#I’d rather stick to glasses

[sweet-herba-mystica-archive]

is anyone else like really afraid of contact lenses or is that just me

[alphabetboyluvr]

NIGHT CRAWLERS - JJK

title credit: night crawlers - kids in glass houses

pairing: drugrunner!jungkook x sugarbaby!reader, college au

synopsis:

jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

warnings: jungkook and o/c are polar opposites, but y’know what they say, opposites attract and all that jazz, jk is a college student but also a drug runner, mentions of gang dynamics and hierarchy, oc is a sugar baby, mentions of consensual but uncomfortable sexual encounters as a result of this (proceed with caution), drugs, violence, blood, motorbikes, hurt/comfort, all the good stuff, smut – fingering, tittie sucking (wow pretend to be shocked!), unprotected sex, jk has the hugest cawk in the whole entire world, jk is a lil aggressive but in a sexy way, he accidentally says something mean during sex (not sexy mean, actually mean (he makes up for it tho!)), jk on top, oc on top, mentions of his pubes (yummy), tummy pressing, kissy kissy kissy koo, creampie, post-coitus nap, they’re literally in love idk what to tell you, ambiguous ending!!

wordcount: 26K

note from holly: originally published to wattpad in 2021 and also briefly uploaded to tumblr, too. It’s just hit 100k reads over on wattpad so I thought I’d put it here too!! There are two additional chapters on wattpad, connecting the story another fic of mine and also showing us jk + oc four years on from the events of NC!! If you’re interested, you can find it here (x).

i write in british english!! both in spelling and dialect!!

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

IT'S BEEN SAID that with great notoriety, comes great responsibility to uphold the expectations of those who presume the worst about you.

Okay, so that's a lie. No one's ever said that - but Jeon Jungkook has never been one for sticking to traditions, and so he likes to live his life as if that's his motto.

That, and 'rather be dead than cool.'

Which is ironic, because it's only the heteropatriarchal bores - the ones from upper-class families, who want a white picket fence and 2.4 kids - that actually think he's lame.

And he doesn't particularly give a shit about their opinions.

Everyone else thinks he's actually pretty fuckin' cool.

Black nails, black cargo pants, black hair that waves loosely over his sharp features. An air of command as he walks, a swagger in his step that lingers in stranger's heads like the silage of his aftershave.

Yeah, Jungkook is cool, and he fucking knows it.

A rucksack is perpetually slung over his shoulder, the top concaved slightly to indicate there's very little in there, not much more than a tatty notepad and a few loose pens - or so you assume.

You've never actually spoken to him. Why would you?

Daddy's little princess, glossy lips, manicured nails. The kind of girl who gives him a second look, but only to sneer. He doesn't think of you often, but when he does, it's never nice.

Jungkook doesn't have time for you, and you don't have time for him. Your paths rarely cross.

At least they barely crossed. Past tense. 

Now that you're taking a few of the same classes as him, he sees you a lot more than he likes. Hair always up in that stupid fucking ponytail that he can't see past, perpetually on your phone. Attention seeking little bitch.

He'd ranted a little to Jimin about it, told him that you really must have been a dumb bitch to swap from an economics major to a film studies major with only a single semester left.

Jimin hadn't said much in return. Unlike Jungkook and his insatiable hate-boner for you, Jimin really doesn't give a shit about you. Barely knows your name, let alone the fact that you studied economics before switching over. Was kind of curious as to how Jungkook knew that. Not enough to bother with asking, though.

Jungkook thinks it's normal to scope out the competition. A little Facebook look-up, Naver search, Instagram scroll. Surely it's rational to do that? Check out their LinkedIn, cross-reference their Twitter history to see what they've said about the course.

It absolutely isn't normal, but then again, nor is Jungkook.

He's exactly as he appears to be; the rogue look isn't a front.

But beneath the exterior, there are a few more traditions he's subverting. 

He's the first in his family to attend college, and he needs to ace this class to keep his scholarship.

It's all just projection, the way he despises you.

You've got everything he wants. A well-to-do family, money, prosperity, financial security. He's never known that. And while he shits on you for having parents that have provided for you, all he wants in life is to be able to do the same for his own children one day.

"I've matched you all with students of a similar grade level, so no one is at an unfair advantage," your professor calls out, tearing Jungkook from his thoughts. "Not a single one of you will experience the city in the same way. From shortcuts to your favourite coffee spots, your lives here will have been different to those of your peers."

Jungkook smirks, leaning back on his chair. He knows this city better than most; its dark corners, where the monsters lurk... how to hide and where to run.

Again, the rogue look isn't a front.

But he also knows how to work a camera better than anyone in that room, how to time his shots, how to frame them, too. Top of the class, though modestly quiet about it (he's got a reputation to uphold, after all), he's curious to see who would be considered an even match for him.

"That being said, your experiences are also shared with those around you. For this assignment, with your partner, I want you to create a unique piece of film that captures what the city means to you. Think outside the box. Create something that excites, that invokes. You've got eight weeks. The partner list is on the noticeboard at the back of the hall. Dismissed."

Footsteps echo around the lecture hall as everyone trundles out of the room. You wait back, having already seen the list before you entered the class.

Instead, you pull out a pen - one of the ones that Jungkook hates, with a ridiculous fluffy pink pom-pom on top - and jot down your number. You aren't aware of his insatiable hatred, and either way, you don't really care.

He ignores you as you approach his desk, eyes only drifting upwards when you slide the torn-out piece of paper towards him.

"Mhmm?"

He's rude, you notice. Brows raised, expression flat, he's fed up with you before you've even said a word. Kinda hot, admittedly, but rude.

"We're partners," you say with an ambivalent shrug. Jungkook's jaw seems to tense, head tilting as he breathes out a short smirk.

Partners?

"You haven't even gone out to check the board."

"So what?" You scoff a little. He doesn't like your tone. The feeling is mutual. "I just made it up?"

It's his turn to shrug, now. "Dunno. You tell me."

His hair waves around his features, and you wonder how long it takes him to make it look so natural. The girls around campus swoon over his hair, like he's some kind of God. Other boys try to emulate it, but they can never quite pull it off like he does.

Another thing that all the girls giggle about are his doe-like eyes, but they're hard, now. Narrow, almost. Less of a doe, more like a dragon. Maybe if you get his nostrils flaring, he'll breathe fire, too.

Yeah, he's hot, you want to laugh to yourself, but not that hot.

"I checked before I came in. Didn't take a genius to work out what it was for."

He takes a moment before he nods. "Right. Well, you should probably know that I work better alone. Just let me handle the assignment, a'right? You can put your name on it, whatever, I don't care. Just let me handle it."

A control freak, you note. Nice.

You didn't transfer majors in your last semester, and face all the hardships that came with such a decision, just to sit back and let someone else do the hard work for you.

"With all due respect, it's a joint assignment. I'm not putting my name on work I didn't actually do."

A stickler for the rules, he assesses. Fucking fastastic.

"Look," he sighs, adjusting his body so that he's practically leaning halfway over his desk. As much as it sounds like he doesn't want to be a part of this conversation, his body language is oddly engaged. "I need to ace this class. You've been here, what? All of three minutes? Film what you wanna film, send it over to me for editing."

"I'm very much capable of editing-"

"And if you could do me a favour and keep the nail salon footage to a minimum, that would be much appreciated. Everyone's seen that shit. It's not interesting. Gangnam underground shopping centre B-roll, too."

It's a thinly veiled insult. Assumptions he's making about you based on the clothes you wear and the company you keep. He doesn't explicitly say it, but you know what he means: you're not interesting.

Jungkook doesn't mean to be an asshole. Not really. He's just got a lot riding on this course, and doesn't want to risk it all for the sake of keeping the peace with someone he doesn't particularly like in the first place.

"Like our Professor said, we all experience the city differently," you plaster a smile on your face, the plastic kind that Jungkook hates. "You might just be surprised at what I can offer."

Private tennis clubs and shopping sprees worth more than a second-hand car? Yeah, no. He'll pass, thanks.

"Whatever," he reclines back, giving your number the once over before tearing a strip of empty paper from the bottom of the note. His hand moves quickly, scrawling his own number onto it. He doesn't hand it to you, but instead tosses it down onto the desk as he stands. "As I said, I work best alone. Don't bombard me with messages about the project. I'll have it under control."

He vacates his desk with an air of arrogance that you don't think he's yet earnt. Sure, he's hot, and from what you've seen of his work, he's pretty talented, too. But no one likes working with assholes, and the whole point of being at college was to make yourself a desirable candidate for jobs.

Or at least that's what your parents had always said.

When they were still talking to you, that was.

Before they decided that you're a disgrace to the family name, all for the simple desire of not wanting to spend your life slaving over finances and spreadsheets.

Like inheritance and a slightly crooked nose (straightened out for your high school graduation gift), econ majors ran in your family - and just like you'd cut off your parents' dream of watching you become an economist, they'd cut you off. Full stop.

So as far as you were concerned, Jungkook could take his arrogant whining about your financial situation, and the hobbies you might have enjoyed as a result of your upbringing, and shove it up his ass.

You really wish he would. Shove it up his ass, that is. Might relieve him of the pent up tension he seems to have going on.

Swiping up his number, you tuck it into your back pocket, ruing the day you'll actually have to text it.

It comes as a surprise to both of you when, a week later, Jungkook is the first to type a message into your fledgeling chat window.

I'm filming tonight. Could use a Grip, if you're free. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, 7pm.

You wonder how much pride he must have had to swallow in order to send you that. 

On occasion, during the past week, you've caught him looking at you in that slightly menacing way he always likes to do.

Part of you thinks he's unaware that he's doing it, just zoning out in your direction, but then you see him shake sense into himself - quite literally, a bunny with an itch behind its ear kind of shake - before he averts his gaze. 

He does a similar shake of his head when your response pings through to his phone.

Can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays. Sorry. Maybe another time.

He doesn't reply.

REJECTION HAS NEVER been something Jungkook has taken well. It's why he works so hard, fearful of being told that he isn't good enough.

He'd only sent that text because he genuinely did need a Grip.

Well, no. 

That's not quite right. 

He needed a muse; a subject of his shots, a pair of eyes to catch the confetti of night market lights in. Someone's hand to film as they exchanged money with a hotteok stand server, another human to get lost and found all within the same shot.

But that felt awkward to ask, especially after his insistence that he could do it all alone, so he'd settled for pretending he'd needed a grip. Just someone to hold his gear while he took tricky shots. That's all.

Given your rejection, he was pleased with his choice.

"Familiar," Yoongi nods over lunch the next day, following Jungkook's gaze. "Yeah, I've definitely seen her around. Dunno where, though."

"Campus, maybe?" Jimin rolls his eyes, confused at the fixation Jungkook seems to have on you.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Nah... She looks like-" he glances over to Jungkook conscious of Jimin's listening ears.

"Like?"

"Just like a girl I see occasionally," Yoongi pauses again, making sure Jungkook's focus on him. "At work."

Jimin laughs. "So yeah, on campus. You work in the campus cafe, Yoongs."

It was the only legitimate place that would hire him. Dumb choices as a kid - and a questionable nickname that's now etched into his knuckles - prevents most places from seeing him as a viable candidate.

Yoongi laughs along with Jimin, but Jungkook knows Yoongi isn't talking about the once a week shift that he picked up as a form of extra credit.

Jungkook knows, because on paper, he doesn't have a job either.

On paper, he manages to survive on his scholarship bursary, The Holangi Honour, awarded to gifted students from underprivileged backgrounds.

On paper, Jungkook is the Korean dream of hard work and perseverance.

His reality isn't so pristine, but it never has been. He comes from a long line of high school dropouts with dubious morals and criminally reckless career choices. It was naive to have thought attending university would help him escape it.

Scholarship funds dried up pretty quickly, rent and t-money cards eating away at it, until Jungkook had no choice but to revisit old haunts.

Yoongi had told Jungkook that he didn't need to worry, that he could help him out if he needed money, but Jungkook was no leech, much to his older friend's despair. He didn't want the kid getting into the same trouble that he was in.

One meeting with Yoongi's old school friend, Hoseok and Jungkook was in the rat race again, delivering people's come ups for when the sun went down. 

He'd always been good at running. Track, field, red lights, out of luck. Drugs, now, too.

Jungkook had managed a good year and a half on the straight and narrow. For that, he was proud. And sad.

But he's also determined. 

Top grades mean top jobs in the future, which means never having to traipse around Daerim at ass o'clock in the morning.

He hates this part of town, but it's where business is currently booming.

Hobi texts him a drop-off list each morning, ensuring his nights are almost exclusively spent in Daerim.

This is how Jungkook sees the city: grotty back allies, groups of men huddled around a pack of cards and dice on the floor, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, phlegm spat onto the foor. He sees the women of the night in the early hours of the morning, and the sadness in the smiles they give to the men who approach them on street corners.

There's only one club of any worthwhile note in the area, and between jobs, Jungkook likes to sit up on the fire exit that rests above the back entrance.

It's where Hobi works, assisting some other reprobate that Jungkook doesn't care to learn the name of. Nasty piece of work, or so he's heard. The son of some powerful motherfucker that Jungkook knows to stay away from. He isn't interested in joining any stupid fucking gang. He just wants to get his money, get through university, and forget about this place.

That's the big dream at least.

His current wish, which feels much more immediate, is to outrun the fucker who has been on his tail for the past half a mile. Jungkook's pretty fast on his feet, and he gives a mean left-hook, but the guy chasing him has a pocket knife and that doesn't really feel like a fair fight.

It's his fault, and he knows it.

As per usual, Hobi had texted Jungkook his drop off list. Six of them, all in Daerim. He had no business being down by Jungang Market, especially not on a Thursday evening.

He couldn't even explain why he was; he was just curious about what life could be like if he ended up flunking out of college. He wanted to see where the monsters liked to lurk, or if they hid in the shadows like boogeymen.

But reprobate recognises reprobate, and drug runner recognises drug runner.

So now Jungkook really is running, out of territory that he shouldn't have infringed upon.

He's not out of breath yet, but he is conscious that his heartbeat feels like it's in his throat. A few streets over, his motorbike is parked behind an industrial-sized trash can, and he prays that no thieving cunt has tried to make a get away with it. They wouldn't have managed it - it's his prized possession and he never leaves it unprotected.

When he spots it a few minutes later, he laughs, relieved. "You beauty," he praises the engine, pulling his key from the pocket of his leather jacket.

The fucker chasing him is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a stitch or panting down a different back alley. Jungkook doesn't want to risk it, eyes darting all over the place as he unbuckles the chain on his bike wheel with muscle memory alone. The metal clangs through the iron bars that protect the banjihas down the alley from break-ins. He always feels a little bit of guilt for chaining his bike up to the only source of natural light for the half-basement dwellings, but it's quarter past two in the morning. Not exactly sunshine hours.

And yet his eye is drawn to the light pouring down from a street lamp at the entrance of the narrow lane.

Usually, you ignore the noises you hear on your walk home - but, as strange as it sounded for Jungkook's voice to issue a compliment, you're almost positive that it is his voice.

Dark hair, dark eyes, he doesn't recognise you at first. You're wearing black, and your hair is down, but your lips still have that stupid fucking pink lipstick on, the one he'd seen you blot away onto a tissue in the middle of a lecture a few days prior.

His eyes linger, the lights flickering in his glossy dark irises as if there are fireworks inside that pretty little skull of his. For a moment, he thinks you must have been filming for the assignment. 

The lack of a camera proves otherwise.

"Get on the bike," he yells over to you, tugging on the sleeve of his leather jacket, pulling it down. Cognitive thoughts aren't something Jungkook's really working with, the adrenaline speaking for him.

That, and the fact that he's acutely aware of what men like the motherfucker who was chasing him down did to girls like you. Might not like you, but he doesn't want that on his conscience.

Plus, he needs your signature on the coursework documents, too. You're no use to him if you end up chopped into little squares and scattered in the river.

"Damnit, just get on the fucking bike!" He continues, noticing that you haven't moved a muscle. His jacket is off now, held out for you to take. He's impatient, eyes darting down the alleyway, as if he's scared of the rain that's pouring down around you. "Look, I ain't asking again. Just get on the bike, or I'll fuckin' leave you here. Some nasty fuckers about tonight."

And while you may not trust Jungkook, you don't trust the alleyways of downtown Seoul even more. You've seen the horrors. You know the dangers. Your mother didn’t raise a fool.

She also didn't raise you to bow to the commands of assholes like him either.

You ignore his jacket, hiking up your skirt, revealing far more of your thigh than most get to see. He doesn't make a comment, but you know he sees a flash of your underwear as you do so. 

For once, sex seems to be the last thing on his mind.

Rain pools in the gutter by the drainpipes, trickling down, collecting in the ducts. A puddle sits on top, a tell-tale sign that the street is going to flood soon, but Jungkook also doesn't give a shit about that. Not right now - but he does make a mental note to check that the drains are unblocked by his place when he gets home.

He's a fellow basement dweller, dependent on the cheap rent. A banjiha boy with big dreams of getting out.

You hoist your leg over, ignoring the droplets of water on the leather seat, as your hand wraps around his waist. The front of his white shirt is damp from the rain, elevating the scent of his laundry detergent. You don't hate it. Quite like it, actually.

"Wet conditions," he rasps, voice still hurrying out of his mouth. "So take the jacket. If I slide, the tarmac will rip your skin off." He turns, wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. "I'm not your father. Dress yourself."

"I'd be a bit concerned if my father was trying to dress me at the ripe old age of 21," you bite back, as if the fabric of his jacket doesn't feel like it's melting into your skin on account of how bloody warm he is. You push your arms through the material, shaking it ever so slightly as Jungkook begins to rev the engine.

"Thanks would have sufficed," he bites back a scoff, not wanting to waste time arguing. "Try not to fall off, a'right?" He gruffs. 

Some would have considered his concern endearing. You know it's just because he doesn't want to spend his evening scraping your flesh off the sidewalk. Not because he gives a single flying fuck about you. 

"Hold on."

He doesn't wait for longer than a second, just enough time for you to wrap your arms around his waist, before he pulls down on the accelerator. His exhaust chortles, spitting out petrol as he goes, water from the ground splashing up against your bare leg. You can feel goosebumps forming, and yet your arms are completely warm.

Of course they are. Jungkook's chest is a fucking furnace, heart pumping blood through him faster than the speed of light. Forward, forward, forward, he pushes his bike on, away from the downtown area he found you in, and away from the demons who were hunting him.

The vibration of the bike is a welcome disguise. Beneath the motor's veil, you're shaking. Partly terrified, partly the victim of an adrenaline surge. 

Hardly a surprise. You've never been on a bike like his before.

There weren't many men on motorbikes around your neighbourhood as a child, only Old Jinyeon, who had a Harley that he only rode on the weekends, or when his wife was away at that spa retreat that everyone knew was really code for 'rehab'. Prescription medication was her poison, mostly. There were whispers that alcohol was a bit of a problem, too. 

It was a shame, really. She was a nice lady - she'd just married into a lifestyle that didn't suit hers.

Old Jinyeon's father had also been called Old Jinyeon, and his father before that, regardless of their age. The name wasn't the only thing inherited, but a fortune too. Old by name, old by money. 

He'd met his wife at a gentleman's bar; gambled all of his chips away just so that he could keep talking to her as she worked.

But the good is rarely easy, and the easy never good. Women like her weren't supposed to be with men like him.

And girls like you aren't supposed to be on the back of boys like Jungkook's motorcycle.

But here you are, hurtling through the city at a speed you're pretty sure isn't legal, clinging onto him for dear life. Your eyes are shut, streaming with tears from the wind, mascara blotting onto his back.

"Left turn," he calls over his shoulder to brace you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, stomach losing all stability as he rounds the corner. You've never suffered from travel sickness before, but now seems like the prime time to develop it.

The lights of the city all bleed into one kaleidoscope of colour. Your sense of direction has been rendered useless, only opening your eyes once every few seconds to make sure that this is real. And every single time, you're surprised to find that it is.

You expect it to be like a dream where you fall, only to wake up at the last second - but you've never had one of those dreams. You've only seen them in movies. You're not even sure they actually exist in real life. Perhaps this would be the closest you'd get to one. A main character moment - though this felt more like a crime-thriller than the rom-com you would have liked.

The feeling of damp wind in your hair like this is new, and exciting, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pretty sure one of your fake lashes just flew off. You pull your hand back to stroke at your lashes, just to check, but it's caught by Jungkook grabbing for it.

"I told you to hold on," he shouts, though he doesn't need to. The vibrations of his vibrato can be felt through his back. "So hold the fuck on, a'right?! I don't say shit like that for fun."

Jesus, you think. Who pissed in his cornflakes?

But he's right. You do need to hold on. He proves it by not warning you the next time he turns, the bike leaning so close to the tarmac that you're convinced you can feel rubber burn. He eases as soon as he hears you shriek, the grip you have on his chest so hard he swears you might puncture his skin. Reaching back, he cups your knee with his palm, checking for any sign of blood or broken skin. Negative. And yet his hand lingers before he retracts it. He's just making sure. Double-checking. Over-indulging.

"The fuck was that, asshole?" You all but scream.

"I told you to hold on, didn't I?!"

He did. And if you weren't doing so now, tighter than before, you'd have hit him so hard in the balls that he'd have no choice but to adopt in later life.

"You could have fucking killed me!"

"Oh, boo-hoo," he sneers, catching his tongue before he says something he'll grow to regret.

Jungkook would never have killed you. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and how to ride his bike almost as well as he knows how to get himself off. It's second nature. Innate. A gift.

But before you can argue back, he draws to a stop, his exhaust rattling, the motor purring. As much as he'd like to tell you to get the fuck off his bike, he can feel you trembling now. A part of him - a very slim, deeply hidden part - feels guilty for being so hard on you.

He's grown up with bikes. Trusts them. Lives, breathes gasoline.

He doesn't imagine you know how to change a bicycle tyre, let alone anything with a motor.

The hand that had checked you for damage earlier returns, his fingertips warm against your goosebumps skin. He strokes lightly, once, twice, quickly. "You're fine," he tells you, and you want to believe him.

"Never said I wasn't."

He snorts a small laugh, then taps your knee, encouraging you off of the bike. His hand remains close as you do so, conscious of the fact that you'll most likely be unsteady on your feet - feet that he now notices are clad in the strappiest pair of heels he's ever seen in his life. Perhaps he doesn't need to worry about your stability at all. If you can walk in those, then you can surely handle a pair of wobbly knees.

Without much thought, you take his offer of assistance, his jacket dwarfing you as you stand, hand clasped in his.

"Where are we?"

The alleyway you're down is unlike the previous one he stole* you from (*rescued). It's cobbled and damp, yes, but the doors down here lead to dwellings, garages too. Not an industrial-sized trash cart in sight. And it doesn't smell like fermented piss either, which is a surprise. You thought that was just the standard for side-streets around these parts.

"Doesn't matter," Jungkook shrugs ambivalently as he unhooks his leg over the bike.

He wants to ask why you're wearing such stupid shoes.

That's a lie.

He doesn't think they're stupid.

He actually quite likes them. You've nice ankles. They look good.

What he really wants to ask is why you're wearing them on a school night. The pair of you might be in college, but it wasn't student night at the clubs, and he hadn't picked you up from a particularly nice part of town.

There are only three types of women he ever sees in Daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. You aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get Percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. He's sure of it.

So it then further begs the question: why the fuck were you there?

Sliding off his jacket, you offer him a small smile. It's the least you can do, you suppose.

It's funny, because you only ever see three kinds of men in Daerim: drunks, gamblers, and dealers. Jungkook isn't any of those. You might not know that much about him, but you know he's a scholarship kid, and that he won the winter film festival on campus for his documentary on back-alley gambling.

"We're not too far from campus," he eventually states. Few blocks over. He assumes you live on campus. Got the money for it.

"Cool," you nod, sure that you'll be able to find your bearings from here. You don't live on campus. Not anymore. No money for it. "Thanks for the lift, I guess."

The atmosphere is awkward, dewy mist in the air dampening both of you. He nods back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He knows he should invite you in, offer you somewhere to wait while you call a cab or something, but he's embarrassed. Of himself. His living situation. The fact that he doubts you've ever even been in a basement that isn't a wine cellar.

"Look I-"

"So-"

Jungkooks nose scrunches, cringing at the awkwardness. You glance down, self-conscious.

"What were you doing over in Daerim?" he asks rather out of the blue. He doesn't even process that he's asked until it's too late.

You clear your throat a little. "Just had some errands to run."

"At two in the morning?"

You nod.

"Right," he doesn't believe you, but can't think of a better explanation.

"Well, what were you doing there?" You ask, albeit a little more confrontational than intended. You were on the defensive.

His mouth is flat as he speaks, a narrowness to his eyes that makes your lips purse to suppress a smirk. "Running errands."

So you're both dirty little liars. Who'd've thought?

"Fairplay," you say with a smile. "Look, I still appreciate the ride. I'd have been fine," you add."But yeah, appreciate it nonetheless."

"Was nothing. I was headed in this direction anyway. If you take a left at the end of the street and follow the road down, there's usually a bunch of taxis waiting for the university cleaners to finish their night shifts. I'm sure you'll be able to get one."

"Take a left," you hum. "Cool. Will do." Bracing yourself to leave, Jungkook wonders if he should offer you a lift to your place too. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Class? That thing we attend during daylight hours?"

"Oh right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Bizarrely enough, if this is how awkward Jungkook is when he's being nice, you think you prefer him being an asshole. At least he has a little spark in him then.

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook feels overloaded with fucking sparks, like someone's holding an axe grinder against the metal of his earrings, deafening him. The reality of his evening is kicking in, and the knowledge that he came a few metres from having a hole in his abdomen becomes overwhelming. He doesn't let it show, though.

"Thanks, again."

You make a promise to punch yourself in the face if you say thank you one more fucking time.

"It's fine, again," he smiles, with a small laugh, before focusing those eyes of his on the floor.

And so you leave, walking straight past the taxi rank and taking a shortcut to your apartment, which is a lot closer than you had realised.

Seven steps below street level, you jog down to your front door, petting the neighbourhood calico stray on your way down. The door closes with a slam, but you don't give a shit because the people in the apartment above never seem to give a shit when they stumble home at four in the morning.

Before he sleeps that evening, Jungkook wonders how much of the skyline you get to indulge in. Your dad works in the accounting side of one of the largest law firms in the city, he knows that much from his research. Knows that your immediate family has more money than probably all of his relatives combined. Alive and dead.

He just isn't aware that you're not seeing a single dime of it. Not since you dropped out of the economics and business side of school to focus on the creative arts. All that money your parents had 'wasted' on your education? Well, they weren't wasting any more.

Because you're a commodity, to be bought and sold, apparently. Not their daughter, who they should have just wanted to be happy.

So now you spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings down in Daerim.

Because you are a commodity; and if anyone's gonna be selling you, then it may as well be your fucking self. 

A stack of yellow 50,000 won bills sit on your desk. Twelve of them. 600,000 won. Not bad for a week's work. 6 hours.

Might have been cut off from your Dad's money, but your replacement 'daddy' wasn't a bad substitute.

The bluntness of such a statement usually makes you laugh, but not today.

If Jungkook knows the Daerim area like you think he does, then he'll be able to work it out soon enough. A bitterness fills your chest, like coffee dripping through a filter, forgotten about and left to go cold. You've been so good at playing pretend.

Secrets are so much easier to keep when they're not shared.

Perhaps that should be your project piece.

Secrets of Seoul: The Seedy Underbelly of The City.

After all, that was your unique view of the city; the side you saw that you were pretty sure no-one else did.

At least, no one else except Jungkook. Go figure.

"SEVEN WEEKS LEFT!" Your professor reminds the class as they dismiss you from your lecture. There's a little chatter, partners sharing ideas and friends discussing what to have for lunch - and then there's you and Jungkook.

He waits by the end of his row for you to walk to meet him, an inconspicuous look on his face.

The girl who he's watching neatly put a fluffy pen into her handbag looks a lot like you, but a hell of a lot different from the girl he gave a lift to last night.

Who the fuck are you?

Jungkook has always liked a little mystery. Seen the romanticism in the unknown. Still doesn't like you - but you've gotten him curious.

"You haven't sent anything over yet," he notes, keeping a slight distance from you as you walk together up the stairs.

"You told me not to bombard you," you remind him.

"Sending me video files once in a blue moon is fine."

"Once in a blue moon. Gotcha."

It's Friday, so he knows it's not one of your pre-determined days of having prior engagements.

It's only now that he realises that must have been why you were in Daerim last night; that your 'errands' are actually scheduled into your routine. It doesn't bode well for his 'not a hooker, an addict or a sugar-baby' theory.

"I was thinking of heading over to Dongdaemun this evening, seeing as you weren't free on Tuesday," he starts a little awkwardly, but the more he speaks, the easier it becomes. Being nice, that is. "I could still use a hand, if you're free? If you're serious about helping out, I mean. It would be good to make a start on things."

Relief washes over you. You've been fearing a conversation about the night before, but Jungkook doesn't want to talk about it just as much as you don't.

You meet him at seven o'clock that evening at Dongdaemun Design Plaza. You've always loved the green roof, how organic the landscaping looks above such a futuristic building. He listens as you explain this, eyes wide and in awe of the sloping pathways and curved walls, showing him your favourite of all the trees in the park.

