress. Saviors aren’t exempt from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Yeah and doctor’s aren’t exempt from bad dye jobs.”

“Emma! You're awake!” Snow exclaims as she walks into the room with David. Dr. Whale takes their entrance as a chance to exit and Emma sighs. As welcome as her parents interruption is, there are still questions about what the tests read that she would like answered. But mostly she dreads telling them it might have all been in her head.

“Is Henry okay?”

“He’s fine.” David replies, sending a small smile in Emma’s direction.  “A little freaked out and worried, but we all are. How are you feeling?”

“Better...Can we go home now?”

Her eyes find Killian’s at the end of the question, her heartbeat evening out at the understanding reflected back. It’s their own secret language, reading beneath the surface of what words are not spoken. The words that are laced with worry and anxiety, that say I’m scared and tired. She wonders if he feels it too.

“Aye, love. But first,” he unhooks her from the machines that keep her bound in the small, fluorescent lit room. “We wouldn’t want to take this bloody, beeping contraption with us.”

“Are you sure?” Emma can see the hesitance written on her mother’s face before she speaks. It's obvious by the bags under her eyes that Emma isn't the only one who’s had difficulty sleeping lately. “I mean, what did the doctor say?”  

“It’s nothing.”  Emma knows they’re worried for her; even with it being nearly quarter to five in the morning, she doesn’t miss the pinched expression flash across her mother’s face. But her head is swimming and her stomach churns with what she’s afraid to admit and all she wants is Killian’s lips pressed to the base of her throat, his arms tightly wrapped around her middle, holding her together from a wound she didn’t receive. “Can we just talk about it in the morning? I’m really tired and I want to get out of here.”

“Uh,” Snow nods, glancing over at David before continuing.  “Sure. Why don’t you two come stay with us tonight? I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

“Rain check? I kinda just want to go home. But I’ll see you all later, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long night.”

She hugs her parents before departing with her arm snaked around Killian’s waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

They move slowly through the streets, Emma leaning her full weight against her pirate. He keeps his arm tight around her, though her grip is tighter, humming softly to her as the birds wake and harmonize. It’s not until he’s helped her up the stairs, his kisses soft against her hairline and his fingers moving deftly to disrobe her jacket and clothes, that she realizes it’s a lullaby. She wants to ask him where he heard it, if his own mother sang it to him, if there are lyrics, but he lifts her into bed and lies down next to her. She forgets her questions and shuffles until her ear is pressed against the hollow of his throat, his pulse replacing his tune as her own heart starts to beat in time. It’s enough.

-/-/-

He finds her in the kitchen, fingers tapping against her coffee mug - the one with an anchor and “a pirates life for me” embroidered in black. She had bought it during their six weeks of peace, offering it to him with a bright grin and a terrible impersonation of his accent as she asked him “What do you think of this one, love?”. He wishes she still wore that infectious smile now and not the worry and exhaustion lacing her brows. He had fallen asleep once they returned home, but she had not succumbed, choosing instead to curl up in his arms long after the first sign of light shone through the window.

“You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s still warm,” she sets the mug down to place the plates she had prepared on the table. He’s by her side before she reaches her destination, hand clasping around her wrist, thumb gently circling around the ink of her tattoo.

“Swan, talk to me. Trust me, drowning yourself in your thoughts never ends well.”

“What if Dr. Whale was right? What if I'm just slowly going insane and that's my fate as the Savior?”

He frowns at this, fury mixing with a sharp ache. Confessions made in the dead of night and mused with tales of her past create a chasm of self doubts as deep as his own. Still, it takes him aback to see how easily she discharges her own credibility. It was real. The pain she was in as real as the house they now stood in.  And he tells her as much. “I was right there with you, remember? That pain was real. I’ve seen magic do terrible things. We might not have been able to see it, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t feel it.”

“You think this was some sort of dark magic?”

“Aye.” He smiles at her, trying to convey his belief in her, but she sits a bit warily and he thinks he might’ve missed the mark. He drops to the table and swirls the fork in his hand. “Perhaps we could take a trip to Regina’s after your parents.”