Jungkook looks at you for a second, observes your hands, how they delicately move a few leaves to frame the shot you're taking. You've a Midas touch, and Jungkook wonders if your fingers would turn him to gold, too.

It's a silly, fleeting thought, but it doesn't stop him from focusing the camera on you as you roam Dongdaemun night market later that evening, lights cascading over you like glitter.

He thinks you're pretty in this light. Pretty when it's just him and you. No distractions.

Except there's hustle and bustle everywhere, a vendor chasing a thief, groups of high schoolers laughing on their way home from Hagwons, food sizzling, vapours making his stomach rumble. Perhaps you're the distraction, instead.

The pair of you spend the next week traipsing the city together.

Somehow, you only ever come together when the sun goes down, but it's fitting. You're a pair of nightcrawlers, swarming through the city when traffic sounds like a melody and destinations are unknown.

He learns that you drink your coffee black, no sugar, lukewarm. You learn that he'd rather rub coffee granules into his eyes than drink it.

And despite your preference for no sugar, he always tosses a little white sachet towards you whenever you order a coffee. He finds it funny. Insists that you have to be a sugar baby. It's the only way he can explain that night he saw you Daerim.

He's just joking. And you pretend not to, but you find it hysterical.

Mainly because he doesn't realise how bang on the money he is.

But also because you can't help but laugh whenever he does.

There's a comfort that grows between the pair of you, a familiarity. A casual ease that doesn't feel dangerous, not even when he's pulsing through the city on his bike, you holding onto him, his leather jacket wrapped around your body. You begin to like the way that the wind feels in your hair, and you stop wearing fake lashes. Jungkook doesn't tell you, but he likes you better with a few freckles showing, dewy highlighter and a little mascara being the only makeup you wear for the midnight city roams.

It's only because you can't be wasting resources reserved for clients on a boy from your film studies class. Times are tough, money is tight. No point in pouring funds into a boy you won't make revenue from. It's a bad business decision.

A few months ago, you did your makeup multiple times a day just for fun. Now you have to ration it. Life... life isn't what it used to be.

But Jungkook is ignorant to that, and you quite like it. Escaping from your reality. Becoming the version of yourself that he thinks you are.

He isn't sure which version of you he wants to spend time with the most; the too-good for him daddy's girl who dresses in Celine and comes with a pout, the enigma who lurks in the shadows that he thought he had a monopoly over, or the master director who seems to rival his talents for capturing moments of life in 4K.

As he watches your brows furrow while you turn your phone upside down, trying to understand a map, he decides that he doesn't care which version he gets.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

There's an impulsion to his desires and subsequent actions that he takes to obtain them. He's driven by gratification, and little else.

On the days he wants to feel wanted, he'll go to a bar. He never whispers false promises or pretends like he's after anything more than what can be achieved in a single night. The girls he goes for tend to see that as a challenge. They think they can convince him otherwise. It's not his fault when they can't. It's not his fault that they end up falling for him regardless. It's not his fault that he never has any intention of loving them back.

He tells them this. They ignore him. It isn't his fault.

On the days he wants to feel accomplished, he'll stay on campus until the cleaners usher him out of the room so that they can prepare it for the next day. Their insistence is lost on him - no amount of Cif can polish the dirt out of the walls. Once a shithole, always a shithole. He'll offer his apologies for getting in their way, and they'll coo over him like he's their own grandson. It's all very sweet.

They tell him not to overwork himself. He lies and says he won't.

On the days he wants to eat more than a single cup of ramyeon - which is most days, given his absolutely mammoth appetite - he'll send Hobi a text and request more drop-offs for that evening. Yoongi will give Jungkook a subtle look whenever a message from Hobi pings through, knowing it mustn't be good news. It never is.

Jungkook tells Yoongi to mind his business - but with a grin and a glint in his eye that eases his friends worry ever so slightly.

Disapproval never stops Jungkook from doing what he wants, regardless.

Not from his friends, from the cleaning ajummas, and especially not from you.

So he ignores the look in your eye, as he encourages you to follow him through a gap in the chainlink fence, which surrounds a disused water tower on the outskirts of the city.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

And right now, he wants to get a shot of the midnight city from his favourite vantage point.

"You said you've taken thousands of shots here," You hiss as a twig snaps beneath your foot. He smirks as you utter out a curse. "Surely you can just reuse one of those?!"

He guides you round, ignoring the ground level rubble, until you get to a ladder that definitely isn't safe for use. It's rusting by the bolts, and has a few vines trailing up it, undisturbed for months. Remnants of paint are flaking from the structure, collecting like ashes on the ground below.

"I have," he shrugs, unhooking your camera bag from your shoulder, popping it into his rucksack for safe keeping. He crouches, putting his palms upwards to offer you a leg up. "You haven't, though. You see the city differently to me, remember?"

He's taunting you. Reusing the phrase from your Professor that you had quoted to him on the first day of the project. Asshole.

Asshole with a smirk that suggests he's only teasing. Suggests that he's fond. Words that suggest he remembers the things you say to him. Memorises them, even.

Curious.

"Can't we just pretend like we see it the same way?"

"No can do, sugar."

"Oh my god, stop calling me that."

You're thankful for the midnight sky and the way it disguises your blush.

As if throwing packets of the white stuff at your face in coffee shops isn't enough, he's taken to calling you 'sugar', too.

"Give me a reason not to," he says as he tilts his head, encouraging you to accept his leg up. You check your feet for mud, then put your trust in his grip.

"I've already told you, I was just running errands," you defend yourself for the thousandth time. A short yelp escapes your lips as he boosts you up, your hands gripping onto the flaking bars beside the ladder.

He doesn't believe you for a second. He also doesn't believe that you're actually a sugar baby. It's just fun to fuck with you a little.

Once you're up, he waits for you to safely sit on the ledge, and then he makes the climb too. He's up a lot quicker than you, coming to sit beside you with his legs dangling over the ledge of the railings.

"Tell me it isn't worth it," Jungkook says a little airily, enamoured with the view.

And he's right. It is worth it.

A maze of city lights twinkle like the Carina nebula, interstellar, yet entirely of this earth. Bright whites, reds and greens speckle the horizon, and for a moment, it's easy to forget that you're looking at Seoul. There's a magic that can only be appreciated from a distance, far away from the scent of alleyways and the void nothingness of grey brick buildings. Skyscrapers tower above the skyline, but still look small from where you and Jungkook sit, silently, in awe.

"Look over there," he points across the vast expanse. You follow his trajectory, but you have no idea if you're picking out the right spot. "Daerim. Can always tell. Know the street layout too well."

"You're gonna get me thinking you're a sugar baby," you nudge your shoulder into his, and he laughs.

Reaching into his rucksack, you expect him to pull out your camera. Instead, his hand comes back into vision holding a pair of chopsticks and a tub of instant ramyeon. Uncooked.

He pulls the seal back, stabs at it with the chopsticks and offers you the small chunk he's broken off.

"It's good," he promises.

You know what dried ramyeon tastes like. You know it's good. You just can't understand what the fuck is wrong with him.

"Are you broken?"

He grins as he tosses the chunk of dried noodles into his own mouth. "Absolutely - but ramyeon is ramyeon."

You tell him he's weird, and he continues to smile, not resisting as you take the tub from him and break off a chunk with your fingers.

It's one of his favourite snacks. He's impatient and impulsive at the best of times. Waiting for it to cook? Too much effort. Cooking it at the convenience store and carrying it up the tower with him? Disaster waiting to happen. It's just easier this way.

And so the pair of you sit, not really saying much, watching the city roll by. Every now and again, he offers you a chunk from his chopsticks.

By the end of the night, neither of you have gotten any footage of the city.

And neither of you really care.

AS YOU SPRINT home after yet another spree around the city with Jungkook, running late for your Thursday evening appointment, you curse your inability to send his calls to voicemail. 

You should really be working more. You need to be working more - but for the past four weeks now, you've answered every single one of his calls.

His messages? Yeah, you ignore those. He's learnt this, though. He messages you regardless, because... well, because he wants to, quite frankly. He doesn't give a shit if you respond.

He knows you read them.

He knows you saw that picture he sent of a flyer detailing a live art event last week. He knows that you noticed the veins on his arms.

You don't know that he'd spent a couple of minutes tensing his arm before he took the picture. Deliberately.

It's been said before that Jungkook wants what he wants - and what he wants more than anything, frustratingly, is your attention.

The way you study his arms the next time you see him proves that he's gotten it.

If anything, the delayed gratification makes it so much more worthwhile. 

You have been thinking about him.

So as far as Jungkook is concerned, you can ignore his messages all you like, because you still always answer his calls with an airy 'hi,' as if talking to him takes your breath away.

The only time you don't answer is between the hours of eleven and two on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

Chances are, if he just so happens to be in the area - which he always is - he'll catch you down on the wrong side of the tracks at just gone quarter past two.

He still calls you 'sugar', teasing you for the reputation of the area. You just roll your eyes and grin, then banter with him about how even if you were a sugar baby, he wouldn't be able to afford your prices.

He argues that he'd pay in ways that didn't include monetary value.

You don't ask him to expand.

But as you wipe your watery lash line in the bathroom of a shitty rental apartment in Daerim, you think about what he could have meant. If he actually meant it. 

The TV blares from the living room, faint vapours of a mango e-cigarette wafting through the gap beneath the door. You've always thought mango smells like cat piss. Rancid.

Whatever Jungkook could have meant didn't matter. His flirty tone and angel eyes didn't pay the bills. The cash tossed down on the bathroom counter did - or more specifically, the widower, who occasionally wanted company from a pretty young girl, did.

A hundred thousand won for an hour, three hundred thousand total. It takes you just a week, two appointments, to make up the month's rent - but you still need to eat, to study, survive. 

And so you return, every week.

It's not his actual apartment. He lives over in Gangnam, close to his kids' schools. More money than sense. He doesn't tell you much about his personal life. You think a lot of his small claims are lies, anyway - but you smile and flutter your lashes as if he's reciting bible verses.

Some nights are better than others. Sometimes, he genuinely makes you laugh. Occasionally, he'll ask you what you want to do. Takes you to museums. Fancy dinners. Theatre shows.

But he has a nasty streak, and in those three hours, you're his. He owns you. There's no sex, that's not the arrangement, but his hands have been known to roam, and the disparity of equality within your working relationship becomes apparent. You brush it off, tell yourself that it's natural for a man engaging with you in a romantic capacity to forget the rules. You tell yourself that it's okay.

The churning in your stomach and dis-ease of such a situation tells you that no, it isn't okay. But if you laugh at his painfully unfunny jokes loud enough, you're able to drown out the noise in your head.

The worst nights are the ones where he pays you extra.

There's no discussion anymore. The stack of notes is just thicker than usual upon arrival, and you know that at some point during the night, you'll have to sit in silence and watch as he sinks his hand down into his pants.

It's easy to forget the way it looks. Your eyes glaze over, and the discomfort, the slight disgust, indicated in your features gets him hard. He thinks it's taboo. Thinks you enjoy it too. That your panties look a lot like his hand by the time he's finished.

The snort-like grunts are what you find hard to forget. The wail of a moan that comes when he does. You hear that shit in your nightmares.

But it earns you an extra two hundred thousand, so you endure it because you don't have much of an option at this point.

Come 2 AM, cash stuffed down your bra, you don't have to think about it anymore. The fresh air of the city, a little smoggy and polluted, hits you like a freight train. You thank it.

When Jungkook enters Daerim that evening, he expects to find you. He normally does. You never look particularly happy - in fact, he often tells you that you've got a face like a slapped arse - but it's more so today.

He whistles from across the street, clad in black, a thick hoodie keeping him warm beneath his leather jacket. "Oi, Sugar," he calls, that boyish grin on his lips. Teeth so pretty you wonder how much novocaine it would take for you to be numb to the way it makes your stomach flip.

Eyes dancing up and down your body, he likes what you're wearing. Black tights, black dress that cuts off at your mid-thigh, a sweetheart neckline and chiffon sleeves that puff around your slender arms. He decides your boots are far more sensible than the heels you're usually in.

"That'll be twenty thousand, Jeon," you call back, arms folded over your chest as you change direction to walk towards him.

"Per hour?"

"Per every time you call me that stupid fucking name."

"What would you rather?" he goads, leaning against a window ledge on the back of a restaurant building. There's nothing down the alleyway, just trashbags and the distinct scent of fermenting piss. "Shugs? SB? Baby?"

You smirk, walking to the wall opposite him, mirroring his position, hands resting beside you on the ledge. There's a safe distance between the pair of you. A look, but don't touch type of vibe - but this time, unlike earlier on in your evening, you actually enjoy it.

"You really gotta make your mind up," your eyes roll, lips rising into a crescent. "One minute I'm a trust-fund princess with Daddy's money on tap, the next I'm a sugar baby with a different type of Daddy altogether."

Jungkook shrugs. "Just don't see why you waste your evenings roaming fucking Daerim of all places."

"Best dandanmian in the city," you say, referencing the abundance of traditional Chinese restaurants in the area. "Can't get the authentic stuff in Itaewon."

"Can't get hookers in Itaewon like you can in Daerim, either," he taunts you.

He doesn't really think you're a hooker, but he likes the way you grin whenever your eyes roll.

"Ah, so that's why you're here."

He holds his hands up to playfully admit defeat. "Guilty."

You laugh, knowing that there's no way in hell Jungkook will ever have to resort to hookers. Not when he looks like that. All doe-eyed and charming, floppy hair just begging for a pair of hands to run through it.

The pair of you let the moment simmer, droplets of water dripping from the drainpipe and into the sewer. He's lit by the neon light of a restaurant sign, red and yellow painting him like an impressionist masterpiece.

"You look cold," he acknowledges, but you shake your head and insist you're fine. Your hair is a little damp from the small shower you'd been caught in a little while previously, mascara smudged around your eyes. You looked like that before the rain, mind you. He shakes his jacket off and tosses it across to you, snorting quietly as it hits your face and crumples over your feet. "C'mon. I'm now about to ride home. I'll give you a lift."

He asks for your address, and you tell him that you'll just get a taxi from his place like you normally do. There's no need for him to go out of his way.

"The princess doesn't want the pauper to see her castle, huh?" he teases, always talking in bloody riddles.

"See!" you protest. "Always changing your mind! A minute ago I was a sugar baby, and now I'm a rich bitch again. Which is it, Jeon?"

"I dunno," he reaches behind himself, adjusting your legs and pulling you a little closer into his back, tapping your side to make sure you've got the jacket on. "You tell me, sugar."

He doesn't see you roll your eyes, but he knows you do it. You always do. Even when your pretty pink nails are clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pretend like you don't enjoy his company.

You've gotten good at playing pretend. 

Jungkook only jokes about you being a sugar baby.

He doesn't fathom that you actually are one.

His engine begins to purr, and Jungkook kicks up the stand, setting off into the night.

The way you hold onto his waist is different tonight.

Physically, it's the same.

But it feels different.

And it is, because you're not just holding onto him; you're hugging him. Comfort in an old routine. You adjust your arms, keeping tight against his back, and he pretends like he doesn't notice the shift in dynamic.

He pretends as if he didn't notice your sad eyes earlier, too, and as if he can't feel the stutter in your chest as if you're trying not to cry.

Jungkook isn't a knight on a white horse, and nor does he want to be - but he doesn't mind being your rogue bandit who steals you away from the things that make you sad.

He's just an arc in your fairytale, not your happy ending.

But you've always been a sucker for a bit of a plot twist.

When you arrive at his, he wants to ask you to stay. He doesn't want an orange taxi cab to appear at the end of his lane and act like your actual knight in shining armour. He doesn't want you to ride into the sunrise with anyone but him.

And as luck would have it, your phone shares his desires.

Well, no. It doesn't. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't have cognitive thoughts - but it is out of charge.

"Different charging ports," he grits his teeth as he holds up his Samsung after you ask if he's got an iPhone charger. "I'm pretty sure I have an apple cable lying about though. You can come in for a second, get a little bit of charge just so that you're not stranded in a taxi without a way to contact anyone."

You nod appreciatively. "You sure?"

He doesn't answer, instead holding his door open and ushering you inside.

Jungkook cares in strange ways. He's practical, forward-thinking, trying to find solutions to problems that you'd normally shrug your shoulders at.

He's never told anyone that he loves them before, but he did once swap the hinges on his ex-girlfriend's bathroom door to the other side, so that it would stop hitting the sink basin every time she opened it. He shows his affections in meaningful ways, often without being asked or expecting anything in return.

Neither of you realise it yet, but this is one of those occasions.

It's not until you're perched on the worktop bench in his kitchen that he realises he let you in without hesitation. No longer embarrassed of where he lived, he kind of likes having you here.

You look out of place, silver pendant round your neck, expensive, and hair professionally coloured, nails done, toes, too. Not that he can see them. He just remembers a conversation you had once over chicken and a beer about the fact your toes always matched your nails.

Small details like that are what he thinks about when he's alone; like the way you blink a little faster when you're confused, and how you sprinkle Cheeto dust back into the bag off of your fingers instead of licking them like he does. He thinks about the way you laugh in his company, and how he's never heard you laugh like that with anyone else. And he tries to stop, but dammit, he thinks about how sexed up you look on those Daerim nights.

You're dressing like that for someone else, he knows that much.

But he gets to indulge in it too, when your body is pressed against his back as he takes you home.

He's stopped asking what you do in Daerim. He doesn't want to know.

For a few minutes a night, when he's alone, he likes to pretend what it would be like if he was the one you were dressed like that for. Only ever a minute or so. Gets him too hot. Finishes him off too quickly. Absolute sin.

"Kook?"

He doesn't even realise he's halted his movements until your voice breaks him from his thoughts. His jeans tonight are tight, and do a pretty good job of hiding the swelling between his legs. Fucking uncomfortable, though.

"Sorry," he doesn't turn to face you. "Was just trying to remember where I last had the cable."

"I was just saying that it's fine. It's really not that far. Don't wanna be a bother."

"Why'd you say shit like that?" he turns to face you, face twisted a little. He's annoyed.

"Like what?"

"Call yourself a bother. You do it a lot."

"I don't."

"You do," he insists, and you can't work out why he's so annoyed by it. You want to apologise all over again. "You just-" he takes a moment to find the right words. "I dunno who's conditioned you into thinking everything you do is bothersome, but it really isn't. If I didn't wanna help, then I wouldn't. It's not a bother. You're not a bother."

And you don't know why, but for some reason, you choke up a little. It's not like he said anything particularly groundbreaking, it's just for the last few months, your entire existence has felt like a drain on those around you.

The money you can live without, but you miss family dinners on Sundays, and face timing your little sister, more than you can even begin to explain.

And while no, you didn't want your parents' money, you didn't want to keep seeing a perverted old man just to be able to afford to eat, either. The flat rate was 500,000 now. Every single time. Without fail. You hadn't put the price up. He was just always paying extra. Always touching his prick. Always jerking himself off over your repulsion.

Earlier that evening, he had queried how much it would cost him to finish on your chest. You told him a million. He asked if you accepted bank transfers. You told him no. He offered 1.2 mil.

Part of you considered it. It's a lot of money. Not something to be taken lightly.

But when you ran into Jungkook, just like you knew you would, you were adamant you had made the right choice. He had scanned your body, getting a read on your mood, assessing what you needed, what you wanted, and then had offered up his jacket. All doe-eyed and sparkling. You finally got what all the girls swooned over, 'cause you were doing it too.

"Hey," he says softly, noticing the way your eyes are reddening. "Hey, hey, no. Don't cry, sugar."

You laugh through the first couple of tears. Stupid fucking nickname.

"I meant it," you sniff, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hands. He's standing closer now, hesitant to touch, hands hovering around you. "20 thousand won, Jeon. Pay up."

His fingers tenderly wrap around your wrists, keeping them from rubbing at your face again. He's smiling, eyes ever encompassing, cheeks so appled that you bet you could get drunk off the cider he'd produce.

"Can we do it on an I.O.U. basis?" he speaks quietly, playfully. "I get paid on Monday."

It's a lie. He gets his commission cut straight from his sales figures. There's 2 million won in his rucksack. He only gets ten percent. 200K. His job's not nearly half as lucrative as yours, but it's still nothing to be laughed at. He's making bank.

"Nuh-uh," you sniff again, letting out a little laugh. He laughs too. "Told you that you couldn't afford me."

And then it's silent. You can hear your heartbeat. He moves a little closer.

"Told you I'd just pay in other ways."

His voice is hoarse, as if he's scared. 

As if he fears the consequences of his claim.

Your eyes drop to his lips. They're trembling slightly. Preparing.

The grip he has on your wrists loosens. He's giving you freedom. He's giving you the chance to back out, to run away.

But you don't.

"Pay up, then," you all-but whisper, lips closing on his.

Jungkook doesn't stall, no, but it takes him a second to respond. To realise.

And once he does, his brows furrow into the kiss, demanding that you know just how much he wants this. Wants you. Has done for weeks, now.

He pulls your body into his, needing you close. Your body curves, his arm hooked behind your back to keep you balanced.

A surge of intensity washes over you like crimson paint. It'll stain you, and everyone will know: That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.

He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he doesn't stop, as if he knows his first with you will also be his last - and when he finally does stop, forehead on yours, the pair of you are breathing so heavily into each other's mouths that it's as if you're sharing oxygen. Keeping each other alive. Both capable of first-degree murder.

And so neither of you pull away. There's no way he's doing time for you. There's no way you're doing time for him. Looks like you'll just have to kiss forever. Shame. Such a hardship. However will you cope?

"I-" he begins, before cutting himself off, easing his grip on your waist. One of his hands lingers, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wincing. "Shit-" he finally lets you go. "I don't know what that was. I'm sorry."

You want to tell him that it's okay, that you didn't mind, that he could do it again - but it's clear he doesn't agree.

"Just adrenaline," you offer, sinking down to perch on the worktop bench. Your defeated posture is hidden well like this. "Don't sweat it."

He stays silent as he turns around to resume his rummaging, looking for a charger that will fit your phone. He knows there's one in there, he just can't for the life of him remember when he last had it.

Everything feels a little awkward. You half think that you should fill the void with something, that you should break the ice, but what was the point? You'll be out of his hair soon.

And you are, home twenty minutes later. You had only charged your phone for ten minutes at his, just enough to get you home. It's about to die again. Not before Jungkook pings you a message, though.

He doesn't expect a response, but he lies awake until he sees your read receipt confirm that you've seen it.

Sadness doesn't suit you, sugar. I'm not gonna pry, but if you ever need a ride earlier than normal out of Daerim, give me a call.

He spent a good six minutes debating whether or not to end his message with a kiss, eventually deciding against it. No need to make the message any softer than it already was.

To his surprise, a bubble pops up on your side of the chat thread.

His heart twinges, your response saying everything he wished he had with just one simple letter:

x

JUNGKOOK HAS A terrible habit of taking out his stress on the people around him; the ones that he holds closest.

"I just don't see why it's such a big issue," Jimin says through a mouthful of salad greens. His teeth chomp so loudly that Jungkook thinks they'll have to swing by the dentistry labs later that afternoon. Which Jimin'll probably like, considering he won't stop fucking rambling on about a dentistry student at the moment. "She's hot, she's got guys practically falling at her feet and she's interested in you. It's one party. Stop being so fucking boring."

Yoongi casts Jungkook a sympathetic look. He doesn't work so much at the moment, what with his chemistry finals coming up, and especially not in the Daerim area.

That's Jungkook's market now - but he did happen to have a drop-off for a last-minute order a couple of weeks back.  Territory isn't an issue between the friends, with Jungkook respecting Yoongi far too much to ever tell him to back off, or to not take deals in that area.

He had been about to approach Jungkook that night, when he noticed you crossing the street, a smile plastered on your face. He couldn't see Jungkook's face from the angle he was at, but he could see how raised his cheeks were. And so he left the pair of you to it, knowing better than to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.

Unlike Jimin, apparently.

"Not boring," Jungkook retorts, tossing the wrapper his chopsticks came in at Jimin's face. "Got a bunch of assignments due in."

"Dude, you've been MIA for weeks. If we didn't have classes together, I'd have sent out a search party by now."

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being boring."

"Kids, settle down," Yoongi interjects, and wonders why he doesn't just find friends his own age. Logistics, he decides. The perils of having to save up for university before he could actually attend.

Jimin, being Jimin, then proceeds to bicker with Yoongi, leaving Jungkook free to find your face amongst the canteen crowd. You're sat with friends, none of whom he's ever met.

Your hair is up, like it always is during school, but you've let your grown out bangs frame your face. Pretty, he thinks. Prettiest girl here.

But then you stand up, and Jungkook turns caveman. Head empty. No thoughts. Just nonsense. Jesus Christ. Who gave you the right? God damn.

A few months ago, he would have looked at you in that outfit - a silky sage green playsuit over a white tee, sunglasses resting on your head like an alice band and a pair of white converse on your feet - and he probably would have scoffed. Wouldda said some bullshit about the fact you're dressed like a child, or that the weather isn't good enough to warrant such an outfit.

A few months ago, he was a fucking idiot.

You feel his gaze on you, just like you always do.

And you ignore it.

You've been getting good at that. Pretending as if you don't feel his eyes. As if you're unaffected, unbothered by the simplest form of intimacy: a single look.

He knows you've been keeping your distance. Watching from afar is all he can do when you slink out of class before he can catch your attention. He tells himself that he doesn't care.

Jungkook mutes the audio track of the editing software he uses when he stitches together your footage, so he doesn't have to relive your conversations or hear you laugh, or worse, hear himself laugh.

It's all a bit nauseating.

Maybe a party would actually be a good distraction.

"Tonight, did you say?" Jungkook pipes up out of nowhere, only dragging his eyes away from you when he sees you pull your phone out to send a text. 

He pouts. You never text him. Not once since last Thursday. 

And you were nowhere to be seen on Tuesday.

He had called you, and for once, you didn't pick up. He didn't try again. Decided that it was on you just as much as it was on him.

That being said, he didn't get home till four in the morning, two and half hours after his last deal. Spaffed away an entire tank of petrol. Rode in fucking circles. Just in case.

"Now we're talking!" Jimin grins. "Tonight. It's her birthday, she's rented a bar in Itaewon - Dad knows the landlord or something."

Jungkook didn't know who 'she' was. Hadn't been listening to that part of the conversation.

"Well, you kids enjoy yourselves," Yoongi sighs as he gets to his feet. "Can't risk my finals over a few crappy drinks in a shitty bar."

"Oh boo-hoo!" Jimin pouts. "Spoilsport."

When Jungkook enters the bar that evening, he's greeted with everything he expects. E-cigarette vapours cloud the air, a cocktail of flavours violating his senses as he heads to the bar, shitty EDM pumping through the speakers. It's been a while since he let his hair down, so to speak.

There's something about him that commands attention. People gravitate towards him, even through the smoke clouds and sweaty bodies. Girls buy him drinks. Guys buy him drinks, too. Anything just to spend time in his presence. Like leeches, they hope to share some of Jungkook's aura.

It's impossible, though. It's Jungkook's authenticity that gives him such charisma. Trying to emulate it only ever comes off as tacky - like the guy towards the back of the room who's permed his hair to look like Jungkook's. Pierced his eyebrow, too. Looks like shit. Jungkook doesn't want to judge him, but he's a few drinks deep, and being kind is what got him into that mess with you in the first place.

No good ever comes from being nice.

He takes a shot. Tequila. Chases it down with lemonade. The girl next to him is playing with the bracelets on his wrist. Her nails scratch a little bit, and he quite likes it, so he doesn't resist when pulls him onto the dancefloor. He observes the way she moves first, and isn't disappointed. She knows how to move her hips, and seems to like it when he puts his hands on them. He can't really feel the sensation when she kisses him. The alcohol has numbed his lips. Maybe Jimin was right to force him into this.

By the time he goes to the bar for another drink, he's faded. Off his tits. Helped himself to some of Hobi's stash that he was supposed to be distributing that evening. A little bit of coke never does him any harm. He knows his limits. Tastes like shit down the back of his throat, but he kind of enjoys it.

At first, he thinks he must be seeing things when he catches you with an espresso martini in hand, laughing with people he doesn't know.

You've this whole life that he's no part of. A whole entire world. He really is an outsider looking in.

You're one of the elite; an old-money heiress. The type to own a miniature dog breed and only fly business class. It was stupid of him to think your interest in him had been anything more than entertainment. A 'little bit of rough.' Excitement away from the confines of the life he's sure your parents must have planned out for you.

It might just be because he's coked up, but he doesn't care about any of that. 

All he can think about is the fact he's pretty sure you've never looked more beautiful.

He feels so lost looking at you like this, as if he needs to be closer, for fear of losing sight of you entirely.

And so he sits beside you at the bar, orders his drink, waits for you to notice him. Which you do.

You'd spotted him the very second you walked into the bar, his hands all over some girl you don't know.

In all fairness, you didn't realise he would be there. Sohyun, the girl whose birthday it was and an old friend from high school, has been fawning over Jungkook for months. Just superficial drawling, comments about his thighs and the fact she'd quite like to be suffocated by them. Harmless, really. You know she's never actually made a move.

Sohyun doesn't know you're working on a project together. You avoid the topic of him altogether, especially with her.

But she does notice the way Jungkook is looking at you like he's seen a ghost; haunted and comforted all in the same expression.

"You're here," he finally says, and it feels as if your chest is about to cave in.

Turning to face him, you're casual in your posture. Unbothered. Completely unaffected by him, and the lipstick that's painting those lips of his that you like so much.

You raise your thumb and swipe it across his bottom lip. He's silent as you do so, watching you, holding his breath. His lip moves like rubber beneath your touch, soft and supple, springing back into position once you release it.

You raise your thumb to study the lipstick you've collected from him. "Plum's really not your colour, Jungkook."

He doesn't say anything, a little transfixed. It's barely ticked past midnight. You should be in Daerim.

In all fairness, so should he. Hobi had some choice words for Jungkook when he told him that he wasn't working that evening at such short notice.

You swipe open your phone and repeat the step, filming your thumb as Jungkook becomes captive to your touch. You want to look, to see how wide his dark eyes are, but you're too busy feigning disinterest.

"There," you smile, forwarding the video along before you lock your phone. "Just sent you a video of how I see the city tonight."

You've no right to be annoyed. You know that.

Jungkook can be in a bar with another girl's lipstick on his chin if wants to be. He can stay out all night, and he can stay in beds that aren't his. It's his prerogative.

But you are annoyed.

It's irrational, and pathetic, and you shouldn't be.

You barely know him. Not really.

After you'd shown him your favourite tree at the Design Plaza a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on taking you across town to Garosugil, a street in Gangnam lined with beautiful tall trees. He questioned why you only had one favourite tree, when you could have had an entire row of them instead.

At the time, you'd enjoyed the way his eyes looked beneath the lights of the designer stores that neither of you could afford. You didn't question what he had meant.

It seems like you found your answer.

"I'm not the city," he eventually says.

And he's right.

He's not the city.

Fuck it, no, he's not the city, but his eyes sparkle like Itaewon on Friday nights, and his hands are strong like the World Cup Bridge. He's not the city, but you find it so easy to get lost in him without a map, and sometimes wearing his leather jacket makes you feel like you're eating comfort food at your favourite breakfast bar over in Myeong-dong. He's not the city.

He's not the goddamn city.

But it feels a little like you'd accidentally anchored your navigation pin in him regardless.

All you do is smile, and tell him that he's right.

"Look," he begins, and you can smell the spiced rum on his breath.

"It's okay," you interrupt. Who are you to make him feel guilty for his promiscuous encounters?

He doesn't know what you do in the dark. Not really. If he did, he probably wouldn't have kissed you last week.

"No, I-" he cuts himself off like he always does when he doesn't wanna fuck up his words. The alcohol is doing him absolutely zero favours. "I dunno, sugar."

Your smile is sad, and he hates himself. You lean forward, press a kiss into his rosy cheek and whisper, "That'll be 20,000, Jeon."

And because he's drunk, and he wants to make things better, he reaches for his wallet. You were about to walk away regardless, but damn, if the boy doesn't know how to hit you where it hurts.

"Really, Kook?"

It's like he doesn't know you at all; doesn't remember how you banter with him, how you flirt with him. Or maybe you were just stupid for thinking that you'd been flirting with him in the first place. Maybe he just speaks to everyone how he speaks to you. Must have spoken to whoever was wearing that lipstick in the same way.

He doesn't answer, not verbally, but his brows pinch together and his lips develop a frowning pout.

When he stumbles home that evening, he asks himself the same question: really, Kook?

In the morning, he wakes alone, with no recollection of how he got home. 

He doesn't remember the girl from the bar, or the fact that Jimin threw up in a fish tank, or that they're now barred from three different establishments for encouraging people to snort fish food (which Jungkook had stolen while Jimin was emptying his stomach). Regretfully, he doesn't even remember your arrival at the first bar. Doesn't remember how, for once, you'd dressed to impress just him.

His lack of recollection means fuck all though, 'cause despite his headache, the thing weighing down most heavily on him is guilt. He feels a sense of duty when it comes to you; duty that he hasn't performed lately. Were you getting home safe? Getting harrassed by scummy fuckers on the Daerim path of destruction?

Out of habit, he checks his phone, ignores the messages from unknown numbers and goes straight to your message thread to check the damage. He's surprised to find that he didn't drunk text you, but even more surprised to find that you'd messaged him. It's a video, just a few seconds, but it's enough to provoke some of his memories back.

He watches your thumb as it glides across his bottom lip. Watches it again. Notices the lipstick. Notices the thumb ring he never realised you wore before, and the fact that your nails are black now instead of their usual pink. There's something erotic about it; the way you touch him. The way you filmed yourself touching him. He'll probably get in trouble for it, but there's no way he isn't adding that to your project.

You consider ignoring his call when your phone flashes with his caller I.D.

It's only just gone seven, and you're still in bed, still try to make heads or tails of your life.

But you're weak, and so you slide your thumb across the little green icon.

"Hey."

"Uh, hey."

"You good?"

"So hungover, I think I might die," Jungkook jokes, voice hoarse. You wonder if he always sounds like this in the morning. "Just wanted to check in with you though. Barely seen you all week, and then I end up with a weird-ass video in our message thread that I don't remember."

Ah. You cringe.

"Ran into you at the bar," you shrug, not that he can see you. "Didn't realise you were friends with Sohyun."

"Hmm?"

"Sohyun... the girl who's birthday it was?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Nah, no, not really friends with her. Jimin forced me along."

You don't know all that much about Jimin, but from your limited interactions with him, it doesn't surprise you. Not in the slightest.

"Good night?"

Your question sounds forced and awkward, and he doesn't quite understand why.

"No idea," he admits honestly. "Remember fuck all."

He sounds as if he wants to keep talking but doesn't know what to say.

You don't know what to say either.

It's a mess. You liked it better when he hated you.

"Were you at the bar for long?" He asks, genuinely curious. "You're normally busy on Thursdays?"

"Just a drink. Had a last-minute change of plans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah..."

You know he wants you to elaborate. He wants more without having to explicitly ask for it.

Which is apt. Seems like it's a common occurrence with Jungkook.

"So what did you call for?" you change the topic, not wanting to dwell. The aversion doesn't go unnoticed by him, but it does go unquestioned.

"I-" there he goes again, cutting himself off prematurely. Coward. "Are you free? Now?"

Oh.

Not a coward. Just cautious.

"Now? I mean, yeah, I guess."

Jungkook takes a second, and then he bites down on the grenade pin.

"Can you come over?"

THE WAY YOU keep Jungkook hanging on tenterhooks is deliberate.

You're unsure of him, of his motivations, and what he does in the dark. And so, while you want to let your guard down, you can't. It's probably something to do with your parents - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - making their love entirely conditional and withdrawing it so suddenly.

It's the kind of shit you would have spoken about with your therapist, but you can't afford her anymore.

Can't afford much of anything, anymore. So much of the money you've earnt recently is tied up in credit card debt or rent.

Foundation was the first luxury that you'd compromised, and you're still yet to buy any more. Cheap stuff always makes you break out, and thankfully your parents did give you decent genetics, at least, so your skin was pretty clear.

It's the lack of make up that suggests to Jungkook you're opening up; not hiding from him anymore.

But it's also what tells him something is incredibly wrong, when you show up at his door half an hour later with a graze beneath your eye. Little flecks of reddened skin creep up your cheekbone, and Jungkook thinks it almost looks like carpet burn.

He hadn't noticed it last night, but it was dark, and he was drunk.

He lets you in, takes your jacket, offers you a drink. Everything that he knows he should do. Asks how you are, keeps a safe distance.

You don't know why you're here. Why you didn't say you were busy.

Except you do. 

It's cause you miss him whenever you're away from him.

"I like these," you smile as you look at the artwork he has up in his room. The studio space is small, cramped, like all semi-basements are, but it's distinctly 'his'. A lot different to yours. Everything you own is still in boxes, not yet unpacked. 

You've refused to come to terms with that being your life now.

"Thanks," he nods, watching you as you explore the box of a room he calls home. "They're from a guy down by the coach station. Has a little stall."

"You'll have to show me," you muse, turning to smile at him. It's saccharine, but the graze on your face is just so bitter. He hates it. Hates that he doesn't know how you got it. "Think I'd like some for my place."

"I have a feeling they'd look a little out of place in a princess tower, sugar."

Your shoulders shake as you laugh quietly, not correcting him. He doesn't need to know that you're a basement dweller, too.

"How's the editing coming along?" You steer the question away from your living situation.

"Nearly there," he grins, brimming with quiet excitement. Something about the way your camerawork looks with his editing technique layered on top just really works. He's always been confident with his final projects, and this one scares him a little bit, but in a good way. It's his best yet. Maybe he did need you after all.

"Can I see?"

"Not yet."

"Kook," you say, and - oh god - you're pouting. Jungkook suddenly begins to feel nervous.

It's that scary feeling again. A fear of the good stuff. Trepidation.

"What?" he grins, walking a little closer to you, letting his hand stroke against your back as he sits down on his bed. His fingers catch yours. It's fleeting, but enough.

You both feel it.

"Such a tease," you say, talking about the project, but there's innuendo in your words, too.

"Some girls like it," he flirts back.

"The girl at the bar last night seemed to like it."

Jungkook rolls his eyes, boyish and charming. It's annoying, you think, how impossible it is to be mad at him. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't resist his charms, but because he has a way of playing things off as if they're no big deal.

The girl at the bar? A nobody, his shrug suggests. She doesn't matter.

And it's so easy to believe, because you're the one in his apartment. You're the one he wanted here, the one that he missed. Or at least, the one that he was thinking of when he decided that he could do with some company.

It might be nothing, just something to pass the time, but it makes you feel wanted. Desired. Needed.

So you accept his hand when he reaches out towards you, pulling you closer, positioning you between his spread legs. You're standing, his eyes level with your chest, unashamed as he looks at your body.

"You look warm," he husks.

Just like he always uses your body temperature as excuse to give you his jacket, he's using it as an excuse now, too. The desired effect is obvious.

His AC switchboard is on the wall behind his bed. You'd clocked it when you were walking around, observing his possessions. Yanmar, the branding reads, the plastic outer frame beige. Once, it would have been crisp white. Age has dulled it. The monochrome monitor has a clock symbol in the corner, an indicator that Jungkook has his AC set on a timer. It suggests a sense of permanence. This is his home.

You haven't set your timer yet. You just flick it on when you get hot. It isn't your home.

He watches you as you move, curious. He's smirking, because he just cant help himself. 

And because he knows that you like it whenever he does. Gets you a little bit flustered.

One of your knees hooks over his lap, and then the other follows suit.

He'd have said you were straddling him. You'd have argued that you were simply reaching over to the AC.

And you do exactly that, flicking the switch, watching as it lights up. "There. Much better."

Touche, he thinks. Smiles. Grips your thighs, as if he's scared you'll stand up again. Scared to lose you.

In all honesty, he had been hoping you'd take your shirt off, but he isn't going to complain with you in his lap, instead.

Doesn't matter if you mix the eggs with the milk first, or the flour. You still bake a cake at the end of it all.

Jungkook looks at you in such a way that you find yourself thinking maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so horrible to let someone in. His eyes are honest, void of ulterior motives. He's doing this because he wants to. Because he wants you.

Wants that feeling back. The one where his lips are cushioned between yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.

Jungkook wants what he wants. Jungkook gets what he wants.

And, fuck, if it isn't bare minimum - but you know this, and you don't care. Bare minimum tastes pretty fucking good when you're licking it from his lips.

His hands roam, and you let them. He's rough with his movements, but the fleshy pads of his fingertips are soft, like silk against your skin. It's almost like he's afraid, filled with the knowledge that he can bruise, if he really wants to.

But he doesn't want to. He wants to ask about the graze that's sitting pretty where blush should be. Jungkook doesn't wanna hurt. He wants to heal.

"I catch you looking, you know," you tell him before he gets a chance, wanting to see how he responds. "Every now and again..." He hikes you forward in his lap. Places you dead centre over his cock. You can feel it. He can feel you. "...I catch you looking at me." He presses a kiss against the base of your neck, obsessed with the way it vibrates when you speak. "Why are you always looking at me?"

The fact that you're sat in his lap, grinding your hips against a solid bulge, should be indication enough.

Jungkook isn't going to spell it out for you. The eroticism of suggesting he's a fucking voyeur makes him want to laugh - but the way your nipples are tenting the shirt you're wearing distracts him.

His teeth graze your throat, hands creeping round to your tummy. His fingers are long, practically the length of the expanse between your hips and the underneath of your plump tits. Just a little further and he'd be holding them, cupping them, caressing. Just a little further.

"I look at you-" His hands continue their exploration as he leans back, watching the movement beneath your shirt. It somehow feels forbidden - like he can touch, but not look. After all, your question had sounded quite a lot like a telling off. "-because you like me looking at you."

He's fucking with you, trying to get a rise.

"Do I?"

The way that you whimper as he brushes against your nipples has him pulsing his hips. Your eyes close, head tilting back ever so slightly. You like this. The way he does it.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, lips wet against your neck. His fingers knead into the flesh of your tits, nipples hard in his palm as he relieves his stresses. "Bet you think about it all day, don't you? Think about the way I look at you when no-one else does."

Yes.

"All day?" you smirk between dulcet moans. "You're lucky if I pay you any attention at all."

"I think you're lying," he declares rather boldly, hands all over you. "I think it plays on your mind. I bet you fall asleep thinking about it, don't you?"

Yes.

"Ddaeng."

"I bet you get yourself off thinking about it."

Maybe you do. 

Maybe you've whispered his name in the dead of night, imagining how it would feel to have his body weight on top of yours. Maybe you get intrusive thoughts of that kiss every single time you try to draw close. Maybe Jungkook has made you cum without ever laying a single finger on you.

But even if he has, you won't tell him.

And you don't need to, because his phone buzzing on the bedside table behind you cuts the conversation dry. Jungkook glances towards it automatically, then back up to you. His frustration is evident, jaw tense.

"I gotta get this," he mumbles, encouraging you off of his lap. You don't resist, accepting the last five minutes for what they were: a momentary lapse in judgement. He sighs as he stands, adjusting his trousers, swiping his phone and putting it to his ear. He strolls just far enough away that you won't hear what or who is on the other line. "Hobi. Speak to me."

Hobi, you muse. A friend? A colleague? Another girl?

You swallow back the nauseating feeling in your throat, pretending as if the prospect of Jungkook with someone else doesn't chip away at your self-worth a little bit. It wasn't like you thought you had anything special between the pair of you.

But he was right. You did like him looking at you.

More than you had realised until the prospect of him looking at someone else arose.

From the corner of the room, you could hear Jungkook trying to interrupt the person he was talking to. The first syllable would escape, and then he'd hush again, never quite managing to get the words out in full.

"Ho-" His nostrils look quite cute when they flare, lips pursed, a pair of unique dimples becoming evident. They're different to the usual ones you notice. Full of surprises was Jeon Jungkook. 

"Hobi, can I-" 

He runs his hand through his hair, already dishevelled from your hands. 

"Hobi will you let me fucking talk!"

Attaboy.

The pause that follows Jungkook's outburst would suggest that Hobi had said 'no' - and then a few more choice words. If Jungkook rolled his eyes back any further, they'd surely get stuck.

"Look, I'm a bit tied up right now- no! No, not that. Who? No. I don't know a Taehyung, and even if I did- Huh? Ain't got nothin' to do with Holangi. Don't know a single one of 'em." 

You try to decipher the conversation, but fail. 

"You're a real fuckin' cockblock, yanno?" 

You blush. 

"Fuck it, fine. But you owe me. I'm not saying yes next time."

He glances over to you, catching your raised brow. Next time?

A smile catches on his lips. You thought this would be a one time thing?

He's barely hit second base. If there's one thing you're yet to find out about Jungkook, it's that he loves to win. He won't be satisfied until he's got a home run.

Any other girl, and he'd have probably been running laps for fun by this point, but you... yeah, you didn't bowl him easy hitters, that was for sure.

Jungkook moves with confidence, like he always does, as he strides over to the sofa, the bulge in his pants considerably softened but still present. "Take a picture," he grins. "It'll last longer."

You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop you from asking if that's an offer. He laughs - that soft, gentle thrum of his vocal chords that sounds so heavenly in your ears - and tells you to behave.

"I just gotta help a friend out," he says as he reaches over you to grab his rucksack. It's heavier now than it ever is at school, the jingle of crushed tin foil rustling as it briefly catches on your knee. He pretends not to notice the curiosity in your eyes. Pretty eyes, though. He quite likes them, especially when he's towering above you and can see the whites just above your lashline. Yeah, he likes them alot. "I'll only be an hour or so. You can stay here, if you like?"

The way he phrases it is so casual that it's almost like you're old friends.

That, or Jungkook's just used to having women he doesn't know very well stay at his place.

You're unaware of the mental gymnastics he's putting himself through. If he could kick himself without looking like a twat, then he definitely would.

Shrugging, you give him a polite smile. "I don't wanna overstay my welcome."

"Nah, you're fine. I can give you a lift back to yours when I'm home? I'll be an hour. Two, tops."

Finally you agree, watching as he leaves like a lovesick puppy, listening out for the familiar rattle of his exhaust pipe. There's a cough and splutter of petrol spitting onto the sidewalk as his motor roars into action, and then he's gone.

You don't hang around for much longer.

You tell yourself that you will. That it would be nice. That you and Jungkook might not be so ill-suited after all.

But as the clock ticks by on the wall, you find yourself getting antsy. You find yourself asking stupid questions. Who exactly is Hobi? What was in Jungkook's bag? Why is he always down in Daerim? Is that where he's gone now?

The thoughts grow, adapt, intrude. Before you know it, you're considering what you'd find if you opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. 

Realistically, you know it would probably be a wank sock and a tub of vaseline - it doesn't matter though. Your mind is wondering. You need to scratch the itch.

Just a little peek. He'll never know.

Oh, how you loathe your brain.

What's the worst you could find? A revolver? His ex-girlfriends panties? Love letters? A crack pipe?

Somehow, you'd rather find a pipe than panties. 

It's not that you want Jungkook to be a crack addict. It's just the more that you think about it, the more you come to realise that you really, really don't like the idea of someone else feeling how warm his torso is, or how his upper teeth always nip slightly when he starts kissing you, until the pressure of his pecks plump his lips. You've only experienced it a handful of times, and it's stupid to get carried away, but he just makes it so easy.

He didn't ask you to stay, you tell yourself. He asked you if you wanted to.

Moments of instability like this are exactly why girls like you don't spend time with boys like him. It's stupid. Futile. A game for fools.

You leave his apartment as you found it, with not even a note to say thank you. He's had a squeeze on your tits. You deem that thank you enough. If anything, he should be thanking you.

When he returns, just half an hour after your departure, he can still smell your perfume. He tosses his keys down, calls out your name, and is met with silence. It takes him a moment or so to realise that he's alone.

There's a sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn't recognise. Doesn't like. Hates, in fact.

But fine. Fuck it. He didn't want you there anyway. He'd just been doing a good deed. Being kind because - if your face was any indication - obviously someone else had been particularly unkind to you.

Jungkook thinks he knows who, now.

Daerim nights have always been sketchy, but the days are no better. 

He's just the lowest rung on a long ladder of criminals who turn a profit when the sun goes down in Seoul.

Hobi had asked him to drop the stash in his rucksack off at a club, some gang-run joint that Jungkook doesn't know much about, so that he could get them back to his boss. 

That had been the plan, at least.

He slings his bag down, now empty, and sinks into the sofa, not bothering to get a rag to clean himself up. No point. The dried blood will just wash off in his shower. It's not the first time this has happened. He doubts it will be the last.

Jungkook's nose is currently bleeding, dripping down his chin and hitting the ceramic tiles of his apartment with small slaps. A bruise is forming above his left eye socket, and his knuckles are red.

A punch to the face means very little to Jungkook.

He's young, but he's strong. Fast, too. It could have been a lot worse if he wasn't.

He pushes the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing, before unlocking his phone, and dialing a number he knows now by heart.

The dial tone bleeds out, just like his nose.

And so he hangs up, and calls the only person he knows he can rely on.

"Wassup, kid?"

Jungkook doesn't mean to sob, but he cant help it. He knows Yoongi has finals coming up. He doesn't need his bullshit on his plate, too.

"I got jumped Yoongs."

Fuck.

"You alright? Sound pretty bad? Where?"

"Daerim-"

"The fuck you doing there at this time of day?"

"Hobi wanted me to drop off my stash."

"Kook..." Yoongi speaks slowly, coming to a horrific realisation. A few punches had never bothered Jungkook before. Something bigger was at play. "The stash...?"

Jungkook can hear it in Yoongi's voice: fear.

"Gone."

Yoongi sighs down the line. "Hobi know yet?"

"No."

"Alright, get outta your flat," Yoongi begins, not wasting time. Now is not the time for emotions, and it's clear that Jungkook isn't capable of that just yet. "I need you to go somewhere safe, somewhere you can lie-low for a little bit alright? Let me sort it-"

"Yoong-"

"Let me sort it. I got you into this mess. Don't sweat it."

"Ple-"

"Kook. Seriously. Trust me with this."

Yoongi doesn't let him debate it any further - and it's just as well he doesn't, because as soon as he hangs up the phone, another call comes through. Jungkook wants to answer it. Really, he does.

Jungkook's just very aware of the fact that the guy who jumped him had almost been waiting for him. Right by the entrance of the apartment block which he always picked you up from. 

In between blows, he'd warned Jungkook to 'stay the fuck away from the girl'.

The girl who's now returning his call.

"Hey," you say animatedly, having not expected him to call. You thought the pair of you would resume your usual awkward routine of pretending like nothing ever happened. "Sorry, I was in the shower. You good? Sorry I left, I just did-"

"I need a favour," he doesn't bother with formalities.

You want to banter with him, to flirt, but the tone of his voice warns you not to. So instead you tell him that you'll do whatever he needs.

"Can I come over?"

Fuck. Anything except that.

"Please."

YOU DON'T EXPECT to say yes. You don't expect to care more about him than you do about protecting your own dignity. You don't expect Jungkook to traipse down the stairs that lead to your slovenly open door with a glum look on his bloodsoaked face, as you stand there waiting for him.

But he does.

He makes no comment, no remark about the building. Just wraps his arms around your head, cradling you against his chest as you stand in your doorway. You can hear his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud against his ribs.

Go somewhere safe, Yoongi had told him. It was a no brainer.

"I'm sorry," he says, eventually pulling himself away from you. "I didn't know who else to ask."

You tell him it's fine, and you mean it. Keeping up pretences doesn't really matter so much anymore. Perhaps honesty was overdue from the both of you.

"The fuck happened to you?" You ask, tenderly reaching up to stroke away some of the dried blood from his lip. He winces, hisses, body tense, but he lets you continue. "Sorry."

"Could ask you the same, sugar," he speaks kindly, not wanting you to think he's being critical as he nods to the entryway behind you.

You grit your teeth together and let your hand rest on his shoulder. "King kicked the princess out of the castle."

And, suddenly, it doesn't seem embarrassing anymore. In fact, it seems perfectly apt that Jungkook knows. He doesn't pry, don't push for further clarification. Just nods. Accepts your reality.

"Castles are overrated, anyway," he presses a kiss to your head, and gently guides you through the threshold. The corridor is short, opening up to an open plan studio. The layout varies from Jungkook's, but it's similar in size. Small.

"Ignore the wallpaper," you say of the awkwardly granny-ish floral print. It's beige, so not totally offensive, but dear god, you think it looks like vomit.

"No," he grins. "It's... wow. Your landlord really knows how to make a statement, don't they?"

You perch on your bed and cringe. "A statement... a crime against interior design. Whatever you wanna call it."

Jungkook continues to pace around your room with a curious smile. He's partially deflecting from the fact he knows you're probably dying to ask about his face, and why he was so desperate to be with you, but he's also interested in the life you neglected to share with him.

Brown cardboard boxes are piled high in the corners, your possessions not yet unboxed.

This place is just temporary.

You've got three and a half million won sat on your desk. A couple more weeks, just a few, and you'll have enough for a deposit on a decent flat. Then you can get a regular job, something stable, and you won't have to worry. You could work through the summer and then figure out what to do next. Just as long as you keep on moving upwards, you'll be happy.

"So," you begin gingerly, as you head to the kitchenette beside your bed, wetting a cloth beneath your tap. "You gonna tell me what happened to your face?"

He takes your previous position, inviting himself to sit on the end of your bed, anticipating your return. There's light coming in from the thin windows by your ceiling, hitting directly onto your back. He thinks it's apt. Thinks you're the kind of girl who deserves a spotlight. Thinks that Mother Nature agrees.

Jungkook shrugs, in that lazy, boyish way he so often does, as you walk towards him. He spreads his legs, encouraging you between them, letting his hands graze your thighs. You pretend not to notice as you press the damp cloth to his cheek. Tiny crows legs appear at the edges of his eyes, face wincing from the contact. It's painful.

But being alone would be more painful. He chose to be here. To be with you.

And so he tells you what happened, with as much honesty he can muster. There are some things better left unsaid, his occupation being one of them. You listen attentively, dabbing at his wounds, a frown etched into the lines of your face.

"Stay away from the girl, huh?" you muse, avoiding his eyes as you study his face. His nose is still bleeding, but every time you tell him to tilt his head towards the ceiling, it ends up back in its original position. He can't see you as well with his head tilted back. Doesn't like it. Doesn't wanna do it. "Could be any girl."

Jungkook's dimple forms in his cheek. "No. No, it couldn't."

His fingers that have been grazing at your thighs squeeze tenderly, letting you know he means it. More than he thinks you know. More than he knows he should.

There's a chance that any words spoken between the pair of you could be misconstrued. He doesn't know what his feelings for you are, and you don't really understand yours for him - but you understand your body, and the electric current running beneath your lips, dying for a connection. A little spark.

So you do the only thing that makes sense: you kiss him.

And he kisses you back. Slowly, tenderly, deliberately. His lips melt into yours, hand pulling your legs closer. He encourages you onto his lap, as if he needs to be insufferably close to you. Once you're positioned how he wants, just like you were earlier, he grips your waist, keeping you stationed there.

Jungkook knows he should stop.

He knows he should have paid attention to the pair of fists that warned him off you as his skull hit the pavement earlier that morning, knows he shouldn't let himself get so wrapped up in such a red flag - but he just can't help himself. It's like you're laced in the narcotics he deals, and slowly but surely, you've gotten him addicted.

He's craving. Dying for a hit. Just a little taste of your tongue on his, the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Red flags, red stop signs, pretty red lips all plump from the kisses he's smothering them in. Red blood, too. His nose is still a little damaged, and the way he's painting your cheek in crimson should repulse you.

Should repulse you.

Like fuck it does, though. You can smell the copper twinge through his plasma, and suddenly it's as if the Cullen's had the right idea all along.

When he pulls back, only for a moment, hands clutching at the side of your face to assess the look in your eyes, he notices it too. Hard not to. You blush all the fucking time, so much so that he knew the shade by heart, and the rouge on your cheek is far too vibrant, too scarlet. It's his fucking blood on you.

It should scare him, he knows. But the way you're looking at him, eyes all wide and glassy, lips swollen and waiting for more, has him unable to think straight. It has him obsessed, the way you don't care. The way he's covered you in blood and you still seem to want more.

But there's a softness to the way in which you're looking at him, mild confusion, as if you've got the same strange warmth running through your veins as he does. It's not a feeling he recognises, pulsing through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.

Perhaps it's nothing. Jungkook tells himself that it is. Just adrenaline, probably.

You look at his lips, all crimson and blushed, and realise you much prefer the shade of his blood to the plum lipstick that had tainted them the night before. You're delicate as you wipe your thumb along his pouted bottom lip, just like you did in the bar. Except this time, the jealousy that had blossomed in your diaphragm is nowhere to be found. There's still a pinch beneath your ribs, but this time it's in your heart, and it's far more aching. This time, you feel his hurt.

Jungkook reaches down to where you left the damp cloth on your bed. It's wet and heavy in his hand, a little warm, too. He brings it to your face and dabs silently, cleaning you of the mess he's made. Fixing you. Restoring you to your former glory.

Its futile, 'cause his nose is still fucking bleeding, and you don't plan on leaving it more than a moment before you kiss him again. You simply don't care. Want him for all that he is, blood, sweat and tears.

But still, he insists on ridding you of his stain. Doesn't want to tarnish you. He's soft with the way he presses the cloth against you, mirroring how tenderly you were with him earlier. He's learning from you, adapting to you. Wants to be like you. Wants to be 'better'.

You watch as his eyes scan your face, brows twisted like they always do when he's about to say something but stops himself. The vertical groove just above his cupid's bow is red, blood tacky as it dries. If he kisses you now, he'll leave a stamp; a mark that says 'you're mine.'

It's too much. Far too much. You aren't his, and he knows this. He never wanted you to be his, in fact, for the longest time, he had wanted to be anything but yours.

But now he sits beneath you, crestfallen, heart in his throat, blocking him from speaking.

This was never part of the plan. He was never supposed to end up here. He was supposed to escape from the trenches, to get on the path of straight and narrow. Thrive. Succeed.