Emma’s shoulders drop and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-/-/-

Regina's house is surprisingly clean, considering. In the small amount of time between leaving the Underworld and Zeus reviving Killian, Emma had managed to tear her own house apart. (She had been able to keep herself together during the day as she searched, but nightfall crept in, with every inch of pain singing of a lost future, a lost true love, and grief consumed her. With the evil half of Regina gone, she can only imagine how she’s coping.)  

Henry nearly knocks Emma over with the force of his hug (When had he gotten so big?) and she laughs, ruffling his hair. “Hey, kid. Is Regina around?”  

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Are you feeling better?”

“That’s actually what I am here to talk about. Can you hang with Killian for a bit?”

Henry nods before leading Killian upstairs, likely for another pop culture lesson. She can’t help the smile that brightens her face whenever her true loves are together. It’s small miracle, she thinks, that two of the most important men in her life have formed such a strong bond. They seemed to have developed their own language, with jokes she doesn’t quite get and secrets shared while drifting away at sea. Killian has become such an integral part of Henry’s growth into a young man and it warms her burdened heart to know that no matter what Henry has Killian to lean on.

Emma grants herself one last look up the grand staircase before trekking through the house in search of Regina. She finds her elbows deep in a sink brimming with suds and dirty dishes. “I thought you’d be too refined for dishes.” Emma remarks, offering a small smile.

“Yeah, well I’m a mother too. And mother’s don’t get the privilege of skipping these tasks.” She fidgets with the faucet until the water comes to a stop, drying her hands on a towel next to her. “So,” Regina pauses, noticing the downcast expression on her face. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

“It’s. . .Do you know anything about a dark magic making a dream feel real?”

“Like a sleeping curse?”

“Not exactly. More like, if you’re injured in a dream, once you wake up, you can still see and feel the effects of that injury. . .”

“Did you go to the hospital last night over a nightmare?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know what it was. I thought I was stabbed until Killian told me I wasn’t. Whale wrote it off as PTSD and stress, but I’m not crazy. I know what I felt, what I saw.”

“Start from the beginning.”

And she does. She tells her of standing in the street with the black cloaked man, her family behind her and the knife to Henry’s throat. She describes the best she can the unbearable pain that took over when that same knife pierced her side, the blood pooling at her hands even as Killian had lifted her into his arms, the blade still lodged into her flesh. She recalls how she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through dust that blocked her vision and burned in her eyes and -

“That doesn’t fit. You wouldn’t feel dust burning in your eyes from a stab wound.” Regina interrupts, her eyes widening as she pieces together a possible diagnosis.  “In the storybook Henry took from the library, there was this one story that I could have sworn was merely legend. What do you know of the sandman?”

“Oh Mr. Sandman bring me a dream, make him the cutest I’ve ever seen?” Emma singsongs.

“In the book, the Sandman is a generational curse. I bet you those dreams don’t have to be happy.”

“Wait, so you think that the Sandman is haunting me?”

“There are so many new residents in town, Hyde and his untold stories...it has to be him.” The former queen bounces out of her chair before making her way to the other side of the room. She reaches up onto a shelf, pulling out a book similar to Henry’s. “Take this.”

“Thank you.” Emma replies. It feels inadequate as she stares at the eloquent writing across the cover of the book - Once Upon a Time - knowing that a piece of Regina’s happiness has been so recently ripped away. And yet, she’s still helping, not retrieving into grief as Emma had done.  “Seriously, thank you. And if there’s anything I can do-”

“Just go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-/-/-

When sleep comes, so do the monsters. This time it’s magic slamming her against the clock tower, her head throbbing with an intensity that carries past the dream and into the real world. Killian awakes to the sound of her soft moan as she rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Swan?”

“Go back to sleep, Killian. I’m just getting some ice.”

Instead of listening, he runs after her, helping her down the stairs to retrieve the treasure she was seeking, sitting her down on the couch. She feels warm in his arms, almost as if she could succumb back into slumber once the pain dulls. (She knows she won’t, but hopes Killian does.)

Maybe that’s the Sandman’s plan.