And it's not your fault, he knows this, but there's a little part of him that wonders what could have happened if he hadn't seen you that night in Daerim, hadn't seen the way your eyes look beneath night market lights, hadn't heard your laugh as he looked at his favourite view of the city.

You whisper his name, your palm resting flat on his chest, and his brows soften.

It doesn't matter what could have happened, anymore.

All that matters is what is happening.

The shortness of his breath, the flutter of his lashes against your cheek, the swelling between his legs. You can feel it, feel him, and he knows it. The way he's pulsing his hips upwards is testament to that.

It's a comfortable position, you sat on his lap on the end of your bed, not one that either of you wishes to break from. Not even as he begins to breathe against your lips, unable to properly control his reactions thanks to the friction beneath his briefs.

"Want you," he mumbles, pressing his lips into yours, the air in his lungs giving itself up to you. "Want you so bad."

You shake your head, brows pinched just a little. "I'm bad news for you."

And maybe that's it. Maybe he just wants you because he knows he shouldn't - but fuck it, if he can't let himself indulge in simple pleasures, then why bother getting himself beaten to a pulp over you?

"I'm bad news for myself, sugar," he husks against your lips, tickling them as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Deeper, deeper. Closer, closer. He wants it.

Wants it all.

Wants you naked.

Wants to know what it feels like to have you gasp in his ear as his hands roam beneath your panties.

Wants to know if you'd still look at him like you're stargazing even when he's railing you.

Wants it. Wants you. Just wants.

And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets.

He slips his hand up your shirt and pushes it upwards, before letting it crumple to the floor. You know that you should be more bashful, a little bit ashamed, but it's impossible when he's looking at you like this.

He has a visual now that he didn't have earlier. The glow of your skin beneath his bruised knuckles looks almost sinful, like he's plucking forbidden fruit from its tree. He'll pay the price for this, and he knows it, but he just can't resist.

Jungkook has always been a boob guy, always loved the way he could get girls moaning with just a little pinch, but never had he had a pair quite like yours. So full, so round, he's not sure his hands are big enough, and that doubt makes him throb. Soft and pillowy, he groans as he watches his fingers sink into them, utterly enthralled. His hips adjust, pushing upwards, pressing himself into you. He wants this. Wants it so bad.

You can feel the metal of his rings against your skin, and then you can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth as they graze against the plush skin of your chest. He licks around your nipple, letting the air cool the wet trail, hardening you for him.

He's utterly obsessed.

His mouth pulls at the sensitive skin, suckles, sucks. His lashes are splayed on the tops of his cheeks, lips pouting around your nipple as he does so, small groans of pleasure vibrating against you. It will be a miracle if he can't already feel you seeping through your panties.

You whimper as his teeth graze your hardened nub, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn't detach himself, but instead, he keeps your gaze as he sucks. The pressure varies, and then it's hard. Really fucking hard. So hard you'll think he'll somehow give your nipple a hickey - but fuck, if you don't love the sensation.

"Christ," you gasp, before biting down into your bottom lip.

"Too hard?" He mumbles against you, peppering you in kisses and soft licks as if to apologise.

"No," you pant. "Was good. Was great. Just - fuck."

You laugh, soft and airy, and Jungkook smiles from the sound.

He likes this. Likes how you react to him.

And while he’s patient and gentle with you in a way that he isn't with other people, Jungkook has only ever known how to have sex in one way. It's ingrained into him, as if he was made to fuck like it; like he doesn't give a shit about the person he's screwing.

Jungkook doesn't do love, and you know this. He trades. Works in transactions. Settles debts. You don't really know this part, but you aren't stupid. You know he's never in Daerim for any good fucking reason.

You don't question it as his hands move south, slipping past your underwear. In fact, you're smug as he curses when he feels how wet you are, fingers slippery in your panties.

He pushes a finger into you, and closely follows it with a second. They curl ever so slightly, and it's at this point that you realise Jungkook is absolutely going to ruin you. Just a few pumps. Just to ease you up.

He's bored of waiting. Wants you now.

The pair of you move fluidly, minimal discussion needed, just occasional checks of 'you good?', or 'this okay?'. The answer is, always, without a doubt, 'yes'.

He gets you on your back, panties pulled off, legs not quite hanging off the edge of your bed, but nearly. He strips himself of his shirt first, and grins as he notices the way you whine.

"What?" he toys.

"Nothing," you flirt. "Just wish you'd hurry up. I'm a busy woman."

"Oh yeah?" The sound of his buckle coming undone is enough to make you fucking leak. "Busy doing what?"

You neglect to tell him. Not because you don't have a witty remark lined up, but because he's fucking naked now.

What a sight to behold he is. Body lean, honey skin flawless, muscles defined. You pretend like you're looking at his body, but your eyes are drawn to his cock. You'd expected length, but not the girth - and he has both in abundance. The tip of his cock is blushed and wet, with Jungkook just as aroused as you are.

Noticing your gaze, he rolls his eyes, and toys with your pussy again, lightly running his fingers up and down your slick entrance. When he pulls back, his fingers are still connected by thick clear fluid. His cock throbs.

"You're gonna get me so dirty," he hums, as he crawls onto the bed above you, before holding his fingers to your mouth. "Clean them."

Part of you wants to say no, but the other part of you can see his darkened gaze and the way his cock is twitching. You can't refuse.

His fingers are on the tip of your tongue, the tip of his cock nudging so close to your entrance that he may as well just do it. You raise your hips, encouraging, but he retracts a little just to tease.

The fingers that were in your mouth come to grip at the soft flesh of your cheeks, his thumb on the other side. "Don't you fucking dare."

There's tepid aggression to his movements, and it makes you feel vulnerable - but you like it. You like the way he's gripping your face, the ways he's looking at you with narrow eyes, just like he used to do across the lecture hall. You like being reminded of when you were nothing to one another, because it makes the satisfaction of feeling his stiff cock jump a little against your pussy as you moan so much more worth it.

He used to hate you, now he can't wait to bury his fat cock in you. Victory is yours, even if he's trying to act like he's the one holding all the cards.

You don't correct him, though. You let him think he has the upper hand. You'll play pillow princess just this once if it means you get to see him a little bit mean again.

"Dare what?" you pout, cheeks still squished between his fingers. He grips a little tighter, your chest rising as you gasp. He pulls your face towards his, sinking down into your lips, until he decided he's done with you.

He stands by the edge of your bed, and yanks your ankles towards him, pulling you close enough to the edge for him to fuck you like this.

The loss of his grip is unwelcome by you, a frown forming. He isn't looking at your face now, eyes down on his cock, which he's rubbing between your soaked pussy lips, but he can almost hear you brace yourself to whine. He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, head knocking to the side slightly.

"Don't you dare try and set the pace," he finally husks, still not glancing up towards you. He's taking his time, making sure the head of his cock kisses every inch of your exposed mess. "Nearly got my nose fucking broken for this pussy-" he spits, hard and fast, right onto your clit, spreading it with his cock. "- so I'm gonna make sure I get what I'm owed."

He spreads your thighs back, his fingers gripping harshly just how you like it. Perhaps you should pretend to be embarrassed by the fact your cunt is leaking for him, begging for him, but the way he hisses at the sight, chest heaving, prevents it.

Jungkook's thought about this before, about how pretty and pristine you'd be, about the mess he'd hoped you'd make. Thought about it so many times. Fingers wrapped around his shaft in the middle of the night when no one can hear him chant your name as he spills over. Yeah, he's thought about it a lot.

His imagination has never done you justice. One look and he's obsessed. Wants to spend hours touching, caressing, licking you.

"Take it," you whisper. "What you're owed, Jungkook. Take it."

He looks up now, brows threaded together. You don't recognise the contemplation his face is laced in, but he doesn't give you the chance to question it, for you begin to feel that burn. The one your fingers can never give you. It's alien, and yet familiar, inherently natural but intrusive nonetheless.

"Shit," is all you can manage to say, eyes locked on his.

He wants to watch himself sink into you, watch as his fat cock forces your slick wetness out of your pussy, but he can't. Not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your chest is heaving and your eyes are watering beneath tense brows. Not when your mouth is hanging open and just begging to be fucked like your tight little pussy.

And then he starts feeling something a little strange. A little unfamiliar. A little bit like his heart has stalled to beat in time with the contractions of your chest. And though he's not in pain anymore, too busy feeling you, he's aware that it hurts. Aware that he can't fuck you like he wanted to, 'cause his chest needs to be against yours. Needs to feel the beating drum beneath your ribs.

He doesn't even realise that he's paused until you whine a meagre, "please."

"That's more like it," he hums, as he pushes into you, the base of his thick cock plugging the weeping mess that he's made. You know that as soon as he pulls out, you'll be whimpering, begging for the tip of his cock to kiss your walls once more. "See how nice things can be when you just behave yourself, huh?"

His hips push just a little deeper, and he knows that it hurts. Knows that the little gasp isn't entirely from pleasure. He's seen his cock. Doesn't take a genius to work out that it can do damage.

"You can take it," he tells you, and like a pathetic, whimpering mess, you fucking nod. He's still inside of you, still deeper than you thought possible, and then his hand is on your stomach. He grabs your hand and places it beneath his. "You feel that?" He retracts just a little, pushing back in just as deep. Beneath your hands, there's a bulge. External or internal, it doesn’t matter. It's him. He does it again. "You feel me taking what's mine?"

Whatever the fuck you moan is incoherent, but he doesn't give a shit, 'cause he's ploughing now. Bucking his hips into you like pneumatic fucking drill. Shit. He's done this before. Got it mastered to a fine art. Momenta worthy of a museum exhibition.

Your tits are pillowed on your chest, nice and round, wobbling as he takes command of your body. He slaps one of them, just to watch it ripple, before that firm grip of his is on it. "Perfect tits," he growls the compliment, not really meaning for it to come out. "Gonna put my cock between them later," he tells you. "Gonna cum all over them."

He doesn't tell you that he'll also clean them with his hungry tongue, before delivering his cum into your mouth. Figures he'll just let you find out. His brain is working at a mile a minute, trying to reign back thoughts of sharing his cum with you in such a filthy manner. God, he wants to do heinous things to you. With you. For you.

But for now, he needs to focus on his cock. It's rubbing inside of you, nuzzling. He knows he's weeping, and that his precum is getting mixed with your slick juices. Knows he won't last long if you keep whining like that. Mewling. Purring.

He stalls his hips, letting go of your tits as they jiggle back into position. Your cheeks are flushed, imprints of his fingers reddening your skin. Lips pouted and resting ajar, Jungkook thinks they've never looked more fuckable. More kissable. More whisper-sweet-nothings-against-able.

"You ever shut the fuck up?" he teases, but is quick to notice confusion flash in your eyes. He didn't mean it as an insult, but it's easy to read the hurt in your perplexed features, and the way you begin to try and push your legs together. It's futile. His cock is keeping you open.

But you feel embarrassed, as if your natural reactions to him are a turn-off. It's silly, because he's quite literally inside of you, fat and solid, using you to milk himself. Of course, he's not turned off, but you're hyper-aware of how vulnerable you're feeling right now. It had been fun to pretend like you were in control, but as soon as he slipped inside of you, all sense of power had evaporated.

He doesn't realise this though. Doesn't realise that his cock is nudging so deep into you that it's practically knocking against your heart. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Your mind taunts, but you daren't answer.

"Hey," he coos, one of his large palms stroking on the inside of your thighs. That uncomfortable, obscure feeling is back again. The one that tells him he needs to be closer to you. This time, he doesn't ignore it. His hips pulse, just the once. A reminder he's still very much into this. Into you.

His hands grip your waist, softly this time, as he manoeuvres himself onto the bed with you, keeping himself snug. Your head is by the pillows, Jungkook's knees on either side of your ass, his chest flat against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. He presses a chaste, airy kiss against your lips, and whispers, "I love the way you sound." He kisses you again, hips rocking. You're trying not to, but you whine. "Fuck, sugar. You're my favourite fucking sound."

Your legs hook over his back, and he groans now. The angle change lets him delve deeper, your walls massaging him so well. Jungkook thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. He's slipping in and out of you with minimal force, skin slapping together. He makes sure to let his moans roll off his tongue and into your mouth. You eat them up and give them back. The pair of you aren't kissing anymore, just gasping and humming into one another's mouths. He's stuttering.

There's a pause as he adjusts his grip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs. He likes it, the way you seem to melt around him in all capacities. His lips nudge against yours as his steady hips begin to rock into yours again.

You groan as he pushes down on your legs, pushing you as far apart as your bones allow. It's typical of him, seeing how far he can take things. Push them to the limit. Always gets him in trouble. There's a click, as air escapes from the socket where your leg meets your pelvis.

"You good?" He checks and you respond with a kiss. Hands tangled in his hair, you hope it conveys the fact you've never felt better. He laughs a little, soft and serene, into your mouth, the weight of his body keeping you trapped beneath him.

You're morbid in your thoughts, and consider how nice it would be for Jungkook to suffocate you like this; steal you of the air you breathe with his tiny giggles of satisfaction. So, so nice, you think.

And so you tell him. You tell him that you want his hand on your throat. He takes a second to respond - not because he doesn't want to, but more so because he can't believe you actually asked.

He doesn't normally fuck the girls he cares about like this. Then again, he never really cares about the girls he fucks.

"God," you moan as he pushes one of your legs over his shoulder. His body is clammy against yours, skin hot and damp, chest lean but built. He's working hard; not just for his release. For yours too. Rams into you, stuffing your cunt with his cock, dipping his head to lather your clasped throat in wet kisses.

"That's it, sugar," he growls as his teeth graze your neck. "Need to hear how good you feel. Need to hear what my cock does to you. You owe me."

You want to laugh. You're about to laugh. But then his head dips down to your chest, and he latches onto one of your pebbled nipples, sucking so hard that all you can do is tremble. He knows you like this. Knows it makes your pussy all creamy and slippery for him - and like clockwork, he's proven right. The sounds are lewd. He loves it.

"On your back," you husk, punctuating your instruction with a whimper as he suckles even harder. He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth vibrating and full of your tit. Not a chance, he tries to say, but it just sounds likes he's forgotten how to speak. Too busy. Too close to spilling himself into you. Doesn't wanna get distracted.

So focused, he doesn't realise you're pushing him over until you're on top. He frowns as he detaches from your nipple with a pop, but his hands are running all over your body regardless. Obviously doesn't care that much. Course he doesn't. That ache in his chest has settled.

Until he starts thinking about it, and oh god, it's back and it's fucking unbearable.

"C'mere," he pulls you flush against him, as your hips begin to work against him. His hands cradle your face so he can kiss you as deeply as he likes, tongue slipping into your mouth, as his cock slips up and down your pussy. This, he thinks, is it. This is what fucking should feel like.

"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."

The friction of his surprisingly neat hair that rests at the base of his cock is nice. Real fuckin' nice. You're not even fucking him anymore, just grinding against it. Using it, using him, to get yourself off.

You think you're being slick, like he won't notice - but he does. Of course, he does. He's obsessed with your body.

"God, yeah, baby," his back arches, pressing his chest against yours, eyes closed. "Use me like that. Use me," he bites into your shoulder gently. "Fucking use me."

He means it. Doesn't give a shit about himself anymore. Just wants to feel you tremble as he holds you close. Wants to press kisses against your lips as your moans become undignified. He needs to be the reason you cum; needs to be responsible for your oxytocin rush.

You sit up a little, and Jungkook holds back a pout from the separation - but how can he complain when you're sat like that, his cock buried inside of you, hair a mess and with eyes like his favourite constellation? He's hypnotised as your boobs begin to bounce, pussy working up his shaft like the true Daerim woman of the night you are. He's forgotten about all of that, now. Can't think about anything except for how to not fucking cum.

He can't and he won't. Not until you do. But you're bouncing, and it's wet, and he can hear it, and it feels so fuckin' good. His toes are curling, torso tensing, eyes half-shut, pretty little pout hanging open. He's fucking whining. "Yeah like that," he encourages. "Gonna milk me so well, baby. Gonna... ah. Fuck. Gonna-"

Jungkook can't fucking speak. He wants to. Wants to tell you how fucking beautiful you look, how he wants this endlessly, how he never wants to let you go. Needs to tell you how right this feels, how good you make him feel, how he doesn't understand his feelings but fuck, just that he is feeling. Feeling so much.

You're not sure at which point he started calling you baby, but you're actually convinced that the name alone could tip you over the edge.

The pace of your hips is slowly, savouring. He doesn't quite get it. You were so close. Why stop?

The stillness of your movements makes way for something new. He feels a throb around his fat cock, which is begging for release. Notices the way your chest is shaking like you've got hiccups, tiny whines of pleasure making themselves known. Your pussy was always warm, but it's hot now, contracting around him.

And then he gets it.

"Oh, shit," he mewls, his hips slowly pumping upwards. "Yeah, that's it, baby. Let yourself cum. All over my dick," he encourages, hedonistic and self-serving. "That's it. Cream for me."

His slow movements as he fucks up into you amplify the sensation, the tip of his cock nudging languidly against your tight walls. Your entire body shudders, the feeling rippling from your chest right down to your toes. You rasp out moans, the sensation all too powerful, a creamy mess pooling at the base of his shaft. There's a jerk as your muscles spasm, your orgasm well and truly delivered. He pulls you down and into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your back.

Your body rests on his, spent and sensitive, and he can tell you can't hold out for much longer. He pushes back the hair that's sticking to your clammy face, and presses kisses into your temple.

"So big," you hum, voice hazy, eyes shut.

"Just a little more, baby," he promises. " You're doing so well. Just a little..."

You've considered how Jungkook would orgasm on more than one occasion - and you're pleasantly surprised to find that your imagination was wrong. There's no grand declaration, nor large grunt. He's not aggressive, either, like you'd half-hoped he would be.

Instead, Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls. "Baby," he drowsily mewls, and then it's happening. His cock pumps into you, unloading thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy. The first one is so desperate that you're almost positive you can feel it paint your insides. You moan along with him, utterly obsessed with this, him, whatever the fuck just happened.

He doesn't withdraw immediately. Just lays there and kisses your skin, absolutely spent.

You don't move a muscle. You don't want it to be over. Don't wanna lose this. Lose him.

When you tilt your head to look at him, he's smiling. Eyes closed, cheeks appled. Serene. In a state of fucked-out bliss.

You tell him that he's pretty, and he lets out an airy laugh, covering his face with one of his hands. You move his hand and watch him fondly, enthralled with the grin that he's struggling to fight.

He turns to look at you, and the smile he's been boasting amplifies. "God, you're gorgeous."

It's not a new observation; just one he's never voiced before. One that he was able to resist saying. But you're naked now, chest pillowed against his, eyes glowing and nose blushed.

You hum, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm glad you chose to come here."

Just like that, there's a knot in Jungkook's stomach that seems to anchor that feeling he keeps having.

"Yeah," he nods. "Me too."

IT'S THREE IN the afternoon by the time you wake from your post-fuck snooze. Jungkook's never had one of those before. Hated being sticky after sex with anyone else. Always had to shower - but with you, he wants to stick to you like glue.

"Should have filmed that," he hums, the tips of his fingers stroking up your arms. You aren't sure if he's joking or not. "Would have given us a unique take on the project. Probably wouldn't have gotten us very high grades, mind you, but art is subjective."

"Some would argue that the critique of art is objective," you muse back, still blissfully cum-drunk from the events prior to your nap. Jungkook's nose has stopped bleeding, and the pair of you have almost forgotten the reason he showed up in the first place. "Documentary maker by night, porn star by day," you flirt. "Although it's cute that you think you fuck like a porn star."

"I felt you shaking," he says, knowing there's no possible way that you didn't enjoy it. His nose feels a little cold after all the trauma of the morning, so he buries it into your hair. "Can't fake that."

"That's what I'm saying," you simper, pressing a kiss against his bare torso, just below the meeting of his collarbones. And then another, simply for good measure. "Porn stars never actually look like they're making the woman feel any good." You trail down his chest, tongue licking gently at the darker skin around his nipple. "You... yeah you don't fuck like a porn star." And then you suck a little. He hisses, in the best possible way. 

"Don't," he says. "Not ready to go again."

You laugh. 

Jungkook thinks he's reached Nirvana. Almost certain, in fact. Never had a girl do that to him before. He loves to give it, but hasn't ever thought to receive it. Wonders what other things you'll do to him that he's never had done before. He can feel his cock fucking twitching again, achy and sore, definitely not recovered yet from how hard he went earlier - but god, he wants it. Wants to bury himself inside you again. Belong to you.

His hands paw at you, one gripping on your chest, the other on your ass, pulling you closer. Your leg hooks over him, and he can feel how wet you still are on the side of his thigh. His balls fucking tighten. He can feel it happening, blood rushing to his crotch. 

Yet despite it all, he just kisses you. Softly. Tenderly. Merely his lips languid between yours. Withdraws slowly. Keeps his eyes closed. Bliss.

"The fuck have you done to me, sugar?" he whispers, dark eyes opening to look into yours. His speech is husky, like he trying to steal the answers of a pop-quiz from you. You can't help him. You don't have a clue what the answer is. You're just as stuck as he is. "Got me feeling all fuzzy 'n' shit."

"Just a sugar rush," you smile. "It'll pass."

You're both acutely aware that it won't, but that will be a problem for another day.

"Tell you what," Jungkook muses, though his thoughts are shallow. He's not digging deep. Just talking for the sake of it. "I might not fuck like a porn star, but you don't fuck like a hooker." 

He pulls your arm up so that he can study the crease of your elbow. You let him move your body like you're a barbie doll. You'll be his toy, you think, if he wants. No bother. 

His fingers press at the thin skin that covers your veins, inspecting. 

"Not a scratch," he assesses. "So you're not an addict either."

You laugh, slightly amused. "No? Maybe I just don't inject."

Jungkook gives you a stern look. Hopes you're joking. Tells you that you better fucking be joking. The sweetness of your laughter tells him that you are.

"So?" you press. "I'm not a prostitute and I'm not an addict. It's your lucky day. What of it?"

Jungkook tilts his head down so that his nose is nestled into the crown of your head again. Comforting, he thinks. Smells like laundry. You must have washed your sheets recently. 

His next statement takes you off guard. 

"Only ever see three kinds of women down in Daerim." 

And you know.

You know he knows. 

You can feel it in the way he protectively presses his lips into your skull, as if he's Prince Charming trying to rid his Sleeping Beauty of the nightmare she's been living. Wake up.

But Prince Charming rides a white horse, not a petrol-spitting, air-cooled, steel-framed shadow that rips through the city at night. 

There are no nightmares, either. You're already wide awake. There's no saving you. 

He sighs against your head. Pauses. Resists, and then confronts. 

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar."

You don't say anything for a moment, and then you're pulling away from him, reaching for your shirt. He doesn't like this. Misses your warmth, but doesn't stop you. Instead, he follows, sitting on the edge of your bed, the corner of your comforter lazily protecting his modesty. His muscles are relaxed now, a little crease in his stomach from the way that he's slouching, hands in his lap. Those Bambi eyes of his are peaking through his hair, cheeks red and grazed from the morning encounter he'd had in Daerim.

He watches as you pull your shirt over your head, hair just as messy as his, and a graze on your cheek to match. He was pretty certain before that it had been carpet burn, but now that he's seen it up close, softly rubbed his thumb against it during pretty kisses, he's sure of it.

You avert his gaze. Feel shameful. Hate that he knows. You never cared before. It was just a fun little secret, the fact that he didn't know you were no angel. 

But you want him to think that you're one, now. 

For a moment, you were sure that he had. 

Instead, now, it feels like you're falling from grace.

He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back. "Please don't."

And so he doesn't. Just sits for a little while instead. "Do you want me to get dressed?"

You really don't. 

But your tongue is lodged in your mouth and it won't budge. You turn away, internally furious with yourself. It's been a while since you've gotten like this; so dreadfully panicked that you can't talk. It's a once in a blue moon kind of thing, the early onset of a panic attack, but you're hoping it won't reach the stage of no return. Praying.

"Babe?"

He sounds worried now, and it's making it worse. Feels like you've just reached the top of Bukhan Mountain without taking a second to catch your breath. 

Has your chest always been this tight? Or has someone just been wrapping rubber bands around your torso without you noticing? 

It isn't possible, and you know this, but it feels like it and - oh God - you can hear him shuffling, the buckle of his belt clanging. He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving, your ribs cackle as they close down on your lungs. 

There's a light hum behind you, like a wasp is coming to send you into a state of anaphylactic shock and then it stops. His jeans are tossed to the floor once more.

"Yoongi?" Jungkook speaks quietly behind you into the receiver of his phone. "Wassu- Yeah, yeah, I'm safe. I'm good."

I'm safe. 

I'm good.

"Where are- Yoongi stop. Stop it. I'm being deadly fucking serious-"

You don't realise it, but your chest begins to mellow as you listen in to his conversation. 

"It's my mess!" He shouts now. "I'll fucking fix it. I don't give a fuck what Hobi says. Where you at? The Zoo? I'll be there- Yes, I will. Don't do anything fucking stupid."

And then he hangs up, chucking his phone into your bed with more aggression than he'd ever wanted to show in your presence. You don't see it, back still turned, but you hear it, the way his phone rebounds against the springs of your mattress.

"Shit," he hisses, and when you turn to face him, you find that his head is in his hands, elbows on his knees.

Crouching by him, your chest expands. You don't give a shit about yourself anymore. Your palms rest just behind his elbows, eyes anchored below his, looking up. 

"He's got his fucking final in an hour," is all Jungkook says. "He's gonna miss his fucking final."

He lifts his head, tender lips pouted, eyes bloodshot from the pressure he's been placing on his palms. Looks right at you. Decides he'll never trust another pair of eyes more.

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar," he relays. "But I do worse. So much fucking worse. And I've just gone and fucked it all up."

And while he blames it all on himself, you know it's your fault. 

He didn't stay away from the girl. He tempted fate, tugged on the red string, and accidentally snapped it.

Forlorn, he slumps, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he bites down on it. It's only to stop it from trembling. Clouds lurk in his eyes, trying to block his vulnerabilities from you, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that he's scared. 

"Take it," you say, lips in a flat line, eyes stern. You nod towards the pile of cash on your desk, and his eyes follow. "Take it. Pay your debts. I can earn it again. I don't have a deadline. You do."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not taking the money you've earned."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," he protests and you've got it in your right mind to slap his pretty face silly. "Gonna be totally honest," he adds, "Don't really want your sugar baby money. Kinda resent it a little. Resent the fucker who gave it to you."

Jungkook hates him. 

Doesn't know him.

Loathes him.

"So then give him the middle finger and take it," you plead. "He got you fucked up into this mess, he got you jumped, he got your stash stolen. Take his money and get yourself and Yoongi out of it. You don't have time to be fucking arguing with me."

He wants to fight back. You stop him.

"We can argue later," you promise.

And that ever-present effervescent feeling is back in his chest. 

"Sugar," he speaks quietly. "Don't do this."

"Kook," you respond, voice much firmer than his. "You gotta do this. Yoongi shouldn't be fixing your mistakes and you know it. We can work it out on an I.O.U. basis. It's okay."

"I.O.U. suggests I'm gonna keep seeing you for a while," Jungkook mumbles. He isn't feeling as confident in himself as he had done earlier. 

You stand, offering your hand to him so that you can pull him up with you. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that he's stark bollock naked. It's really not the time. Nothing you haven't seen before, after all.

"Well, yeah," you shrug with a straight face, but there's a glint in your eye. "I'd hope so. Pretty sure you said you were fuck my tits later? Gotta hold up your end of the bargain, sugar."

And despite it all, he laughs, toying with your hands before slipping his finger between yours. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" You squeeze his hands. "You're technically my sugar baby now."

"That's not how it works."

God, he knows he shouldn't be fucking about, wasting time flirting, but he just can't help himself.

"No?" You question, equally distracted.

"No," he says. "If you're paying me, and I'm fucking you, then that makes me a hooker."

He's not wrong. 

"Oh, that's kinda hot," you smile, pulling gently on his hands to encourage him to lean down. He does as he's told, and kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You're so fucked up," he whispers against you, knowing that it's exactly why he enjoys you so much.

You don't let the moment linger, though, tossing him his clothes and going to grab the money while he dresses himself. You stack it together, all nice and neat, using the desk to straighten the edges. The wedge is thick in your hands. Yellow 50's are laughing at you. Stupid girl thought we'd fix her problems, they chatter silently to one another.

"Three and half million won," you hold it out to Jungkook. He hesitates, so you force his grip around it and let go. It's his problem, now. Not yours. You smile so warmly that Jungkook can't help but let that feeling in his chest simmer. Your hair is still messy, mascara still smudged. He wants to kiss your cheeks. 

Jungkook hasn't disclosed what exactly was in his bag.

But in the same way he knows there are only three types of women in Daerim, you know there are equally only three types of men.

There's only one demographic that he belongs to. Yoongi, too. 

You don't say it explicitly, not like he does. 

"Holangi are nasty fuckers," you acknowledge. "I know they raise the stakes just for the fun of it. Whatever got stolen, the street value doesn't matter. Take it all. You'll need it."

Take what I owe you.

When he kisses you goodbye, it's just like the first time; all breathy and needy, lips parted and pouting. Again and again, he presses down into your lips. His brows furrow, hands on your cheeks, chest pressed against yours.

The crimson paint that had stained you from his very first kiss returns. You're painted in red for the second time that morning, but this time only you can see it. Only you can feel it.

That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it. 

But it's funny now, because you know that he does mean it.

When he finally leaves, his nose is blushed, his cupids bow too. Eyes glassy. Smile forlorn.  

Disappointingly, as you close the door of your apartment when he's no longer in your line of sight, you remember exactly how Jungkook had kissed you for the first time:

Like it was going to be the last.

And it consumes you, because the kiss you just shared felt exactly the same.

Your chest is uncomfortable again, but it's not rubber bands this time. 

It's that stupid red string that Jungkook had tugged too tightly on.

The one that he'd snapped right in half. 

WATTPAD // AO3 // KO-FI // CARRD

[tteokdoroki]

Thinking about the freshly corrupted priest Gojo pumping his dick in the confession booth while the sinful vixen sitting in the other cabin went from confessing her sins of corrupting one of the local fathers and having him cream down her throat to giving him instructions on how to handle his throbbing cock lovingly

Go faster now, father- squeeze the tip just a little bit...yes that's a good boy...now spit on it, make a mess of yourself and give everyone a show, all their eyes are peering down and up on you.

And with that, good morning aali my love <3

-glasses anon

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. confessional.

about. you confess your sins to father satoru, but with the lust bubbling between you both, things get a little carried away.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, sacrilege, religious imagery/references, guided masturbation, male masturbation, priest!gojo, fem!reader, wc: 1.6K.

what good is a priest who can’t follow his own teachings? one that succumbs to the slightest hint of femme fatale? 

gojo thought himself a strong man. a good one. but once again, he’d found himself drinking from the devil’s cup offered up by a lost little angel who has strayed away from her path to light. 

“and i really didn’t mean to. father toji— i mean fushiguro— seemed so stressed! like he needed a helping hand.” you whimper unevenly from your side of the confessional booth. guilt buzzes in satoru’s veins as he imagines you teary eyed and distraught on the other side of the wall. the mere idea of you crying sends pleasure and lustful hormones shooting through his bloodstream and right down to his erection — the tip flushing a shameful shade of bright red.

you continue relentlessly, each word a breathless whisper laid over the swell of your sinful lips.“s-so i offered some relief in the only way i know how. i let him use my body, let him use my throat. he said it was okay…” but i just feel so wrong for corrupting him like that under the watchful eye of the lord. is it wrong that i liked it, father ‘toru. having that man’s cum pour down my throat?”

you’ve strayed too far away from the light and you’re pulling him into the darkness with you. 

“f-fuck.” 

“is something wrong father toru, your voice sounds rather strained.” by the tone of your own, he can just tell that you have your head cocked to the side innocently. perhaps your lip is caught daringly between your teeth — eyes gleaming with mischief while you mask your amusement at the damage you’ve caused. the young priest’s dick throbs against his inner thigh, smearing white along his baby soft skin. satoru grabs at his girth, squeezing it as if to stave off the pleasure that he should be disgusted by. 

clearing his throat, gojo internally curses as the words stick to its ridges — almost as if he doesn’t believe what comes out of his own mouth next. “i-i’m fine. have you prayed? i’m sure he would forgive you for your sins.” 

“i’ve been on my knees every night.” you mumble through a pout that he can’t see — earning another hiss from the priest while his angry red cockhead starts to bleed more arousal, forming a dark stain that seep’s through the fabric of his black slacks. “if you don’t mind me asking… does it hurt, father toru?” 

“does what hurt?” he exhales slowly, pearly white lashes fluttering against the apples of his cheeks. gojo, against his better judgments, pops the button of his pants to provide some relief to his aching cock. it doesn’t help at all. 

“your cock. father fushiguro felt the same after i confessed what i’d done with father getou.” 

shit. “yes… it does.” 

“i maybe be able to help.” your voice somehow sounds closer — as if you’re in the booth with him. “can you touch it… touch yourself for me, please?”

when you ask him so sweetly, how can father satoru say no? he follows your instructions like a man charmed by a succubus from the deep depths of hell. his whole body shudders and his breath stutters when he finally takes his forth between his king and slender fingers, squeezing at the base as precum beads like a rare oyster’s pearl in the centre of his slit. 

this is so wrong. “holy…holy shit,” but it already feels so good. gojo hisses, chest heaving as he instinctively bucks into his closed fist. it’s warm, sends shockwaves of pleasure down his spine to build in his pelvis while each vein that wraps prettily around his cock pulses with a new wave of lust laden blood. “what should i…?” he coughs shakily, hips slowly beginning to fuck upwards to chase the feeling of his palm. “what should i do now?” 

“spit on it, father.” you command him gently, blessing him with your praise where the higher being above might condemn him. “get it nice and wet for me, like i would, okay? squeeze the tip when you do—“ 

father ‘toru easily follows your word as if it reads passages from the bible. carefully, he leans forward — letting hot, gooey trails of spit dribble over his blistering and bright cockchead. his entire body twitches at the new sensation, which is surprisingly cool in comparison to how hot his body feels. sweat tracks it’s way down his body, soiling his hood robes and freshly pressed clothes. it makes his pure white locks stick to his forehead, and gathers on his cupid’s bow and it really is all too much. 

he feels like hell on earth. 

there’s a dull thud that echoes from satoru’s side of the booth, his head knocking against the wooden walls when it falls back. in the same breath, a loud and borderline pornographic moan rips it’s way through satoru’s firm chest — it battles through his lips (caught between sets of perfect white teeth), and reverberates throughout the confessional booth, no doubt catching the attention of people passing by.

“ohmygod,” comes his pathetic whimper while he clenches around himself once again, throat bobbing as he swallows down his sinful sounds. “why does that feel so fucking good? g-god, please!”

satoru’s fall from grace makes a sick smile spread across your lips and you cock your head to the side. you can only imagine what he looks like if this is how he sounds, his clothes a sweaty mess, his eyes delirious and darkened with ungodly and immoral desire. all this while he begs for god, begs for forgiveness, begs for you.

“you’re doing so well for me, ‘toru. can you go a little faster for me? now that it’s nice and wet.” the way his name falls gently from your tongue is like thick honey running through satoru’s ears — you drag a veil of lust over his mind and once again he follows your orders. he pumps himself faster, harder, precum slinging over the edge of his knuckles as they turn as white as his hair from the grip he has on himself. 

he can’t help but let his mind stray and wander off into  damned territory �� chasing the vision that his clouded mind creates for him. would your cunt feel as good as this? wrap around him as tightly? a stream of unfiltered and colourful curses pour from gojo’s mouth in a similar manner to the arousal from his mushroomed tip, dripping a searing hot trail down to his throbbing balls.

lewd squelches slip through the cracks of the confessional booth and filter right through to you. satoru has no idea how pleased you are to have ruined him, how much you’ve longed to hear him mewl and sigh from touching himself against the will of god. “you sound so messy, ‘toru,” you moan out just to mock him a little — listening out for his strained and strangled whines, gargling down the saliva that pools on his tongue. “think you can make an even bigger mess for me, father? one that everyone will see. those above….” you purr, the tail end of your words harmonising with gojo’s hiccups. “and those below.” 

satoru is no better than a sinner come to spill their truths to him. sitting there with his painfully hard dick in his hands, fisting it to oblivion as opaque white stains his hands and his fingers and his knuckles. there’s so much of it, so much lust and precum and he hasn’t even reached his peak yet. everything is so fucking hot, his dick slick between his sticky thighs and all-too-tight robes. 

“almost there, satoru. i need you to let go for me.” 

your goading voice through the thick oak wall pushes satoru’s hips to canter up higher and higher. he wants to please you so bad that it hurts and makes him cry. he whispers your name into the buzzing air like it’s a prayer, chanting it over and over again until it becomes the only word he knows.

“fuck… i can’t—“ gojo sighs airily, his thighs shuddering as the knots in his stomach begin to unravel. “christ… I feel like ‘m gonna burst!” angelic blue eyes roll deep back into the man’s skull, disappearing from the world to hide from the atrocities he’s committed. 

“then let go, let it all out. you’ve done so well.” you say sweetly over the sound of gojo languidly jacking himself off. one, two and three more pumps before he’s releasing thick white ropes of cum over his robe and his chest — seeping into his clothes. 

gojo’s so fucking dizzy, cumming so hard that he sees bright lights and swears that he’s landed at the gates of heaven — though he’s sure his actions today would stop him from getting in. there’s a ringing in his ear as he comes back down but all of his limbs feel heavy, he’s too weak to move. 

“f-father satoru?” you whisper innocently, as if your very voice didn’t lead the man to death. “i think our time is up.” 

“yeah?” he mumbles in response, the words slipping around on his tongue. “i think… you did good today. you’ll have to come back again next week, to make another confession.” 

if only he could see your sick little smile, one might have thought you were the devil. who knows what’ll happen if you’re alone together in a confined space. “if that’s what you need from me, father.” you giggle slyly. “see you next week.” 

“see you next week.” gojo repeats.

and just like that, you’ve dragged the poor priest into the corrupted depths of hell.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate you — Part 21

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: please forgive spelling errors, I’m still coming out of my illness. I’d also wanted to write more but I suppose it’ll help to have a solid starting point for the next chapter! I can’t believe it’s been a year since the first part of cbmthy went up.

warnings: likely spelling errors; Deliah; reader’s miserable life

word count: 5,738

-Part 20- -Part 22-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“I know it’s difficult, but I urge you to tell your family as soon as you are able.”

Madja’s round, soft brown eyes are imploring as she looks into you, and you dip your head.

“I will,” you mumble, frowning into your lap. “I just want time to process it. Besides, you don’t know that for sure—it’s just a theory.”

“A theory that I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought there was a high or definite chance of it happening,” Madja counters, passing you the glass of water. You drink reluctantly. “I know it’s a lot, and it’s sudden… How are you coping?”

You set the glass down when you’ve had enough. “Silver lining, right?”

————

Madja’s earlier question has been echoing through the chambers of your mind all morning. Nagging for an answer until you’ve no choice but to pause, and think. A bench sits overlooking the Sidra, and you take it, choosing to seat yourself for the duration of the thoughts.

How are you coping?

Because you weren’t a while ago. That’s what got Azriel bedridden, although he seems to be on the mend. So, how are you coping now? You can barely feel the gloves around your hands, even when your curl them to scrape the fabric against your skin. There’s nothing more than a slight pressure.

To have no solution for the pain, that you’re permanently damaged… Permanently imperfect, even as a fae. You could have had something. Could have been like Nesta, wielding her Cauldron-Made magic. How stupid of you.

————

His door looms before you, the windows empty and the front garden still. Taking a deep breath you raise your hand to a fist, delivering three muffled knocks to the wood panelling, gloves softening the thuds. You take a step back, and wait. Glance about the small entry, the vines crawling up either side the door, the glass lantern hanging above your head.

The garden is dying, life slowly receding, pulling back in on itself to protect from the descent of winter. Another two weeks and the transition will be clear. Already frost is often crisping leaves and slicking cobbles, ice gleaming over the lip of windowsills and thick rolls of fog floating up from he sidra, basking the city streets in a deep cloud-cover. Sometimes it’s so thick you can’t tell where the edge of the canal lies, and you make a point to offer a generous margin of error. You’re not sure you’d have the will to fight the terrible shock of icy water or the wit to navigate, blind, through the thick mists back to a lowered platform.

You’ll stick behind the guard rails, for now.

Metal scrapes, a latch clicks, the door creaks open. A heavy, golden eye peers out from the relative darkness.

You push a smile to your mouth, weighted, subdued, tentative. “Hi, Bas.”

Golden eyes pause, taking you in from an almost passive standing point. His lips don’t shift like you’d become accustomed to, no half-amused smile curving his familiar mouth and no sweep of warmth across his face. Rather, his lips tighten, as if regretting having made acquaintance with a creature with needle sharp teeth that hook into skin and cling to flesh as it feeds. You’ll stay out of his life if he wants you gone.

You can manage to give him six months of space.

Bas sighs, his broad chest briefly deflating as his shoulders slope and the ice lessens to frost. The door opens wider and an ember of mild warmth begins to glow faintly somewhere in your chest. You take care not to show the visible relief—he hasn’t forgiven you, he’s just opening up for conversation. Maybe now he’ll tell you to stay away, maybe now he’ll tell you not to disappear again, maybe now he’ll tell you you’re forgiven, maybe now he’ll forgive you but he doesn’t want around.

You shake off the thoughts like a sparrow shaking off raindrops from her narrow, nimble wings, fluttering her feathers to rid the dampness from her warm body.

Inside the fire is lit, crackling in the hearth. Dried rosemary and herbs still hang in bunches from the thick wooden beams of the ceiling, patchwork quilts still hang over the back of plush armchairs, small, plump pillows still tucked into either end of the sofa and you sit yourself near one arm, knowing Bas usually takes the armchair to the left of the fireplace. Not directly in the way of the radiating heat but close enough to be warmed by the rolling waves as they spill out into the low-ceilinged living room. You meet his golden eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” Bas nods his head. “Been doing some thinking. Sure you have too, yeah?” He takes his seat but doesn’t lean back into the cushioning. Instead he braces his forearms on his knees, feet shoulder-width apart and the fire reflects in his strong, golden eyes.

You lick your lips, placing your gloved hands in your lap. “I’m sorry for using you like that.”

Bas cocks a brow. “Just jumping straight into it, huh. No preamble.”

“I understand if you’re angry with me. If you’re upset with me. I feel that you’ve been there for me a lot…more that I can say. Through a lot of stuff I haven’t been brave enough to talk about, too.” Your eyes are hot on their surface, burning from the heat of the crackling fire but you blink away the heat, swallowing. “I was in a bad space, when I left. And I wasn’t thinking right.”

Bas snorts. “You weren’t thinking at all.”

He pushes off from his knees, settling himself at last back into the armchair. Long legs stretch out over the thick, patterned rug, arms crossing behind his head and legs crossing at the ankle.

“I’m sorry, Bas.” You tell him, firmly. Looking into his fierce gaze. He’s always been more straightforward. You’ve managed to be more straightforward with him, too, and it’s been a perk of your…friendship. “Will you… Can you forgive me?”

Silence hangs in the air, his features unmoving, eyes holding that fierce glint in their golden irises. Seconds tick by and neither of you say anything. The room grows hotter, denser, and you shift in your seat. It’s sweltering. It’s been a minute.

Your eyes lower and you nod your head. “Okay.”

You rise from your seat, straightening out your skirts, unsure whether your cheeks are burning from humiliation or the fire. “Thank you for hearing me out,” you tell him, nodding your head once before finding your own way out.

“You aren’t going to ask for my side?” Bas calls from his seat, bringing you to a halt. You turn, looking at the outline of the back of his head, the muscles in his arms are tense and his fingers are pushing into his skin. You keep to the entryway, unsure whether he’s being sincere or whether he’s waiting for an argument. You’ve never known him to be manipulative, but he’s always been ready for a brawl in the past. Bas turns his head, and piercing golden eyes bore into you.

“What’s your side?” You ask, softly.

Bas snorts and makes a sharp gesture with his hand, telling you to sit. Your lips purse but you follow, returning to the seat but this time discarding an outer layer leaving you in a top and skirts. You’re here for a conversation—not a brief exchange where nothing’s said.

“Did you even listen to me, last time you were here?” Bas asks. “Where did you go? Who did you meet? Why did you think it was a good idea to just—” He bites off the ending, his frustration and anger bleeding out. His arms brace themselves back on his knees, body hunching over as his brows narrow, exhaling in a harsh hurry. “Talk to me. You got to talk to me instead of just vomiting up a bland fuckin’ apology like that. ‘I’m sorry for using you like that’? ‘I was in a bad place’?” He stares at you, hard. “Are you kidding me?”

“I- What do you want me to say, Bas? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry for making you angry. I’m sorry for not telling you where I was going-”

“‘I’m sorry for making you feel like shit, Bas'. ‘I’m sorry for not only leaving and not telling you anything, but also then coming back and not telling you anything either, Bas’. ‘I’m sorry for creating something private and safe and then letting everyone in to tear it to shreds, Bas’.” Golden eyes gleam with heat, boring into you. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Those would have been a good fuckin’ start.”

You lick your lips, trying to buy yourself time to comprehend the words he’s spat out. Beats pass, but you have no idea what to say. You’re sorry. You regret the way things happened. They won’t unfold like that again. It all feels so insufficient when his eyes are so fierce on their surface but the tears are making them glassy. “You were my fuckin’ treasure,” he rasps. “And you fuckin' walked out without a word.”

“Bas I’m sorry,” you whisper. Heat prickles your eyes, “I just needed to get out.”

Bas laughs a wet laugh, “Fuck off with that.” His thumb and middle finger span across his eyes, bracing his temples. “You know I stopped seeing other people?”

Silence hangs in the air. Blood cooling in your veins.

Bas laughs. “Stopped drinking after you showed up, stopped sleeping around as much, started getting to bed on time. Started talking with ma again. Started to get better after pa-” He chokes off, a wet droplet breaking on the rug far below. He rubs his eyes shaking his head. Golden eyes gleam in the firelight. “You were good,” he whispers, “a good thing.”

Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. You know what it’s like to feel you aren’t good enough to be trusted. You know how it hurts.

You stand quietly from the sofa, gathering your cloak and scarf. Pause when you pass him—he doesn’t look up, keeping his head cast down, staring at the rug. Your palm settles over his shoulder and you squeeze once, firmly. I’m sorry.

You’re in the doorway, the salty citrusy coastal air mixing with the warm rosemary of his interior when he calls for you once more.

“We’ll be moving to Winter soon,” Bas says through his raw throat. He swallows, hard jaw working. “Ma thinks it’ll be good for us—to visit pa’s Court. Reconnect with the magic there.” In one movement that exudes far too much boyish embarrassment for you to bear, he dries his eyes, rolling his shoulders and standing straighter. “Thought I’d let you know.”

“You’re leaving?” You can hardly hear your voice. Bas shrugs but the edges of the gesture are too sharp to be natural. “Guess Night Court isn’t working for us.” He licks his lips. Nods his head. “I wish you well, from here.”

————

The sunlight is watery, offering an edge of warmth but you’re in a daze. You’re not even sure you know where you are in the city. Just started walking and didn’t stop, feet moving mindlessly over the cobbles, carrying you through streets and alleys, down roads and narrow tracks between shops. With the smell of food you’d guess you’re near a restaurant zone, but…

He’s moving. All the way south to the Winter Court.

Will you be able to visit? Will he even want you to visit? You can admit you’re not the most well-versed on Court politics, nor the most caught up on current affairs, but it doesn’t take much to know the Night Court isn’t a Prythian favourite after the fifty years the High Queen ruled with Rhysand at her side.

You look around Velaris, the street you’re on. Did it look like this during her reign? Before? Did it change during the attack that took so many lives, Bas’ father among them?

Inside your chest your heart is flittering too fast, fluttering against your ribcage, pulsing in your throat sporadically. Where are you? None of it looks familiar. A breeze blows and you catch the scent of the Sidra, somewhat salty, somewhat briny, but crisp. Dampness dredged up from an open-mouthed estuary far from here. It’s only a few streets away, and a trail of cold relief slithers down your spine as you recognise the canal. If you follow the water upstream you’ll probably find your way back to a spot you know—you’ve been heading mostly downhill, after all.

————

Rita’s

That’s a name you recognise. You’re nearby, back in a familiar area at least. Although being lost had been a temporary relief from the tempest tipping and turning inside of your, raging emotion crashing on your banks and you’re unsure what to do with all of it. Even having lost a lot of feeling in your hands you can tell they’re numb. More numb than usual anyway, and the cold is spreading to the rest of your body. You seem to remember the others having spoken about it in a way to suggest its busiest hours would be after dark but you wonder if they might be open during midday—just a familiar place to step into and warm up for a bit.

Well, it’s not exactly familiar. Come to think of it, you’ve only really heard Mor speak of it as someone who’s been inside. It didn’t seem to be a frequent spot for the others.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pray she isn’t inside.

As soon as you step foot within the establishment you feel the warmth on your face, washing over the frozen tip of your nose and the nipped-at skin of your cheeks, lips probably chapped and dry from the cold. The lights are on—strung up around the ceiling, hanging from wall to wall so they look like hundreds of yellow-bottomed fireflies. Paintings hang from the walls, stacked closely together and rimmed in what looks like gold, carefully crafted to carve into swirls at the corners. Pictures of flowers and bouquets, horses and riders with neat hair and long legs, dappled shade on a pair of shoes. Parted lips painted a dusty rose.

There are a few fae about the place—there seems to be a part of the large interior sectioned off for games and socialising, pool tables set up with a piano in the corner and a violin laying on its top, a guitar against the piano stool. Plush settees are dotted about the place, mauve and maroon leather with a healthy sheen beneath the glowing lights.

You make your way over to a counter that looks like a bar, nervously approaching the female behind the stand. “I’m sorry—is it fine for me to stay inside for a little bit? I got lost and-” But she’s already nodding understandingly and you’re struck dumb by her beauty. Dark brown hair that snarls about her round face, healthy and rich, full lips stretching into a welcoming smile as she clops to your side of the bar, ushering you over to take a seat on one of the sofas.

“What can I get you? Hot water? Tea? Whiskey?” Her eyes are full and dark, round and pretty as they watch you. “You’re such a small thing! What were you doing out in the cold all on your own?”

“I- sorry. I don’t have any money on me at the moment… I’m after some warmth is all. Sorry,” you say, holding your hands up and shaking them gently as though metaphorically pushing her away. But her smile doesn’t falter for a second, leaning her weight to one hip and folding her arms over her slim chest, “And I asked what can I get you? You’re half-frozen, I should dip you in candle wax!”

“Oh, I-” You swallow thickly. “Then, could I have some tea? If it’s not a bother?”

“Stay right there and don’t wander,” she smiles, nodding her head, “I’ll be back in a moment. Hang tight and don’t freeze.” Then she’s clopping away, heeled feet clicking over the polished wooden floors, thuds muffling when she passes over a rug.

You blink away your surprise, adjusting yourself to Rita’s interior. It’s nice: warm and welcoming. You lay your hand in your lap, peering at the dark green fabric of your gloves, self-consciously fiddling with the fingers. Maybe if they become frost-bitten they’ll turn stiff and fall off. At least you wouldn’t have to deal with their ugliness anymore, but it’d still be all up your arms.

It’s not long before the server is returning, a pinkish ceramic mug cupped in her palm, taking care not to spill anything as she passes it over to you. “Careful not to burn your tongue, it’s piping hot,” she warns with a smile, “unless you’re frozen stiff. Then drink away!”

You manage a grateful smile, murmuring thank-you after thank-you until she’s trotted back to her place behind the counter, a new couple of fae having also come in from the cold. You wait impatiently for it to cool, gently blowing on it from time to time but it’s difficult to hold through your gloves and you have to be careful not to spill any on yourself, or worse, any on the lovely rugs. Raising the mug to your lips, you take a small sip but it’s still scalding. How did she even make a cup of tea this hot? You’ve waited for it to cool.

Sighing to yourself, you shift on the sofa, making to lean back against the cushioning then thinking better of it when you remember your layers. It would be nice to remove them, but you won’t be stopping for long—just waiting to warm up. Until you’re certain blood has returned to your fingers and toes. You try the tea again but only succeed in scorching your upper lip. You’re so preoccupied with willing your tea to cool that you fail to notice the fae approaching from the far end of the room.

A body fills the space beside you and you’re pulled from your thoughts. The female’s lips are a bright slash of blood red, white teeth glittering inside her mouth as she offers a smile. You give a polite smile in return, thinking nothing of it as you return to gently blowing on the steaming liquid.

“You’re new here…”

You blink, then turn back to the female. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Not a suctioning void of darkness, but more like a peaceful midnight or experiencing a restful sleep. They’re enlivening, not draining. “Yes…I heard someone speaking about this place so when I recognised it I thought I might come in to warm up,” you reply, shifting in the seat so you’re facing her a little more.

Black silk trousers cover her lower half, a sheer, silky band hugging her slim waist before flaring into wide, sweeping hips. On her top is a sleeveless, rouge, lace-covered shirt that hugs her full breasts, exposing a sharp but surprisingly deep V of moon-pale skin. Around her collar bones sit pretty pearls, matching the ones pinned to her ears, and you wonder if she’s the kind who’s always so finely dressed or whether you’ve accidentally stumbled in during a special occasion. Blood red nails delicately clasp a stout, crystal glassful of amber liquid and from the smell of it you can guess the contents.

“You’ll warm up faster if you let the heat touch your skin,” she muses, reclining into the far arm of the seat, her crossed legs pointing in your general direction. A stray curl of rich, chestnut hair escapes over her shoulder, flaring outward in a neat curve. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be here for long…” you laugh, gently shifting the mug in your hands.

“Why not?” The female muses, swirling her glass in deft fingers. “We won’t be getting busy until at least six; it’s not even three yet.” She sips from her glass slowly, savouring the flavour. A pink tongue swipes at her lips, collecting the remaining taste. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s what we’re here for.”

“I’m sorry—you work here?”

“I’m the owner.”

Your brows raise. “You’re Rita?”

The woman laughs through her lips, eyes twinkling faintly. “No. Rita was a friend.” She winks as she says it, like it’s some funny secret she’s decided to share between you. “And we’re all friends here, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” You flush at her warmth. How welcoming she is.

“Who told you about Rita’s?” The female asks, drawing you again from thought. You pause, unsure how to label your relationship with Mor. Instead you simply settle for giving her name. “Mor,” you answer, shifting in your seat before offering an unsure smile, “she’s a…friend.”

The female nods like she’s understanding part of a larger puzzle. You suppose it makes sense though—you’ve gotten the impression Mor is somewhat a regular, of course the owner would be familiar with her. Anxiety begins to crawl up your spine, bone by bone, piece by piece. What if she knows who you are—what you’ve done to upset Mor. But instead the female’s eyes twinkle, sparked by something.

“A friend of Morrigan’s,” she drawls, elegantly settling deeper into the cushioning, finishing off the knuckle’s-depth of her whiskey, knocking it back like it’s nothing. “Well then, you can call me Deliah.”

————

It wasn’t until the clock had struck five that you’d realised how long you’d been speaking with her. She’s a master of conversation, and you were swiftly swept up and away, almost forgetting your tea entirely, warmed beneath her attentive gaze. When you’d finally gotten up to leave, she’d wrapped you in a warm embrace, like you’d been friends for much longer than a few hours, and had pressed a departing kiss to your neck before you’d wrapped yourself in a scarf and headed back out into the much colder outdoors.

But still, the icy winds bite at your throat and nip at your cheeks, and you hug your cloak tighter to your body.

————

Night has fallen by the time you reach the River House, carefully hanging your cloak upon one of the iron hooks and removing your shoes. A surge of voices sound from your left—coming from the living room with windows overlooking the front lawn—and you quickly slip past into the kitchen searching for something to eat before tiptoeing up the stair to bed.

You don’t want to touch what Bas had told you—that he’s leaving. What if you hadn’t visited? What if you had put it off? What if he had decided not to tell you? What ultimately persuaded him to let you know? After all, he’d only mentioned it when you’d been leaving…perhaps he hadn’t intended to tell you, but something good in him had known the kind of emptiness you’d feel if you went to him one day to find the house packed up and empty? With no trace of him to be found?

The thought alone has a pit opening up in your stomach, eyes pressing together hard to keep tears at bay. He wouldn’t have done something like that, surely. Had you hurt him so badly?

For someone you had thought close to leave so abruptly without any notice…no reasons, no goodbye…just gone. How many methods of torture the mind could create with that. How the unknowing would surely swallow you whole. Regret feeding off every second, wishing to have a second chance.

Guilt weighs in your stomach.

“You’re back.”

You snap back to reality, ice flooding your veins as you spot Mor stood the other side of the kitchen counter, poised to pop open another bottle of wine. Your throat closes up but you nod, walking further into the room—it would too childish and obvious to exit as soon as you’d seen her. Her caramel eyes drop back to the cork, skewering the nail through the stopped and twisting. “Looking for something?”

“Just a bite to eat,” you manage, eyeing an apple in the fruit basket. Buttered bread with something on top would have been nice, but an apple will be great, too. Cool, and crisp. Hopefully not too tart.

“There’s food next door,” Mor tells you, neither of you really looking at the other, and you pluck the apple from the basket. “Olives, bread, cheese, grapes, wine.” She lifts the bottle, gesturing to the second one she has on the table beside her. “Probably apple slices and raisins too-”

Silence beats between you, and then fabric is rustling. You look up to find her almost upon you.

You jump when her hands rip the scarf from your shoulders, staring wide-eyed in…shock?

“Mor?” You ask, slightly defensively as you take a step back. “What-”

She grips your arms tight, pain flickering up through your flesh and your stomach clenches. “Stay away from her,” Mor hisses, her nails digging in through the fabric of your gloves. A low moan of discomfort escapes your mouth and her eyes again widen, inhaling sharply as she drops your arms. Mor recovers quickly, a mask sliding into place that’s cold and icy, not even a fragment of the previous hurt you’d seen to be found. “I don’t know how you met her, how you ran into her, and I don’t care. Just stay away from her.”

You’re breathing heavily, a light sweat on your skin but the light pain’s vanished as quick as it appeared, leaving you feeling cold and tingly all over. Flesh once again fading to numbness. “I don’t…Who?”

A small beauty mirror materialises out of thin air and she flips it open, showing the dark red imprint on your throat, a stamp of a woman’s lips. Deliah’s lipstick must have been pressed into your skin. A flush of regret rises up from your stomach and you slap your palm over the skin, hoping to conceal the blazing proof that you’d visited Rita’s. She’s never claimed it as her space, but it’s Mor’s domain.

“I’m sorry,” you splutter, trying to explain. “I was just cold, and I got lost, I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear I won’t go there again, I just needed somewhere to-”

“I don’t care where you go,” Mor hisses, a tissue appearing out of thin air, tipping your jaw to one side. “Stay in Rita’s all day if you like it. But don’t get involved with her. Does she know you know me?”

You nod your head, shame warming your cheeks. Mor sighs, rubbing harshly at your neck to remove the stain. It doesn’t take intelligence to tell she’s frustrated.

After a while Mor pulls away, the tissue a dark rouge colour, blood dried and faded to black. “I’ll talk to her. Tell her to stay away from you.” She turns, tossing the tissue in the bin. She shoots you a hard look over her shoulder, “Don’t go near her. Do you understand?”

You nod again.

Mor sighs, and you can hear her lips purse. “I’m serious. She’s a bloodsucker.”

“I won’t go near her,” you say, reaching for the apple and shifting it between you palms. “I promise I won’t this time.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you think you feel the tension disperse. She nods, once. “I believe you.”

Your lips press together, and you peer at the apple, turning it around in your hand to shift your awareness from the weight of Mor’s gaze. At last it lessens, and you look up to see her walking away, heading out of the kitchen and probably for the living room, where it sounds like the others are. She pauses on the threshold. Looks over her shoulder. “You can join these ones too you know. It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.”

You look at one another quietly, but before you can reply she’s vanished off into the hallway, the voices rising a few seconds later when she reaches the living room.

You can join these ones too, you know.

The waxy red of the apple shines beneath the faelights.

It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.

————

You pause in the doorway. One foot in the room with all of them, the other out in the hallway, already poised to depart. You feel it as attention openly shifts to you, not coming in, but not leaving either. For the first time, you’re openly wanting of their focus.

Your skin prickles as you feel the room quiet, but you’ve already taken the first step which you know from having heard so many people say is the hardest. It’s a lie. You know from experience it’s never the first step that’s the most difficult, but the one you have to make in the present. The present is always the worst.

You meet the blue-grey eyes of your youngest sister, Nyx held to her front, Rhysand at her side. “Will you sit down, for this?”

Feyre stiffens, and you can feel the room itself grow stagnant. The air that had previously been alive and bubbling growing colder. Even the warm lighting, the fae-lights and the candles seem to have dulled. A nervous laugh rattles her shoulders, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so serious.” Your features remain solemn, and the little mirth she had left in her eyes winks out. Feyre settles on the arm of one of the big, cushy armchairs, Rhysand sliding in beside her.

You swallow thickly, fierce, lionlike eyes passing through your head. Your head bows. “Madja believes she knows what’s wrong with me.” You clear your throat, and correct yourself, “With my magic.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you have to force yourself to continue, fingers leafing together. “It is a little serious,” you say, glancing briefly to Feyre with a tired, guilty smile, “so I’ll try to be as concise as possible.” Feyre nods her head, and you last a small breath before starting.

You lift your chin to dress the room.

“I only found out I had magic about two months ago. It caused me a lot of pain, and still does when I try to use it, though not as much as those initial attempts.” Your gloved fingers wring together. “After some poor experiences, the side-effects of my magic became apparent. You might have noticed I’ve been wearing gloves a lot lately—it’s not a new fashion craze.” A half-smile appears on Elain’s mouth and you could kiss her cheek for it. “Rather, it began to damage my body physically, externally. My hands became dry, and…there were some other things I’ll leave out, but there was obviously something wrong with them.”

You try to keep your voice steady, try to keep your hands from shaking as you pinch one tip of a finger and begin pulling the glove from your skin. The patchy, discoloured flesh of your arm appears, scabbed and flaky, skin ashen where it’s begun to peel. You remove the other, and fold them over your hands, clasped together at your front.

“After I…After the House Of Wind happened, the dryness spread further to my shoulders. I’ve lost almost all sense of touch in my hands, and most of my arms are numb, but they still hurt a lot if I knock into something.” Are you taking too long? Is this stupid? You try to imagine finding Bas’ house empty. “Madja’s been very attentive, an absolute blessing, and she’s figured that my magic wasn’t existing externally, because it was festering internally.” You pause, lips trembling, but swallow past the lump in your throat. Your voice is hoarse when you add, “For two years.”

The room itself shifts—Feyre sitting straighter; Nesta leaning forward, Cassian squeezing her hand tighter; even Mor’s shifted in her corner, no longer slouching against the wall; only Elain is frozen still.

“What does that mean?” Feyre asks, her voice like a finger dragging through sun-softened butter.

“Madja says she can’t reverse the damage; what’s happened to me. That two years is too long for her to even attempt to undo.”

“So…what?” Feyre’s voice is quiet, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “It’s going to keep spreading? There’s no way to remove the pain?”

“Kind of.” You nod, shifting on your feet. You can’t help wanting to look into a hazel set of eyes in the far corner of the room. You wonder what he’s making of this big speech. Whether it’s all stuff he already knows, and he’s waiting for it to be over already. Old news.

“Madja says she can’t erase the pain. It’s always going to be there because it’s been able to sink too deep.”

Feyre’s hand is covering her mouth; Nesta’s expression is focussed but her knuckles are white where she’s gripping Cassian’s hand; Elain’s eyes are wide, and her skin is sickly pale.

You bite your lip, shifting once again in the doorway. Shifting to stand just over the threshold, teetering on the edge of the living room and the dark, empty corridor.

“She’s given me about six months to live.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone, somewhere, had plucked the final string of the harp and frozen time. It’s unnerving—being in a room filled with living statues.

You almost flinch when Mor pushes off from the wall. It’s not a sudden movement by any means, if anything it’s more subdued than you’ve ever seen her, but with a swift look around the room, locking gazes with four pairs of eyes, she takes her drink with her and makes to pass you, exiting the room. Cassian glances at Nesta, squeezing her hand tight before standing; Rhysand remains still, his and the High Lady’s eyes glazing before he’s pushing a kiss to her temple, scooping up Nyx and following after Azriel and Amren.

You almost crumble now it’s only you and your sisters.

It’s too much for you to bear.

You’d thought you were okay with your silver lining.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[azrielsdove]

Best Friend’s Brother: Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Kinda Mean Az?

***

“Are you ever going to tell him?” Cassian teased you, peering over his glass as he drank. You rolled your eyes, throwing back the rest of your own drink.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you lied, adding more liquor to your cup. Cassian laughed, shaking his head at you.

“You’re blind if you don’t notice the way he looks at you, anyway.” You stilled at his words, eyes glaring daggers into him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” You wouldn’t allow yourself the naivety to imagine Azriel felt the same way you did. You had only become a part of the Inner Circle a few years ago, after you accidentally took Rhys down thinking he was a danger. He had been so impressed with you that he immediately offered you a security position and set you up to train under his General and Spymaster. Cassian and you were fast friends, but Azriel left you confused. He rarely spoke to you and passed most of the training off to Cass. Everything he did screamed that he couldn’t care less about you.

Unfortunately, you were enthralled by him.

The few times he did train you were treasured memories, the feel of his hands on your waist as he corrected your position, the way his eyes looked over your body to ensure proper hold. At one of your recent sessions he had tackled you to the ground, hips pinning yours to the sand underneath you. You had allowed him to think your lack of speech was due to shock that he had taken you down so easily, and not because you were going delirious with desire. You had taken a rather long bath after that morning.

“Oh sure, yea, why would I know the male i’ve spent 500 years with? You’re right, you must know him better than I. I apologize, O Great One, for daring to assume.” Cassian mock bowed to you, smirking at your glare. “I know a way to prove it to you.” You hated how he piqued your interest.

“Pray tell, dear friend,” you said, carefully filling your rapidly emptying glass again. You enjoyed the way the drink made your mind fuzzy, the endless thoughts of why Azriel could barely stand you numbed. Cassian leaned closer towards you, a wicked smile on his face.

“Come to training extra early tomorrow. Wear your tightest leathers, the ones from when you first got here.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Those stick to my body like a second skin. I’ll look like a pleasure hall whore wearing them.” You didn’t appreciate the way Cassian looked at you, eyes shining proudly.

“That’s what I intend. I’d never lead you astray, would I?” He raised his hand in surrender immediately after he spoke, shaking his head. “Not about anything like this, I promise.” You knew it was a bad idea to agree to whatever plan he was making, but you found yourself nodding and hoping you weren’t going to regret this in the morning.

***

A low whistle met you as you walked into the training ring early the next morning. “Damn, you look even better than I imagined. If this weren’t to get the attention of my brother i’d try to convince you down to my room.” Cassian looked approvingly over you as you crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow at him.

“If your plan fails, I may as well take you up on that. Gods know it’s been too long.” You often played into Cassian’s endless flirting, a key reason as to why your friendship developed so fast. He was right, the leathers were tighter than you had expected as well. You weren’t as toned when you began training. They are already made to fight directly to your body, so pulling on ones from a size ago was almost impossible. Still, you managed to buckle them around you, admiring yourself in the mirror. The leather truly hugged your skin, enhancing your strong thighs and body. “What is your plan, by the way?” You asked, looking suspiciously at Cassian.

“I’m gonna kiss you.” Your jaw dropped at his statement as his laughter floated over the training ring. “Don’t look at me like that! Imagine it, Az comes up here and sees you like that, with me? He’s going to be so jealous I won’t be surprised if he has his way with you right here.” You felt your face heat at his vulgarity, shaking your head quickly.

“No way. No way. What if he instead thinks, oh I dunno, that we are together?” You point out, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Trust me when I tell you that he won’t.” Cassian took a step closer to you, holding out his hand. “I am not as dumb as you may think.” You sighed, reluctantly placing your hand in his and letting him lead you over to the side of the ring. You may as well attempt his plan, however ridiculous you think it is. He places a hand on your waist as he pulls you close to him, the other coming up to cup your face. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.”

You shook your head, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. “What do I have to lose? If it doesn’t work, at least I got to spend my morning with a handsome male,” you quipped, winking dramatically at him. You felt his laugh under your hands, the nerves of what you were about to do calming down. This was Cassian, your best friend. You could trust him.

He dipped his head down towards you, eyes locking onto yours once more to ensure you were okay with this. You pushed up on your toes and connected your lips, using the last little bit of confidence you had. Cassian’s hand slid to the back of your head, tangling itself in your hair as he angled you up into him. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, enjoying how he so clearly knew what he was doing. You moved your arms up to lock around his neck, arching your body into his touch. He nipped at your bottom lip and you gladly opened your mouth to him, almost forgetting why you were doing this.

Almost.

Anticipation slithered up your spine and you forced your eyes to stay shut, even though you wanted to peek and see if Azriel had arrived yet. Cassian’s hand flattened across your back, pulling you tighter against him. You lost yourself in his kiss, allowing your body to relax into his hold.

Something cold and weightless tightened around your calf, pulling your attention away from Cassian as you looked down. Your heart was racing as you took in one of Azriel’s shadows, swirling anxiously around your ankles. Cass didn’t allow the little thing to distract from your plan, bringing his lips up and down the side of your neck. You tilted your head back to allow him more access, an embarrassingly needy noise slipping from your mouth when he nipped at your skin. The shadow spun faster around you, another one coming to wrap around your waist and tug you from Cassian’s grip. You stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over more shadows behind you. “Wha-“ you began, cut off by a shadow wrapping around your throat. Cassian’s eyes widened and he glanced behind you, true fear on his face. That was certainly not comforting.

An arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against a strong chest. You forced your breathing to stay steady, realizing it was Azriel behind you. “Cassian,” he said slowly, “what do you think you’re doing?” His voice was quiet, but threat laced his words. Cassian paled, raising his hands in surrender.

“Now Az, let me just explain-“ You shook your head as best you could against the shadows hold, not wanting Cassian to embarrass you further. As if this could get any worse. You were going to murder him for this.

“Leave us. Now,” Azriel commanded Cassian, voice still dangerously calm. You couldn’t help but be a little worried as you watched your friend practically run out of the training area. If Cassian didn’t think he could deal with Azriel right now, what chance did you have?

The shadows disappeared from your body, but the arm around your waist only tightened. You repressed a shudder as you felt Azriel’s lips brush the tip of your ear, leaning down to whisper to you. “What kind of game do you think you’re playing?” You sucked in a breath, all confidence gone now that you were alone.

“I-I’m not playing a game,” you stuttered out, cursing Cassian in your head.

“Mhm,” Azriel said, his other hand coming to trace up and down your thigh. “You just happen to be dressed in these delightful things,” his hand slid between your legs, squeezing your inner thigh. “You show up extra early to practice, and I find you with my brother’s lips on your pretty little neck?” He ghosted his own over the same stretch of skin Cassian had kissed, a shiver running down your spine. “And to make it worse, I have to listen as you make that delicious noise for him?” He nipped your neck in the same spot as Cassian, causing you to gasp in surprise. “Hm, not quite.” His hand between your legs moved up, fingers finding you easily over the tight fabric. You bit your lip and tipped your head back as he circled your clit, the teasing pressure not nearly enough with your leathers in the way. “Look at you, already so reactive for me.” He pressed slow, hot kisses along your throat, his fingers continuing their almost perfect teasing.

“Az-“ You breathed out, arching into his touch. “It wasn’t, ah, it wasn’t real.” He chuckled darkly against your skin, his fingers pressing harder onto you.

“Oh, I know. I don’t take Cassian’s sloppy seconds.” His words were punctuated with a sharp bite under your ear, his teeth sucking in the skin there. You knew he was undoubtedly leaving a bruise, marking you as his. A rather embarrassing whimper left your lips, his fingers still punishing you over your leathers. “That’s more like it,” he groaned, biting a second spot on your neck. You have another helpless noise, enjoying the way it clearly affected him. “I’m going to make you cum, just like this. Do you understand?” He moved his fingers tight against you, playing you like an instrument he had trained for. His lips brushed against your ear again, sucking the lobe of it into his mouth. “I’m going to make you cry out my name, without ever truly touching you.” Heat rose in your cheeks at the humiliation of it. He was going to ruin you without any effort.

And you were going to let him.

You moaned his name as you felt the pleasure build in your core, pushing yourself harder against his hand. “I always knew you’d be so good for me,” he growled, a shadow angling your face towards him. You almost finished at the look in his eyes, his pupils blown wide as he worked you. “I want to look at you when you come undone for me.” You moaned again, trying desperately to lift your head up to kiss him. The shadow kept you in place, a slow smile spreading over Azriel’s face. “Not yet.” He leaned down enough that your lips were a breath away from his, but not any closer. You shook in his hold as the pleasure his fingers were bringing intensified, the teasing too much to bear.

“Azriel, please,” you gasped out, fighting against the shadow. You could feel yourself about to snap, legs quivering as you climbed that peak. He said nothing, only watching you with those stunning eyes of his as his fingers pushed you over the edge. You went rigid against him, mouth open in a silent scream as your orgasm took over. He kept working you through it, prolonging your pleasure as long as he could. He stopped when you collapsed in his arms, chest heaving as you sucked in air, trying desperately to come back down. He released you then, watching as you stumbled before turning to face him. His eyes drifted down your body, stopping on the wet spot he had made between your legs.

“I’d say you’re ready for training now.”

***

Here is a short little smutty piece for Azriel Baby <3. I might make this into a mini series 👀. I am still working on Pt.2 of Longing, I just hit a bit of a block and needed to get something else out!! I hope you enjoyed 🩷

[freedomfireflies]

SnakeBite*

Summary: The third part to 404*

The one where Harry is good for more than a good time.

But he's still good at that, too.

Word Count: 5.2k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

“Oh, come on…please. Please, don’t do this. Not right now. Not today…please.”

With a deep breath, you stick the key back into the ignition and try again. Waiting anxiously for the sound of the engine roaring to life. A sound you desperately need to hear more than anything.

Instead, all that follows is that familiar clunking of something heavy before there’s a rather shrill buzzing you can’t quite place.

Fuck.

Exasperated and woefully defeated, you take the key back out, groan, and drop your forehead onto the steering wheel. “This is not happening.”

Truth be told, you should have seen this coming. This isn’t the first time your poor car has made this unsettling noise, and perhaps it’s your fault for ignoring it for so long. You hadn’t meant to; you just didn’t realize it was this bad. Or that your car was this old.

Now, you’re trapped in the Juno Incorporated parking lot on a Friday afternoon with no way of getting you or your car home.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

You don’t even bother to lift your head as Harry’s voice carries in through the window. “Nothing. Go away.”

You hear the sound of his boots scraping across the concrete before they stop, and you feel a large shadow fall over your side of the vehicle. “Can I assume that god awful noise came from this hunk of shit you call a car?”

Leaning back, you huff as you look over. “I’m sorry, do you want something?”

Harry smirks, arms crossing over his chest as he juts his chin toward you. “Pop the hood, let me see.”

“Yeah…no.”

“Come on,” he pushes, a few curls dancing across his forehead from a soft gust of wind. You realize he looks different outside of the lab. Normal, almost. It’s unsettling. “You wanna leave, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but knowing you, you’d probably cut my breaks.”

“If I were gonna take you out, I would have done it by now.”

“Oh. Wow. You’re really instilling me with a lot of confidence, thanks.”

He steps back and motions toward the front of your car. “Fucking relax, Tinkerbell, and just pop the goddamn hood.”

Regretfully, you do as instructed before leaning out the open window to watch him walk toward your engine. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I know enough,” he replies, using the back of his hand to push on his glasses before bending down.

“That…is not helpful.”

“Well, I’m your only shot. Everyone else is gone.”

“I can call a repair guy.”

He shakes his head once. “Won’t get here in time. It’s rush hour on a Friday. You’ll be here for hours if they even show at all. And chances are, they won’t be able to schedule you in till next week. So, unless you’re planning to sleep here, in your car, can you please shut the fuck up, and let me focus?”

You feel your expression morph into a scowl as you unclick your seatbelt and step out. “I’d rather sleep in my car than trust you to fix my engine.”

You notice his eyes roll, but he’s amused. “Well, I can’t fix it. Not here. I think it’s your spark plugs. They tend to wear out faster in older cars. You’ll probably have to get them replaced.”

Scurrying to stand beside him, you glance over your engine and the internal workings of the car with a heavy sigh.

“You’re kidding,” you mumble beneath another strained groan. “And let me guess, it’s gonna be expensive.”

“Probably,” he agrees, glancing over. “But it’s not like you can’t afford it.”

Your eyes narrow. “I know I can afford it, I just don’t like dropping thousands of dollars on something so dumb.”

“Spark plugs aren’t dumb,” he retorts while reaching for your hood to slam it shut. “You need them to fucking drive.”

“Yeah, but having to pay for a rental car, manual labor, and a tow truck is dumb,” you point out. “And this is the last thing I need right now.”

His eyebrow lifts but he doesn’t ask for elaboration. Instead, he begins to stride across the lot toward a dark, black Harley, leaving you and your crisis behind.

In turn, you reach for your cellphone to look up local tow trucks and mechanics that might be able to help you out.

To your dismay, most shops are already closed for the weekend, except for one. And after a very lengthy and frustrated discussion, you learn that they won’t be able to come by until much later tonight. Which means that all your hopes of having a nice, relaxing evening are for naught. 

Once again defeated, you slump back against the side of your car and drop your head. “Well…great.”

Harry’s smirk returns as he glances over and straddles his bike. “What?”

“I’m stuck here until midnight,” you mumble, running a palm down the side of your cheek. “You were right, everyone is booked.”

“Shit,” is about all he offers while pulling his helmet over his head. “That sucks.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Welcome.” He revs the engine, and just like that, the bike roars to life. The loud and somewhat startling sound echoing across the parking lot as you flinch.. “So, what’s the plan, Princess? You gonna call an Uber and come back later?”

“I can’t,” you shout over the noise. “I have to be here in case they come early, or they’ll leave.”

Through the open visor, you see him frown. “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

He studies you for a moment more, and you feel your skin grow warm under such a scrutinous gaze. Like he’s looking for something written between the lines of your face. “Well…make sure you lock your doors.”

“No shit.”

He smiles again before flipping the visor shut and steadying the bike with his leg. You stand back, ready to watch him speed out of the lot and onto the street, but to your surprise…he simply sits there.

In fact, a good sixty seconds pass before he suddenly slips the helmet off his head, sighs, and thrusts it toward you. “Get on.”

You blink. “What?”

“Get on the fucking bike, Tink,” he repeats. “I know a bar we can hang out in till they get here.”

“I…I just told you, I can’t leave—”

“You can see the parking lot from inside,” he interrupts. “If they show, we can just run back over.”

You step closer, drawn to his proposition, although still wildly confused. “Uh…okay. Why, though? I’m fine to just wait here.”

He looks at you, the grassy green behind his glasses somehow softer in this natural lighting. “S’not safe,” he says simply, shrugging one shoulder up. “Be better to wait somewhere public, and I don’t really want your death on my conscience.”

 And you aren’t exactly sure what to say. Because you think this may be the nicest thing he’s ever done for you – even if it’s still a little odd – and you don’t want to spook him by doing the wrong thing.

But as you debate a response, he shakes the helmet at you again, rather aggressively. “Tink, get on the goddamn bike, please. I’m wasting gas here.”

With a huff, you snatch it from his hand and join him on the Harley. The helmet slips on rather easily, and once you’re sure it’s snug and secure, your eyes trail down his back, unsure of how to proceed. 

You don’t exactly want to…hold him. Or touch him or straddle him. At least, not outside of the way you do in secret. In broad daylight. Where people could see.

In fact, you already feel as though you’re grinding against his ass from how small this goddamn seat is. Almost too close for comfort as you catch a subtle trace of his cologne and feel the warmth from his body.

But motorcycles don’t exactly come with seatbelts, and if he were to take a sharp corner, you might end up pancaked on the cement.

“Tinkerbell,” you suddenly hear him call over his shoulder, voice raised to carry over the growl of the engine. “Just fucking grab me, it’s fine.”

You glare at his curls, despite knowing he can’t see you. “I’m good.”

He snorts again before he’s suddenly reaching back, grabbing onto your wrists, and hoisting your arms around his middle.

You’re tugged forward, your chest pressing to his spine rather forcefully as he glances back.

“Pussy,” he murmurs, releasing the clutch until the bike jolts forward and takes off through the parking lot.

With a rather shrill squeal, you tighten your hold on his broad frame, and bury yourself between his shoulder blades. The sensation is exhilarating and frightening all in the same moment. The rush of wind, adrenaline, and the way he leans around the corner before taking off down the street.

You think you feel his chest vibrate with laughter, perhaps from the way your nails are scraping down his shirt. And despite your increasing terror, you find that you feel oddly…safe with him at the handles.

Not even two minutes later, he’s pulling into another parking spot on the other side of the street, right in front of the aforementioned bar. It’s a bar you recognize, one that a few of your other coworkers often frequent from time to time.

In fact, this is the exact same bar you and Harry first hooked up in all those months ago.

The memory makes you smile.

“What?” Harry asks as swings his leg over the side and stands up. “Why are you grinning like that?”

You quickly wipe the smirk from your face while wrestling the helmet off to hand back. “Like what? I’m just smiling, calm down.”

“I don’t like when you smile. It freaks me out.”

“You’re really rude, you know that?”

“What? I’m just being honest. You have a lot of teeth. It’s weird.”

You glower at him, swatting his chest as you brush by. “Bite me, Harold.”

“With what? Your teeth?”

You feign a snubbed gasp – to which he chuckles – before striding into the bar, leaving him to follow behind.

The large room is loud and crowded with people, the smell of alcohol and bad decisions clinging to the air. You make a beeline for the counter, exhausted and overworked and already annoyed by Harry’s future comments before he can even make them.

Like—

“Really? An appletini?” 

With a deep breath, you look over while the bartender turns around to begin prepping your drink. “Yes, really. I like apples. And it’s delicious. And the color is fun.”

He rests an arm on the edge of the marble bar and leans in. “How incredibly boring of you.”

Once again, your expression falls flat. “Are you gonna be this fucking annoying the whole time? Because I’d rather wait by my car and get murdered.”

“I make no promises.”

“Clearly. And let me guess, you’re gonna order something cool and manly like a scotch on the rocks.”

Harry’s eyebrow quirks up before he smugly turns toward the bartender and calls, “I’ll have a SnakeBite.”

You can actually feel your eyes roll all the way into the back of your head. “God, you’re fucking pretentious.”

“Thank you,” he says with a smile, and you grit your teeth. “Will you relax? I haven’t even had a drink yet and you’re killing my buzz.”

“I’m not killing anything, I just can’t stand you.”

“No? Ouch. I thought we were friends.”

The sarcasm is evident, but you huff, nevertheless. “For the love of god, shut up.”

“What?” He nods his chin at you. “S’just a drink, don’t be so sensitive.”

“I’m sensitive because you’re annoying.”

“No, you’re sensitive because you’re wound up,” he retorts, eyeing you closely. It makes your skin crawl. “When’s the last time you got off, Tink?”

The inquiry makes you step back, almost as though trying to avoid his judgment. “None of your business.”

“So…couple weeks ago? In the closet, with me?” He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “That’s a long fucking time, Princess. No wonder you’re so uptight.”

Your mouth drops open, ready to scoff your resentment and perhaps a quippy remark before he suddenly steps forward and lowers his voice.

“Bet it’s achy, huh?” he coos, and the slight air condescension and sympathy makes your head spin. “Bet you hump your little pillow every night trying to get it done, yeah? But it never works, does it?”

Stunned and left without much remark, your lashes flutter.

He moves closer. “See, if we were friends…I’d offer to take you into the bathroom and help you out. But since you think you can do better…go ahead.”

He leans back while you gape at him. “I’m sorry…go ahead and do what?”

“Find someone,” he answers, glancing around the packed bar. “Take ‘em into the bathroom and let them bend you over the sink.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“Why not?” His eyebrow raises. “That’s the whole reason people come to bars. To get drunk and fuck.”

“Well…that’s not why I’m here.”

“It could be.”

“Harry…no—”

“Why? Seriously, why not? You need it.”

“I don’t…you’re so fucking rude, I don’t need to get off—”

“Coming is good for your health. And for your unfavorable attitude—”

“Oh, you are so fucking—”

“Rude? Annoying? Doesn’t make me any less right.”

You clamp your mouth shut and step closer, letting your gaze travel the expanse of his face. “Come on, Harry,” you murmur softly – salaciously – as his breath seems to catch. “Do you really think…you could watch me with some other guy?”

His expression twists, his mouth already forming around something else snappy and crude.

But it seems to get stuck on his tongue when you suddenly reach out and trail your fingers down his chest. Moving in until there’s only a single breath between you.

“Do you really think…you could watch me touch them?” you whisper, glancing down to your hand as it grazes over his pec. “Or know that they had me dripping down their cock…the way I always drip for you?”

He wants to fight you. Wants to snort and look away.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s mesmerized by the power you so easily stole from him. Undone by the sound of your voice taunting him with an idea he can’t seem to stomach.

“Wanna know I’m whimpering their name the way I always whimper yours?” you continue, smoothing your other palm up the back of his neck. Squeezing just hard enough to make him straighten up. “Wanna see the marks on my throat from where they held me—”

“Easy,” he warns lowly, reaching up to snatch your wrist. But he doesn’t move you. “Not here—”

“Why?” You push up onto your tiptoes and let your lips ghost over his. “Who’s gonna see, hm? Who’s gonna care?”

His lashes flutter, eyes traveling down to your mouth. “Are you this desperate for it, Princess? Wanna fuck me right here in the middle of the bar? Make them watch?”

You smile, head tilting until the tip of your nose dances across his cheek. “Maybe,” you nearly purr. “Bet you like to be watched. You always like watching me.”

And maybe he knows you’re merely playing a game. Teasing him just to throw him off track and test his patience.

But he plays along, eager to see where it might lead. “Can’t help it,” he replies calmly, smirking himself. “Y’just always look so pretty when you’re three fingers deep in your cunt.”

“Yeah?” Your nails scratch at the soft curls near the nape of his neck. “Funny how I can make myself squirt better than you can.”

He exhales a rather sadistic chuckle while his arm reaches to loop around your waist, pulling your chest flush with his. “I wasn’t trying to make you squirt.”

“No?”

His head shakes once. “No. Trust me, Tink. If I wanted to…I would.”

“Then maybe you should.”

His lips part just enough to tease you with a taste. “Maybe I will.”

“Yeah? Right here? In front of everybody?”

Another grin. “I could. Be so fucking easy, too. Bend you over the bar, pull your soaked little panties down…spread you open so they can see how much of a dirty little cumslut you are.”

And perhaps this started as a ruse, but just the thought and the tantalizing way he speaks breeds a new inspiration.

“Cause you are, aren’t you?” he asks quietly, large hand pressing hard against your spine. “My dirty, fucking Princess? Get all wet and weepy from just a couple words?”

You swallow a whimper trying desperately to come free.

“Should I check?” he whispers, now subtly moving you over until your back meets the counter. “Hm? See if you’re as wound up as I think you are?”

You rifle through your list of responses but find that you have none to offer as his fingers delicately begin to trace the edge of your jeans. Provoking you further.

You reckon you should probably stop him. Point out what an idiotic idea this is and remind him that he’s still very much in public, surrounded by people.

But his body blocks you from most of the crowd, and nobody else is close enough to notice. And you suppose that even if they did look over, they wouldn’t exactly be able to see or understand.

His eyes flick to yours, looking for hesitation. But when he finds none, the corner of his mouth twitches up into a pleased smile.

“Dirty Princess,” he teases, sliding his hand into your pants as subtly as he can while you quickly glance around for prying eyes. “That’s right, Tink. Look at them.”

 The feel of his cold fingers against your warm skin is like ecstasy, sending a rush of adrenaline straight down to your toes.

You gasp quietly to mask a whine, vision going hazy as you watch him study you. 

“Oh, sweetie,” he tsks, smoothing his touch through your folds. Spreading and stroking as you reel. “Poor fucking thing. Did’ya get yourself all wet for me?”

“No,” you manage to reply, heart hammering against your rib cage when he smirks. “I was watching TikTok’s of Andrew Garfield earlier. This is for him.”

“Ah,” he hums, but he’s wildly amused, hand still cupping you gently before he swiftly pulls out and leaves you to wilt. “Well, in that case…”

He steps away, fingers tucked between his lips as he pretends to turn around.

However, before he can get far, you manage to capture a fistful of his shirt and yank him back to you. 

And you kiss him. Without reluctance or fear. You kiss him, and you sigh against his mouth, and swallow his surprised but greedy moan.

His hands are on your hips, squeezing and pulling, desperate to tug you further into his frame. 

You go willingly, becoming pliable in his hands. A few people cheer from beside you, raising their glasses and whistling like drunken animals. 

But it makes you both smile, suddenly unencumbered by the ideas of what people might think or who might see.

And it’s strange to feel so at peace in his arms. Unnatural almost to find relief in his lips or safety in his presence. Because this is still the same Harry that would let you drown before he jumped in after you. That would rather tell you off than tell you he likes you – even as an acquaintance. 

You’re not enemies, per se. You imagine you’re both too old for such childish rivalries. But he’s cruel and rude and blunt. His ego rivals the size of the moon, and his lack of care and inhibitions is proof that he could never be who you’d need him to be.

But that’s okay, you realize. You find serenity in the sadistic, strange behavior. Because it means you don’t have to commit to giving him anything more than what he deserves.

His tongue leaves a quick lick to yours before he pulls back and studies you from behind the dark frames of his glasses. “I need to fuck you.”

And you almost laugh at the frank way he speaks. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” His palm slides over the curve of your ass, squeezing it one, twice, three times. “Meet me in the bathroom.”

“Ew, no. I’m not fucking you in a crusty ass bathroom in a sketchy bar,” you retaliate with a scrunch of your nose. “Pick somewhere else.”

“There isn’t anywhere else,” he huffs. “Unless you really do want me to fuck right here in front of everybody.”

“That’s not funny.”

“M’not trying to be funny. I’m trying to fuck you.”

“Well…try harder.”

His eyes narrow. “Fine, you wanna fuck me on my bike?”

You blink. “Okay, that’s really not funny.”

“What?” He’s grinning again, and you hate the way his dimples pop out. Hate how charming they make him look. “Come on, I ride the bike, you ride me.”

You snort as you turn around to take a sip of your drink. “I’d rather get herpes.”

“Wow. Classy. Real fucking classy—”

“Admit it, you’ve had it before—”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“Well, you can’t. Remember?”

He scoffs. “Then where the fuck do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Literally anywhere else?”

“Well, I’m not taking you back to mine.”

“No? You don’t want me to see the bridge you live under?”

“Troll jokes. Funny.”

“Thank you, I thought so. It’s very fitting.”

His expression falls flat before he sighs and steps closer again. “Meet me in the fucking bathroom,” he repeats quietly, “and let me fuck you. Let me make it better.”

You want to remind him – again – that a dirty bathroom in a crowded bar isn’t exactly the best place. You’d never get a moment of privacy, and the position would most likely be wildly uncomfortable.

But suddenly, none of your reasons seem to matter. Because it hurts to be away from him. Actually aches between your thighs, forcing you to swallow thickly.

So, instead of responding with an actual answer, you simply take his hand, and drag him through the crowd.

You catch his smug smile – and resist the urge to slap the glasses off his face – before yanking him into the hall and toward the bathroom.

You both stumble through the door, already back on each other’s lips. Kissing, and groping, and groaning as you work to get the lock flipped.

You pause for only a moment to make sure the single stall restroom is in fact empty while Harry uses this as encouragement to begin nipping down the side of your neck. 

Your nails scratch down his scalp and he moans against the heat of your skin, exhaling his relief and lust all in the same breath.

His touch is firm – pointed and almost painful – as he pushes you back toward the wall. You gasp when you meet the cold, hard cement, lashes fluttering from the force and the sound of his belt coming undone.

He nods his chin at you, entertained by your fascination. “Come on, Princess. You’ve seen my cock before.”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” you murmur, swallowing thickly when he pulls himself out. “Before I change my mind and find somebody else."

He scoffs with a smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

He gives himself a few pumps, growing harder in his palm before he lets go and moves his attention to your jeans. He’s got them down your legs and pooled around your ankles in under thirty seconds flat, your panties soon following suit.

But he teases you for just a moment. Because of course he does, the sadistic fucker. Needing to hear you beg for him before he actually gives you what you both want.

“Harry,” you huff, glancing down as he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “We don’t have time, and the floor is dirty. Just do it.”

“Just do it? How romantic,” he snorts before obliging and straightening back up. “Thought girls liked foreplay.”

“We do, but not in gross, dirty bathrooms.”

“Fine. Next time.”

And for some reason, the casual way he refers to the future makes your head spin. You always assume the two of you will continue from time to time. But hearing him promise to take care of you again…

It’s almost…nice? 

Pushing the thought aside, you begin to turn around, hands pressing into the wall to brace yourself in preparation for what comes next.

But just as you’re getting comfortable, he suddenly grabs onto your hips, and spins you forward once again.

“No,” he murmurs softly, pretty green eyes trailing down your face. “No, I wanna see you this time.”

“Oh,” you whisper, skin growing hot as he steps between your legs. “Okay…?”

He grins lightly before reaching up to trail his thumb along your bottom lip. “I like watching you get all sappy when I fuck you. The way you grin when it feels good.”

Suddenly, your pulse starts to stagger. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like your smile.”

You suck in quiet breath. “I thought it creeped you out. That I had too many teeth.”

He chuckles to himself before taking hold of his cock and bringing it closer, trailing it between your legs. “You do. But that’s what makes you so beautiful.”

You think he must be out of his mind. Lost on the idea of sex and pleasure and SnakeBite’s. Tipsy and not all there. Because the Harry you know would never say something like that to you.

But you suppose you don’t really know Harry at all.

With that final thought, he hoists your leg over his hip, and begins to push in. It’s slow at first. You’re tense from the surroundings, from the loud sounds of the bar just on the other side of the wall, and from his admission.

But he loves it, cursing through gritted teeth before surging forward to kiss you. “Tink, you gotta fucking relax. Y’know I can’t do it if you don’t let me in.”

“Try…trying,” you pant, head falling back against the wall with a thud. “Sorry. Just go.”

He frowns, eyes rolling as his glasses begin to slip down the bridge of his nose. “M’not gonna go if you’re not stretched, Princess. I’m not trying to hurt you—”

“I don’t care,” you argue with a soft whine. “Really, I don’t care. Just go. Make it hurt.”

He releases your leg to slip his fingers just below your jaw, forcing your eyes on him. “Stop. M’not gonna do that, just relax.”

“I’m trying—”

“Try harder,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your mouth. “Come on, sweetie. Know you can do it. Know you always take me so well, don’t you?”

You nod fervently. “Yes…yeah, yes—”

“Then take me,” he whispers, his free fingers finding your clit. He rubs, and presses, and pinches until he feels you begin to unwind. “There you go…there she is, that’s my girl. S’better, isn’t it? Yeah? Gonna let me in now?”

You can’t exactly speak, already lost in the pleasure and the fullness his thick cock provides as it pushes past your walls and settles nearly in your belly.

The sound you make is depraved and eager, and it makes him smile. “That good, huh? So fucking cute how cockdrunk you get.”

“Shut…up,” you huff before reaching for his hair. “Faster.”

“Faster,” he repeats to himself, hips pulling back just to snap forward. “Always want it fast, don’t you? Never want me to take my time.”

“Cause I don’t want your dick in me longer than it needs to be,” you retort, but you both know that’s not true. “Fucking hurry—”

With a sharp and sudden thrust, he changes the pace. Obeying your command for fast and hard as your bodies shake with pleasure and force. 

And you imagine it should feel quite strange to be so enamored by one man – one cock. But here you are, panting, and gasping, and whimpering as he fucks you against this bathroom wall. Ignoring the pounding of the fists against the door from people wanting to be let in.

He kisses you. Kisses all of you. Your lips, your cheek, your chin, your nose, your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. Tugs on your skin with his teeth before flattening his tongue against the tortured flesh. 

His hand dances underneath your shirt. Palm smoothing up your stomach and over the cup of your bra. Slipping just far enough inside to knead you in his grasp. Make you whimper and push closer.

And he’s so warm. All of him is warm and soft and strong. He smells like mahogany and sex, and he feels like ecstasy.

You love his hands. The veins in his arms, the bulge of his muscles. The tan of his skin and the way he holds you. 

He might be infuriating, but my god is he fun to look at. 

“Fucking shit,” he snaps, readjusting his angle to make sure he’s fucking into you just right. “So fucking good, Tink. You’re shaking, sweetie. You close already?”

You can’t respond with words, instead clenching around him in an effort to prove his point.

He smirks, quickly reaching up to push his glasses back into place. “Good. Want you to come all over my cock, baby. Want you to soak me. Can y’do that for me, Princess? Can you soak my cock?”

You think you know what he means, but truth be told, you aren’t sure if you can. You’ve only done it twice before – by your own hand, not his – and you wonder if you’d even be able to like this.

But the question is answered for you when he moves just enough to find that sweet, spongy spot that unravels you faster than lightning. 

He hits it over and over and over – perhaps without even realizing – and when you suddenly begin to cry out his name…he understands.

He watches as it happens, aiding in your pleasure by spitting on his fingers and bringing them down to your clit. 

The ministrations are ruthless and beautiful, and it almost distracts you from the gushing between your legs, and the way you soak his thighs.

“Shit,” you think you hear him groan, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. “So fucking good, Tink. Yeah, just like that. That’s good, baby, keep going. Give me all of it. Fucking all of it, sweetie, yeah.”

And just before you can go sliding down the wall out of pure exhaustion…he follows. Pressing his chest into yours to keep you upright as he spills inside your pussy, creating a bigger mess than before. 

Everything is wet and sticky and warm. He’s breathing into your neck, holding onto your body so tight, you imagine you’ll see memories of him tomorrow. 

And you stay, just for a moment. Learning how to take in air again and waiting for the feeling to return to your muscles.

“You okay?” he finally asks, exhaling the question into the sweaty skin of your throat. “Didn’t break you, did I?”

Your smile is lazy as you shake your head. “It would take a lot more than you to break me.”

And he laughs. In the kind of way that makes you clench around him again.

Which only makes him laugh harder.

“I fucking hope so.”

Next Part:

~ Jealous*

Previous Part:

~ Off the Shelf*

~ Full 404 Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @daphnesutton

[wwaheoh]

Henlo. 👋 I love the Unrequited Love series you wrote for Lycaon, Anby, and Zhu! If you're accepting requests and have free time, could you write a part three where the reader is confronted by someone about it (though it's not necessarily the one the reader's avoiding)? Thank you again for the wonderful pieces you've wrote for the ZZZ fandom! 💜

“Heart Meet Mind”, Zenless Zone Zero x gnReader

Ellen Joe (Von Lycaon), Qingyi (Zhu Yuan)

a/n: originally supposed to be a oneshot angst, now getting a happy(?) ending- still deciding whether to go for a bittersweet or happy ending. consider part 2 and part 4 endings depending on which one you’d prefer 

Part 1.

Part 2.

You went out for another walk, thoughts of Lycaon were still buzzing around often, but time slowly began to erode at the amount of space it took. They say time heals all wounds after all. It seemed it was doing so at last, maybe you’ll move on finally, after stewing in your heartbreak at home.

It was a bit pathetic, being so hung up on another person. Lycaon, such a gentleman, such a nice guy, a guy who could bounce back from a relationship ending so quickly. Such a kiss-ass, maybe you two weren’t as close as you foolishly thought- seeing through rose-tinted glasses rather than how he actually was. How happy you saw him when he was with that other person at the Noodle Shop… How warm he looked against the lamp lighting, his clothes fitted and fur groomed. Did he look like that when the two of you hung out? Or was he eager to leave- using those emergencies at work to ditch you…

You stopped walking, now in a nearby park. The feeling of a constricted throat and stinging eyes that’s become more and more familiar since that day rising once more. 

Sitting yourself down onto an empty park bench, you looked blankly out to the lake of water the park surrounded, ducks swimming lazily, leaving small ripples in the water. The sounds of their honks and nearby cicadas filling the silence of the afternoon. It’s helped a lot whenever you needed to get out and get fresh air.

“Yo.” A feminine, monotone voice spoke behind you- a yelp escaping you as you nearly fell out of your seat, not having heard the newcomer. Looking back and to the approaching girl, you noticed that she was familiar- Ellen Joe, one of the featured members of Victoria Housekeeping. Crap.

“Realized huh? I’d imagine, considering how often you hung around Lycaon.” You flinched at the name, a look of guilt passing through Ellen’s face. “Look, if it helps, I’ve never seen the man so hung up on anything in his life.” 

“No… it doesn’t.” You replied nervously, inwardly cringing at how you were terrified to speak to a high school girl about your failed confession to her boss.

“Good.” She took a lollipop from her pocket, ripping the plastic off, and popping the treat into her mouth- stick sticking out of her mouth like a cigar. “Would’a been a red flag.” Speech a little different due to the treat in her mouth, yet still carried its meaning clearly.

Taking the lollipop out of her mouth, she pointed it towards you, red sphere of hard sugar facing you. “You go to the cafe- the one you met the boss at. He’ll be there. Tell him again.”

“But he’ll just say no again.” You mumbled, eyes downcast at the reminder of her confession.

“I wouldn’t bet on it."

“Huh?” You looked up quickly, nervousness painting your face.

“I said I wouldn’t bet on it. The fact that I know how much this’s been messing with him shows that he realized he made a mistake.”

“Now, go there tomorrow, he’ll be there.” Popping the treat back in, the shark-girl stood up and walked off, dropping the plastic wrapping into a nearby trash can on her way out.

Tomorrow, he’ll be there. Tomorrow, you’ll see him again. 

((i actually dunno much about her so take this with a grain of salt))

Shifting the car into the parking lot, you were excited to finally get out of duty. Not that you hated being a police officer- it was a dream of yours ever since you were a kid and basically a shoe-in due to your high Ether Aptitude, but because of your partner. Not your reassigned partner- they were great, the two of you had become fast friends and while the sting of heartache still lingered, it was beginning to fade. This morning however, they had called off sick, forcing a newcomer into your car and who had been shadowing you today.

Qingyi. Now you weren’t going to say you disliked her, especially for such a petty reason of being too late to ask your crush out. Though you also weren’t going to say you liked her. It was a surprise to see her tap on your window, even bigger to know that she would be joining you today. It was a tense couple of minutes- like what do you say to the one who stole your crush’s heart? It did slowly fade by the end, making conversation and helping out around the neighborhood- but it still never left.

She probably felt it, you thought, guilty for putting your coworker through the stifling awkwardness for a reason she didn’t know of.

She did feel it and she did very much have an idea of what was going on.

So just as you pulled into the police department’s private parking lot and settled into an open space, she locked the doors and turned to you.

“Are you infatuated with Zhu Yuan?”

“Huh!?” You had nearly been about to ask her why she locked the door when she hit you with that. “Why?”

“Because. Now answer.”

“N-no…” As much as you wanted to say yes, to tell the shorter person that you had plans to confess- it wasn’t your choice anymore, it never was. Since you were-

“- not too late.” Her voice cut through your inner monologue.

“Huh.” She stared at you with an exasperated look, “I mean, just cause she’s my partner doesn’t mean you’re too late.”

“What? That exactly means I was too late!” You blurt out before slapping your hand over your mouth. Mortified at what you just exposed.

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you. If you talked to her, it’d help. She’s been pretty down since you stopped hanging out with her.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…”

“Tomorrow, tell her. Her shift ends at the same time as yours.”

She clicked the locks back off, opening the door and sliding out, shutting it behind her as she left. You stared at where she sat, mulling over what she said. 

Tomorrow. That’s the time. 

[softshuji]

𝟏𝟏:𝟓𝟗𝐀𝐌 | 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔 | 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀’𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐗

Summary: On Christmas Eve, Rindou comes to get you from a night out with friends, harsh truths coming out about what you both mean to each other.

cw: fem!reader, angst, implied cheating, reader wears makeup, some suggestive content but nothing too crazy, a lot of internal conflict from both of them, ran makes an appearance. Sorry in advance lol. Reblogs much appreciated

Rindou drums his lithe fingers on the steering wheel and waits, pausing to adjust his rearview mirror, or his collars, now open and peeled back to reveal the beginnings of the tattoo that curls along his chest, tie long discarded on the backseat. He watches every club-goer that exits the lacquered doors and sights inwardly when he realizes none of them are you. It’s Christmas Eve, and the streets are thrumming with energy, buzzing with flashing lights, neon billboards, the raucous laughter of men too deep into their drinks, and women throwing their heads back and giggling under the fluorescent streetlights. 

All of it so noisy, so suffocating, that he’s glad for the hunk of metal that separates him from the cacophony, praying and wishing for the sleep that he never seems to get or eludes him completely. 

His eyes ache, temple pulsing with a tight coil of pain and tension, and yet he’s here, driving you home at nearly midnight on Christmas Eve.

He considers ringing you again and makes to grab his phone when your knuckle knocking against the glass of his car window pulls him from his reverie.

‘Hey jellyfish, open up!’ You say and Rindou catches the flash of your smile, your hair falling against the condensated glass, lipstick now faded and muted to a lighter shade of red than before.

He rolls down the window and quirks an eyebrow at you, leaning back in his seat as he unlocks the car, watching you slide into the passenger seat, your head falling back against the headrest. The pulsing pain in his head simmers, a degree lesser than before when he sees your eyelids flutter shut and the sigh leak from your lips. A contented sigh, a peaceful sigh, and your arms drop to the side as you all but sink into the plush leather. 

‘Do you have to call me that?’ Rindou rolls his eyes and turns the key in the ignition, leaning on the seat as he reverses out of the parking space, the buttons on his shirt straining with the effort, delicate whorls of black ink now very much visible from beneath the open buttons.

‘What? Jellyfish?’ You suppress a smile and let your head fall against the window, now dripping with the first rain of the night. It drops in rivulets, and you trace the water racing down the glass with one polished fingernail, feeling the soft and simmering happiness thrum in your chest. 

‘Yeah. Such an embarrassing nickname,’ he mutters, his rough voice laced with mirth. ‘How was your time anyway?’

‘Oh, boring, you know I hate these things.’ Your eyes crease as you frown, watching the passing cars and their glaring headlights fade behind you as Rindou speeds up, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping on his thigh. ‘I’d rather be at home with you and Ran.’

He hums in agreement and curls his fingers over the gear stick. His hands are rough, calloused, blemished by cuts and bruises, scabs and scars sprinkled over his knuckles, a marked contrast to yours. 

‘It’s a shame he couldn’t come,’ you say, lifting your head to watch the glow of the streetlight pass over you, and in that light, Rindou’s lilac mullet flashes a deep burnished orange, the light illuminating the patch of skin where his tattoo slides up and down.

Rindou’s neck prickles with unease. Yes, he knows Ran should be here, that  he would be if he could, that he’d ditch anything in less than a minute for you. 

Always the job, always the looming paperwork, the assignments far away, the haunting and yet commanding voice of Mikey that propels them further, that leaves little room for error.

Rindou swallows against the pulse of pain that snakes up his jaw. ‘He would be, if he could be.’

He knows that. He knows Ran is probably doing exactly as he is right now, drumming his fingers on a steering wheel, or resisting the urge to check his phone for the umpeenth time, knowing you’re here, that he should be here too.

Rindou had taken the call only earlier in the day, hearing his Brother huff on the other end of the line as he jammed his keys into the car, cursing low under his breath when he dropped them on the gravel.

‘... and Y/N is going out with her friends later today, y’know for the holiday. Any chance you could pick her up for me?’ 

Rindou had sunk in his office chair, let out a huff of air indignantly, his chest both deflating and stuttering at the prospect. If only you were easy to ignore, to relegate to just being his Brother’s Girlfriend and nothing more. Perhaps it might make things easier, might make it easier for him to ignore how hard he wanted to press his lips to yours.

‘... again?’ Rindou had let the impatience seep into his voice, blowing a tuft of hair from his eyes, his skin prickling when he happened to think of how pretty you always looked, as if you had swallowed the sun whole. He cringes at himself now, at how he always feels so full and empty at the same time, of how his chest aches with how hard he fights to keep his breath even, of how sparks flit underneath his skin whenever you’re in his vicinity.

‘I know, I know, but you know Mikey’s been on my ass recently since everyone’s going to be busy for the holiday. She likes hanging out with you anyway and you’ll be doing me a favour. Come on Brother.’ Ran had said and Rindou had known instinctively that he’d have said yes anyway, that pretending it was a chore was just a ruse. He could never deny Ran, and more recently, he was discovering he could never deny you either, that the longer he hung around you the more he craved your time, your smiles, your attention and being your unofficial bodyguard didn't make that yearning any easier to deal with.

A sharp and ugly green spasm of self loathing worms it’s way into his stomach and he hates himself a little more every time he thinks about you, every time your name falls from his lips, said fervently like a prayer, like a wish he keeps tucked under his pillow, every time he fists himself to the image of you and then somehow, shamefully, looks you in the eye the next day. This was wrong. You were Ran’s. You are Ran’s. He repeats the phrase like a mantra when he leaves the office to come and get you.

And yet all his resolve, the wall he’s built up so carefully around himself, brick by unmovable brick, comes falling down when you smile at him as you tilt your head and sink into the leather of his seats and he forces his eyes away from your thighs peeking out from your dress.

You shiver, and Rindou flicks the heating on when he sees the goosebumps break out in his periphery. He gestures to the glove compartment by your thighs with a flick of his chin.

Your eyebrows knit together and you shuffle forward to pull the glove box open. 

A blanket, inlaid with tiny glowing stars, the fleece warm against the bare skin of your arms, falls into your lap alongside a sealed water bottle and a box of painkillers. You frown and Rindou marvels at the way your lips part and your tongue runs over the faded lipstick, at how you suck in a breath and your teeth pull in your bottom lip.

‘Emergency supplies,’ he says and grins sheepishly as he stops at a red light, the growl of the car’s engine slowing to a soft thrum. ‘For days like today.’

For you, he wants to say.

‘Oh.’ Warmth seeps along your skin and into your stomach.

Stop. Stop and ignore it. Ignore it, and go home and sleep in your own bed, the bed you share with his Brother and let this go, refuse to think about it again. It’s wrong, and Ran doesn’t deserve this. You love him don’t you? You said you loved him more than anything, that he was the one you called Home.  It wasn’t as if it was Ran’s fault. You knew he loved you, knew that he’d rather be with you than anywhere else, that his mind was filled to the brim with thoughts of you and you only. 

‘Can I ask why?’  You say and pull the blanket up to rest underneath your chin, knocking back the water to wash the taste of anxiety coating your mouth. Anxiety that’s thick and coagulated and churning with self hatred and confusion. Your tongue clings to the roof of your mouth.

‘Well, I thought, since I’m always picking you up, it would only make sense.’ He runs a hand along the nape of his neck, the inky black tattoo stark against the copper light spilling in through the window. ‘We can’t have you getting sick, or any accidents after all.’

‘Oh so I’m an accident now?’ You quirk an eyebrow.

‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ he says pointedly and you stifle a giggle at the way he puffs his cheeks and rolls his eyes. 

He heart stammers in his chest when he sees your nose scrunch with the effort to crush your grin and despite himself, despite how wrong he feels, a tentative smile tugs at his lips all the same.

It doesn’t help that he’s both beautiful and attentive, that his eyes perfectly reflect the moonlight when he looks up, pearly and opalescent and clear as the surface of a lake, that his hair is shimmering lilac and gossamer silk, that you imagine it slipping through your fingers like the soft velvet of spiderwebs.

‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘I’m your bodyguard, it’s my job to look after you.’ 

On the days when your thoughts get the better of you, when Rindou is there on hand as soon as you dial him, you wonder what it would be like to touch him. When he keeps you company late into the night, the phone pressed between his ear and the curve of his shoulder as he shuffles into his apartment, you wonder how his lips feel, how his throat feels pulsing under your mouth, how he tastes in every way you can taste him. You hear the jingle of keys as they’re thrown onto the coffee table, the low buzz of the TV as it’s switched on and your heart aches for him, for the loneliness he can’t seem to shake, the penthouse that is always deathly quiet. You recoil from these thoughts, shut them out. Pandora’s box, locked up for eternity.

You wonder on some nights, at what point did he stop being your bodyguard, and start being something else? At what point, did you think about kissing him more often than you thought about kissing Ran? At what point did you come to expect that Ran was busy and Rindou was there, always there, to pick up the pieces?

‘My bodyguard? You can’t stand the sight of me half the time.’ You huff and pout with indignation. ‘I remember what you said!’

Rindou’s eyebrows crinkle as he purses his lips. ‘If you’re referring to me calling you weird and annoying, it’s true.’ Despite his words, his voice betrays his mirth at the memory. ‘And it's only because you think vanilla is better than strawberry!’

‘That’s because it is!’ You say, as if the most obvious thing in the world, quashing down that flutter in your throat, a butterfly flapping its wings when he rolls his eyes and chews the inside of his cheek, a tentative smile still lingering on his lips.

‘See? This is why I can’t stand you.’ 

You throw your head back and laugh, your hair slipping past your shoulder, clinging to the seat behind you, and Rindou hates how it sounds to him, the lilting nature of your voice, the tinkly laugh that is both high and low at the same time. God he wishes he could make you laugh forever.

There again is that persistent thought, that remnant of his conscience that tells him he’s an idiot, that he should end this friendship here, that breaking his own heart is a small price to pay for saving Ran’s. Do you not love your Brother? The errant voice says. Do you not love him despite everything he has done for you, everything he continues to do for you?

Shut up, Rindou thinks. Shut up and stop making this harder than it has to be. But the claws of that self loathing are sharp and rake down the walls of his mind regardless of what he does to crush them.

At some point, he arrives at your apartment and the car slows as he glides into the parking space outside. This is it, he says to himself. This is the final time. He’ll refuse Ran next time, he’ll flatten that mixture of longing and obligation that propels him to see you, to pick up your calls and listen to your voice sluggish with sleep late at night. And yet, even as he thinks this, he knows the opposite is true. 

The car stops, the engine fizzing out as the key is turned in the ignition and Rindou sighs, letting his head drop back onto the seat, watching you with his chin jutted slightly out, the low hood of his eyes making them seem feline in the light. 

‘Rindou,’ you start and your tongue is a boulder of corrugated gravel in your mouth. You swallow, and the saliva is caught in your throat. ‘There’s something we should talk about.’

Ah.

Rindou knows this conversation has been on the precipice for a while, that there was only so long you could skirt and tip-toe around the issue. That air of simmering tension would be bound to break before long. At least this way, despite the nausea building in his stomach, it could be put to rest.

His knee bounces, anxiety prickling at his skin.

‘Rin, I like you,’ you say and the tension of holding the secret for so long bleeds out of your skin. There is no easy way to say it considering the circumstances, but still, the weight pressing down on your shoulders dips once you have the words out. ‘And I think you like me too, don’t you?’

Rindou hangs his head, soft wisps of hair skimming his collarbones. ‘I do. I’m sorry, I never intended to. Not like this.’ After all, what does he have to lose now? 

A lot, considering the circumstances. 

‘Me neither.’ Your heart quails, falters as you reply in tandem and the terse silence thereafter only serves to heighten the incessant buzzing in your ears, the furious thumping of your heart in your ribcage. 

There is no going back now and the finality of the situation hits you like a freight train. He fiddles with the hem of his jacket and pulls out a silver tin inlaid with his name in neat cursive. From you obviously, because you were always very sentimental. Perhaps that was half the issue. That for all his skills and for all his cold brutality, he wanted to feel the sun, wanted to bask in your warmth and would have spent a lifetime running after you had it meant he could taste that sunshine once. If only he had met you first.

‘How long?’ He asks and his head snaps up to meet your eyes, eyes that are turned down with barely repressed sorrow. 

‘I don’t understand-’

‘How long have you known? How long have you felt the same?’

Since we met. Since that day you listened to me cry all night, had borne the fruits of that sacrifice later from Mikey and yet never, not once, made me feel guilty for it.

‘Does it matter?’ You say instead because it seems easier than telling the truth and letting that worm of self hatred gnawing at his insides fester knowing he’d assume he encouraged it. 

‘I suppose it doesn’t.’ He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, letting the nicotine fill his lungs once he pulls it into his mouth. He wants to drown in it, to feel it swim through his blood till his head stops thrumming and his ribs cease to crush his heart. If anything he just wants his hands to stop shaking.

He casts a glance at you as he blows a ring of smoke and absent-mindedly his hooded gaze drops to your lips, the indent in your chin and the sharp cupid’s bone that make them so alluring. It would be so easy to kiss you now, to just bridge the distance and slot his lips against yours. To let himself be weak and stupid for one moment, maybe leave this one mistake in this year, this one Christmas where he could perhaps blame it on the alcohol and rationalise it in his head to assuage the guilt. You’d taste the smoke on his hot breath, smell the shower gel he uses and wind a hand into his hair and Ran would never know. He knows you’d never speak about it, and neither would he, The shame would be his companion to the grave. 

But no, he’d never betray Ran like that, and he’d never put you in the position to deal with the shame of your sin either. Love is truly complicated and we do not choose who we love after all.

‘Rin, I love him.I love him more than anything. I want you to know that.’ The interior of the car is suddenly too close for comfort but despite the alcohol in your system that muddles your vision, your voice is firm and unflinching. ‘So this isn't going to go anywhere. Right?’

Keeping secrets was always your forte and even though Rindou has known this was coming, he can’t help the watery shake of his voice, the javelin headed straight for his heart, piercing through his chest till his back bleeds. 

‘Right. We can let this go,’ he says and inhales a lungful, hoping the shake of his hands and voice doesn’t betray the squeeze of his heart. ‘We’ll never talk about it again.’ 

This was the best future, the one in which the three of you could stay together and squashing your feelings was a small price to pay for the glimpse of that happiness. Perhaps he could learn to be content on the sidelines like this, just barely in the corner of the picture.

Did the fact that this conversation was months in the making make it any easier to have? Or had you done nothing but prolong the pain that was inevitable for the both of you?

‘Okay good,’ you say and run a hand through your hair. A part of you is deflating, breaking. You know in another world perhaps, you’d have been perfect for each other, that the golden thread that ties you together would somehow mean you would find each other there. But other worlds and timelines don’t exist do they? And it’s best not to dwell on half-truths and regrets that gnaw at your soul.

‘Can…can we still be friends?’ His hand reaches for you, a moment of unabashed and naked tenderness, so out of character for him that he feels the shame and embarrassment of it immediately. 

‘Of course we can. We’ll be friends forever, Rindou. Best friends.’ Your eyes soften, even as your heart beats against your throat. You want to kiss him, just once. No one would ever know, or tell. The secret could die here and just when you think your body is going to move of its own accord, Rindou turns away, slumping back in his seat, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

And the moment passes, and you unclip your seat belt, tucking the blanket back into the glove box, both relieved and ashamed at yourself.

‘I guess I’ll be seeing you then.’ Your voice is an earthquake tremor as you push open the door, the slicing chill of the night cutting right into your skin. ‘Drive home safe okay?’ 

That lump in his throat punches his chest as he watches you lean down to smile at him. ‘I will. Call me if you need anything Y/N.’ 

Because it’s easier to pretend like you haven’t just hurt each other, like you’re not both lying, like you don’t both feel sick with longing and shame and disgust.

You smile placidly and shut the door with your hip, bounding up the stairs to your apartment. You look back once, at his earnest stare as he raises a hand to wave, cigarette perched between his lips, both haunting and beautiful under the honeyed copper of the streetlight. 

And then you shut the door just as the engine fades into the distance. Maybe some secrets were better left buried. Pandora’s box. Never to be opened again. Left to die and rot, like bones in a graveyard.

a/n: sorry everyone lol. I just wanna say thank you for all the support this year, all the fics and comments, all the interactions, I hope 2025 brings us all some peace and love and our dreams coming true. If you wouldn't mind, I would greatly appreciate if you could show some love to my small business (I make jewelry) over on my instagram here. But if you got this far, thank you so much!

Taglist : @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @burnishedcrown @sinfulseashell @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @stargirlstabber @intheafterall @ljubimaya

[selfishdoll]

LITTLE MISS PERFECT FT. EREN YEAGER ୨୧ ｡ ⟡

⠀ ⁺ 𓂋 𓈒 it was just your luck that a coworker you simply couldn’t stand figured out your side gig as a bottle girl.

❛content warning(s)...❜ ━━ ooc eren (this is my first time writing for him) | reader & eren argue but it’s really unresolved sexual tension | eren is a tease | they are both 21+ | porn with minimal amounts of plot | pet names (mama, pretty, sweetheart, etc) | reader calls eren a stalker | semi-public sex | buzzed(?) sex | ass slapping | eren likes eye contact | service dom (?) eren | he has shoulder length hair | orgasm denial (like twice) | throat holding | etc. if i forgot something let me know.

❛author’s note...❜ ━━ i’ve never written for eren before so don’t clown me yall— also i know little about bottle girls so also don’t clown me, i just like the way they look.

You were delicate and careful, assuring the oddly shaped makeup tool was setting the makeup perfectly. You couldn’t afford to mess up or restart your routine— you were already three minutes behind schedule.

“Damn you Yeager..” You mumbled to yourself, glossed and lined lips pulled into a subtle frown. Why exactly were you forced to work with him? With that.. absolutely annoying man child? His temper was too much for you at times, and the way he just loved questioning just about everything— God, some days you believed your supervisor purposely set you two to work together.

So it was no surprise you two got into an usual spout; for what, you can’t even remember. You simply remember your gaze fixated on his — dare you say — handsome features, absolute venom escaping your plump lips. Words faltering every single time you saw his own jade colored gaze fall to your lips.

You could not stand Eren Yeager no matter how much he made you weak at the knees.

You tossed the tool to the side, rising from your vanity whilst grabbing the bottle of setting spray. Closing your eyes, you quickly sprayed your beat face, assuring to get every inch. Having it run in the middle of your shift was something you wanted to avoid.

You slammed the bottle down once you were done, stepping back and glancing at yourself in the mirror. French white nails carefully plucked the curls of your burgundy colored lace, nodding at the way they fell so pleasantly around your features. The second thing to critique was your outfit; a mesh sleeveless romper that had several splits between your cleavage and was just dark enough it covered your bottom half. Your eyes traced yourself for a split moment, finally nodded once satisfied.

Grabbing your bag, phone, and keys— you rushed out of your apartment after locking the door.

You reached the night club you work at about ten minutes late, your close friend luckily getting most things ready before your arrival. Once arriving you cleaned up your sections, assuring the tables were spotless and booths were in proper order. Finishing that task you moved towards the locker room to touch up yourself, spritzing your body with a sweet perfume whilst your friend separated your curls.

“You and that Eren guy should just fuck and get it over with.”

You scoffed at her words, placing your perfume away; going for your lipgloss next. “I’d rather chew on glass.” You murmured softly, gliding the stick substance across your two-toned lips. Fuck Eren? He was easy on the eyes, sure— but not easy anywhere else. As said before, you couldn’t stand him. And you highly doubt you would stand him enough to sleep with him.

You heard your friend sigh, releasing your hair to walk around and face you. “I don’t know.. it just sounds like unresolved tension or something— ya know?” Her lips curled at the deadpanned expression that crossed your features, gaze watching you hurriedly place your things away.

“C‘mon our sections may be filling up.”

“Don’t ignore me, [Name]!”

The night continued as pure usual, you lifting large bottles of alcohol ranging from Hennessy to Pink Whitney and much more; over to your booths, flashing forced smiles and moving your hips to the beat of the music. The multicolored lights reflected off your sun-kissed highlighting each feature you had.

At certain tables a customer would get up and dance with you and the other girls; causing your smile to worsen but otherwise continue the service with no issues.

That was how your shift as a bottle girl was supposed to go. No issues, just simple adult fun.

Until you reached a certain table.

You walked over as pure usual, pearly whites on display account of the glossed smile stretching your features. Sauntering over with a notepad, you gave your usual winning pitch; attempting to persuade the customers to buy the most expensive alcohol to assure the best experience — usual customer service nonsense.

Except as your eyes cased the table surrounded by men, your gaze settled upon a certain one. One whose own gaze was fixated onto you. A rather, familiar gaze.

“Ma’am?”

You cleared your throat, eyes blinking over to a man with light ash-brown hair. “Ye—yes, have you decided what you wanted to order?” You questioned, smile becoming even more forceful the moment you noticed a smirk from your peripherals. You barely registered the order that escaped his lips, scribbling upon your notepad quickly whilst the other men chimed in with their own requests.

“Okay, I’ll be right back!” You spoke, spinning on your heels and basically rushing towards the bar. You stood behind it, eyes tracing the many bottles lining the case. It took a moment to find what you were looking for, stepping back a bit before a small ah fell from your lips, approaching a case. You pulled the large bottle of Gin from its rightful place, turning and jumping the minute your focused gaze landed on someone else’s.

“Hey [Name]..” Was the cool words that escaped Eren fucking Yeager, lips curled into the most subtle grin. You took in a deep breath, placing the bottle down and turning to search for another.

“Sir, the whole point of a bottle girl service is I bring the drinks to you. You have no need to approach the bar.”

“There’s no rules stating I can’t though, right?”

You gritted your teeth a bit, noticing the clear amusement circling his tone. Grabbing a bottle of cream liquor you turned once again, placing it down with a little more force. “Eren, would you fuck off? Save your taunting for another time, i’m trying to work!”

The man tilted his head, strays from his messy bun intruding on his face. “I didn’t come over here to taunt, [Name]. I was just..” He trailed off for a moment, lips curling into an even more prominent grin. “Surprised little miss perfect had a job such as this. Didn’t seem like your style.”

You rolled your eyes a little, grabbing a few shot glasses and placing them on a tray. “Well, everyone has their side hustles..” You murmured softly, beginning to pour a few shots— grumbling the moment ring covered fingers lifted one. You settled the bottle down once you were finished, eyes focusing back to the man infront of you. “You gonna blab to the whole office you saw me working here?”

You weren’t ashamed to be a bottle girl, if anyone asked you were more than happy to share. However, that didn’t excuse the fact you enjoyed keeping your private life.. well, private. You could just imagine the annoyance it would be with such information circling your “normal” workplace.

“No.” Eren began slowly, lifting the glass to his lips and taking the shot. His tongue glided across his bottom lip after pulling the glass away, placing it back down on the tray. “I’d much rather keep you all to myself.” His eyes flicked between your eyes and lips, enjoying the perplexed expression that crossed your face.

Eren rose away from the bar with a soft hum shortly after. “See you at the table..” He dragged giving you one last look before stalking off towards his section.

Leaving you the perfect mixture of confused and heated.

The rest of the night continued without a hitch. Except his eyes followed your every move. From you walking over with the shots, hips rocking along to the harsh beats of the music blasting — to you dancing beside the other bottle girls.

You tried to ignore it all, tried to focus on anything but him. But, you found your eyes trailing over to his own constantly— spotting his pretty lips lift into a smile.

Suffice to say, you were a little distracted for the remainder of the night.

And several others down the line.

Your schedule was so you worked Friday-Sunday, taking up a shift once in a while as a favor. Either the man had guessed your schedule or he asked because every other Saturday Eren and his friends were seated at your section; his eyes never leaving your form the entire time.

The second time he came in you remarked it as a coincidence, but the fourth? Yeah, you were sure the man was messing with you. Especially since he acted so normal at work; still as combative, and still as annoying.

It was boggling, you constantly questioning Eren’s motives. It’s not like he ever got extremely drunk; settling for a shot or two. Was he really just here to watch you? To antagonize you? To approach the bar each time you walked off just to speak or compliment what you were wearing?

You sighed heavily the moment familiar footsteps followed you back to the bar, walking around the counter; thankful it placed distance between you and the man. “You’re starting to act like a stalker, Yeager.” You mumbled, grabbing a bottle of Hennessy. You heard the barstool squeak the moment he sat on it, turning to spot his ringer covered fingers tapping against the sleek marble.

“Gonna have the bouncer throw me out?” He questioned, green gaze looking at you through pretty lashes. The moment you turned away silently Eren was smiling, tongue gliding across his lips. “Guess not..”

You tried to ignore him, you really did; attempting to focus on your shaky hands pouring the usual seven glasses resting your tray— not even batting an eye when he grabbed one without asking.

“You look nice tonight..” Eren spoke lowly, eyes not so shamelessly tracing over the black attire you wore; a black leather skirt, with a mesh halter top, a silver necklace hanging accompanying the outfit.

You rolled your eyes a little, reaching for another bottle. “You say that every single time you see me.”

“And I mean it— every single time.” He countered, placing the now empty glass down.

You could only blink at the man for a moment, completely forgetting the drinks as a heat covered your entire body. Your eyes fell to the bar, lip caught between your teeth as the softest stammer escaped you; “Why do you keep coming here? To compliment and watch me? You don’t even get drunk like your friends do.”

The words settled in the air for a while, Eren silent— his eyes focused completely on you; an intense stare you avoided. Moments passed before the man spoke again;

“I’d much rather show you, why I keep coming here.”

His lips were hot against your own, body flush against you whilst pushing your back into the cool bathroom wall. Eren’s large hands remained on your waist, pulling you into him each time you attempted to back away. Why exactly? Because he was so overwhelming. His taste, tongue, smell— all of it muddling your brain far too quickly, rendering you into putty he could so easily play with.

You were finally able to pull back from the kiss, when he needed air, pants flowing from your lips; lipgloss a mess with your mixed salvia tainting your mouth. The hands on Eren’s shoulders gripped the cream colored longsleeve he wore the moment his lips pressed against your neck, breath quickening as he sucked a kiss into your skin.

The events leading up to now were a complete blur, Eren uttering such words and suddenly leading you into the woman’s bathroom; locking the door the second the two of you entered. After that well.. you found yourself against the wall by the sink, Eren’s hands situated on your form to assure you didn’t move an inch away.

Truthfully, you didn’t want to.

It seemed he got bored of your neck quickly, rising back up to steal your lips in another kiss. You moaned against his mouth the moment his fingers gripped your waist, switching you around to place you onto the counter. Your legs naturally opened, Eren taking this moment to step between them, smoothing his hand down to your exposed skin.

You pulled back, hands rising to his hair quickly to tug the moment he tried to go for another kiss. “Let me breathe, Eren— fuck..” You gasped out, watching a smirk pull his lips which were stained with your gloss.

“Then breathe.” He spoke, leaning close and pressing his forehead against your own. Despite his allowance, you couldn’t; feeling his hand travel between your legs, tracing your inner thigh for a moment before moving farther. Eren’s other hand moved to your lower back, keeping you in place while his thumb pressed against your thinly covered pussy, brushing at the wet spot slowly starting to form.

“Already a mess down here, huh?”

“Eren, quit it..” You drawled, legs gripping his waist the moment his thumb pushed to find your covered clit, rubbing the little bud the moment he did.

A soft chuckle flowed from his lips right into your ear, lips tracing the delicate shell just to feel you shiver. “Quit what? Quit touching you?.. quit talking?—“ Eren murmured, pushing your panties to the side, exposing your pretty cunt to his fingers. “Either one, you don’t want me to stop at anyway. Not with how fucking wet you are for me.” He spoke, fingers gliding up and down your slick slit whilst his thumb pressed harder against your little bud.

Your legs widened, trembled— hands gripping his shirt and moaning the moment two thick digits pushed inside your awaiting entrance. Your walls clenched around his fingers, gasping as they pushed in and out of you so easily. He was down to the knuckle, reaching far deeper then your own fingers. The squelches of your messy cunt was drowned out by your own sweet moans, head pressed against the mirror behind you whilst your hand fell to his forearm; feeling his muscles twitch with each thrust of his fingers.

Eren pulled back from your ear to instead plant his lips against yours again, pace quickening. His fingers pushed against the rough spot within you, gummy walls sucking his fingers in each time it dragged in and out of you.

Your moans were muffled, eyes pinched closed with a tight band forming in your lower stomach. You were shaking at this point; breaking the kiss to allow sharp whines to escape your swollen lips. Your pussy was spasming around his digits, hips rocking to meet each thrust.

Eren took in your form, sucking in a breath as he felt his cock strain against his pants. You were so fucking close; your walls greedily sucking him in, your plump stomach rolling with each arch— fuck, from just his fingers you were already in such a state.

He sucked his teeth a bit, withdrawing his fingers before you could even reach your peak. Your eyes flew open at this, shaky gaze focusing onto Eren.

“Eren why’d y—“ Eren came close, cutting off your words with a gentle hand on your throat and lifting you away from leaning on the mirror.

“Whining over nothing… you’ll come baby, just wait.” Eren spoke, hands falling to your thighs and pulling you towards the edge of the counter. Once there, he stepped back to push his boxers and pants down to his thighs; allowing his length to spring out.

He was nice and thick, long too— tip resting just below his belly button, adoring minimal hair. You weren’t given much time to gawk before he was coming close, hands falling to your hips and pressing the crown of his cock against your wet slit.

Slowly, he glided his length up and down your wetness; coating himself in your arousal. Each time his tip bumped against your clit you were twitching, white nails digging into his shoulders while your hips moved for more friction.

Finally after what seemed like hours but was nothing more then agonizing seconds, Eren was slowly pushing inside; groaning the moment your walls clenched around him.

“Relax mama..” He murmured, leaning down to kiss you. A hand then released your hip to travel between your legs, slowly circling your clit. You moaned against him, feeling him ease the rest of himself inside; a soft squelch emitting from the intrusion.

Eren pulled back from the kiss, eyes traveling to where the two of you were connected; sucking in a breath. “Taking me so damn well, pretty girl..” His grin grew the moment your walls clenched around him, eyes flicking to your face. “Oh— you like when I call you that, huh?” A snicker escaped him the moment your eyes traveled to the side, leaning to kiss your neck.

“So cute when you’re embarassed [Name].”

“Sh.. shut up Eren..—“ The words barely escaped you before said man was pulling his hips back, tip resting inside you before flicking them forward. Your hands grip tightened on his shirt, legs tightening as the experimental pumps turned into deep, quick thrusts.

Sputters of his name escaped you, head resting back as your body rocked with each unrelenting movement of his hips. You were squeezing him so damn tight, greedily sucking him in each time he pulled out. The breaths that escaped his mouth were hurried, fanning across your hot skin whilst his fingers dug into your plump form. You were stuck there, unable to run, to move; exposed to the pace he set— ruining you so perfectly.

Perfect.

That was the only thought in his mind as he green eyes took you in, watching your pretty lashes fluttering— struggling to keep your own eyes open. What’s more, little tears began to form, threatening to spill and ruin the makeup he’s sure you spent agonizing minutes on. The thought alone caused him to bury himself deeper, hands falling to the underside of your thighs and pushing you to lay on the counter.

“F—Fuck—!” You cried out, feeling him lift a leg to lay on his shoulder; drilling into you. His heavy length was brushing you in all the right spots, tip pushing against your cervix; the pain and pleasure molding into a single feeling. “E—eren..hah— shit, you’re too deep!” You whined out, tears spilling, causing black streaks to run down chubby cheeks.

Eren groaned softly, pushing to hover over your body whilst gripping the thigh pressed against his chest. “You want me to stop, baby? Huh? Want me to pull out?” The moment you shook your head he was grinning, pace never faltering, the slick mess between your thighs growing.

“Thought so..” Eren breathed, pulling back to kiss against your chubby thigh while his free hand moved to your stomach, pressing against it to feel each thrust. “Wanted this just as bad as I did, didn’t you? So fucking mean at work, yet here you are— whining and making a complete mess on my dick.”

You wanted to tell him to shut up. That he was wrong and much more. But you couldn’t, the man drilling into you with such precision the only legible words escaping your bruised lips were honeyed moans of his name and pleads to come.

Which Eren ate up completely, biting your skin just to feel you twitch— watch you gasp. Fuck, you were the prettiest sight; a complete mess for only his eyes.

Eren lowered to hover over your withering body, lips pressing against your chin. “Look at me, baby— lemme see you.” He breathed, attempting to keep your gaze. Instead you kept looking away, even closing your eyes and refusing to return his look.

That alone caused the man to suck his teeth, hips slowly before stopping completely; eliminating the bubble forming inside you.

Again, your high was ruined; eyes flying open to complain— a surprised yelp interrupting as he snatched you up and off the counter; pushing to turn you and lay you out— stomach down, ass up.

You wished to question this sudden position change, only for the answer to stand right infront of you. The fucking mirror. You attempted to glance away again, moaning the moment he grabbed a nice hold of your braids, pulling your head back to force you to look.

Eren leaned over you, speaking right into your ear whilst sliding back in; “Close your eyes again, I dare you.”

You whimpered at his words, gasping as his quick pace returned. You struggled to keep your eyes open with each thrust into your weakening body, nails clawing at the sleek counter whilst your moans bounced off the walls. You had long forgotten the remaining two hours of your shift, forgot about the many customers you were sure your friend was saddled with— you could only focus on Eren, his dick, his hot breath and dirty words being whispered into your ear.

You were being consumed completely, so easily— and you welcomed it fully.

The wet sounds of skin on skin contact acted as a background to the combined sounds you two released, Eren pulling back to watch himself push in and out of your wet pussy. Your ass bounced with each flick of his hips, rippling the moment his palm slammed against a cheek.

Eren grinned at the sharp whine that escaped you, pulling you right back on his dick the moment you tried to pull away. “Nah.. take it, mama. Don’t fucking run.” He huffed, gripping your hip and keeping you in place.

You felt your orgasm approaching quickly, tears treading down dried streaks as you watched yourself in the mirror. Your edges were curled, lips wet with both lip gloss and saliva, while your makeup began to run from the sheen of sweat tainting your skin. Even so, Eren still looked at you as if you were completely perfect, leaning down and whispering such right into your ear.

You gripped your hands into tight fists, crying out as you stared at him in the mirror, desperate pleas falling from your lies;

“S—so close.. fuck, fuck! Eren, please—!”

The whines were music to his ears, eyes threatening to roll back the moment he felt you fucking back; ass slapping against his body with each messy bounce. “Shit, [Name]..” He dragged, blunt nails digging into you plush skin as he drilled into you. “Come all over me, mama. Make me a mess— don’t fucking hold it.”

Eren hissed, mouth hanging open the moment he felt you clench around him tight; creaming all over his length. A drawn out swear escaped him, leaning down close whilst his hand rose to your throat. “That’s it baby, cream all over this dick.. So fucking filthy.”

You were pulled into a sloppy kiss, tongues playing and teeth colliding as he pushed himself deep inside; flooding you with his hot, thick come. Your toes curled at the feeling, walls spasming around his length as your combined arousals slipped to his balls and down to the ground beneath you.

As his hips slowed the kiss became more uniform, breathing into the other’s mouth, Eren sucking your wet muscle.

Moments passed before he pulled away, watching your form rest on the counter; rapid pants escaping you. A satisfied grin pulled his features, slowly pulling out with a soft hiss— watching his cum slowly flow out of you.

He had half a mind to push it back in.

Instead, Eren whistled lowly, hand falling to your ass and massaging where he previously slapped. “Tired sweetheart?” He questioned, eyes flicking to the mirror. He grinned at the expression that crossed your features, gripping your butt even more.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You slowly turned onto your back, ignoring the feeling between your legs and standing on shaky legs. You warmed as he came close, assisting you in pulling your clothes back on. “But my shift..” You dragged, gaze lifting to his face.

“It got covered.”

You blinked slowly, the pieces slowly coming together. “She was in on this, wasn’t she?”

Eren remained silent for a moment, pulling his pants up. Your gaze narrowed, reaching over to lightly slap his arm. “Eren!”

The man snorted, coming close and resting his hands onto your hips.

“You weren’t worried about it the moment you stepped in here. And you definitely won’t be when I get you home.. so come on.”

REBLOGS & COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED <3

[lustfulslxt]

hii can u do a smut femxmatt fic where they meet at a party and they like are kinda drunk and matt’s really flirty and touchy and they just end up fucking!! ty!!!

(kinda like ur party revelations one but maybe they’re both influencers or u could even do chris!)

Under The Influence - Chris Sturniolo

warnings : alcohol consumption, smut

a/n : i wrote this for chris bc as you said, i have party revelations for matt, and a friend of mine received a request just like this for matt. xx

—

Tie it up, put a chain on it

Make you tattoo my name on it

“Will you please come?” Sage begs, shaking my hand up and down, on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“You’re literally being ridiculous.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I don’t see what difference it would make if I were there or not.”

Sage has been asking me to go to this party with her for weeks now. However, my answer has been a constant no. I’m not a fan of parties, much less big influencer parties. Too much drama always stems from them; whether it’s so and so cheated, whoever’s beefing, they did this, they did that. They never fail to have some dumb shit pop off, hence why I’d just rather not go. I don’t need anyone attempting to ruin my reputation and career just for their own benefit, I’m good.

“Because you’re my best friend and I need you. You’re my hype man and wingman all in one. Please! Just this once! I’ll do anything!” She continues to plead.

I sigh, ultimately knowing I’ll cave, “This is the only party you’re going to convince me to go to. You know how I feel about being around a bunch of fake and dramatic fucks.”

She instantly starts jumping up and down, cheering whilst shaking my hands again. “We’re leaving in three hours, so make sure you’re ready. Also, we’re gonna uber so we can get fucked up.”

I just shake my head, not really looking forward to the night ahead of me. But maybe, just maybe, I can get drunk and enjoy myself. Dismissing my thoughts, I turn on some music and head to my bathroom to begin getting ready.

I take a long shower, thoroughly washing and exfoliating myself. I shave and do a hair and face mask, prepping myself for tonight. After getting out, I dry off and apply vanilla scented lotion to every part of my body.

Next, I slip on my undergarments and apply deodorant, then head to my closet to choose an outfit. It doesn’t take me long, before I choose a plain, black mini skirt and tube top with a long sleeve mesh dress paired over it that had gems scattered all over. I stick with a pair of black lace up pumps to go with my outfit. Sitting down at my vanity, I go through my makeup, debating on what kind of look I want. After pondering for a moment, I just choose a dark smokey eye with a basic beat. I line my lips with a medium dark brown and apply clear lip gloss, blending it all together flawlessly. For hair, I just stick with a basic blow out.

“Great! You’re ready!” Sage suddenly cheers from my bedroom door.

I look over and see that she’s fully dressed and ready to go, holding a bottle of vodka in her hand. Upon seeing that, my eyebrows raise.

“Why the face?” She asks, before registering it. “Oh, this! It’s for a little pregame. So, come on.”

I shrug and gather everything I need for tonight, placing it in my purse, then follow her downstairs. She already has two shot glasses set out on our dining room table, ready to be filled. Without another word, she fills both glasses to the rim with vodka, smirking at me as she raises her glass.

“Cheers to a great night!” She grins, clinking my glass with hers, both of us downing the harsh liquor.

My face contorts in disgust as the liquid flows down my throat, and I can’t help but cringe at the awful taste. Immediately, my chest is hot and I don’t want anymore. I’m not really a drinker, but I already know I can’t be sober in order to get through this night. We both take two more shots before our uber arrives and we’re heading to the party.

The driver talked our ears off the whole ride, so when we finally shut the doors of the black suv, we both sigh and fall into a fit of tipsy laughter. We’re not drunk, but neither are we completely sober.

Upon walking into the party, we’re met with a glowing red light, loud music, the smell of alcohol and weed, and a ginormous amount of people all chatting and dancing throughout the house.

“Y/N! Sage!” A voice calls out, directing our attention towards them.

It’s one of Sage’s friends, one I personally am not a fan of, but I know how to be nice. I shoot her tight lipped smile, leaving Sage to greet her.

“Hey! It’s been so long, how are you?” Sage asks, pulling her into a hug.

Before she can respond, I quickly interrupt, “Sorry, I’m gonna go get a drink.”

And with that, I’m making my way through the crowd of people, in search of the kitchen. It takes me about five minutes to get through everyone and I’m already slightly disgusted at the sweaty bodies and the lack of personal space. I’m not lying when I say parties aren’t my thing.

Finally being able to breathe in the less packed room, I deeply inhale and exhale, ridding myself of the building nerves. I walk over to the counter, grabbing a solo cup from the stack and browsing through the bottles of alcohol. I opt for an unopened bottle of vodka, not wanting to risk anything that may or may not have been tainted. I fill my cup up a little over half way, then turn towards the cooler to grab a chaser. More people have already piled into the kitchen, there now being less room to roam around. I reach into the cooler, grabbing the last can of pepsi, only for it to come up with another hand attached to it. My gaze trails up the veiny hand, following the arm it’s attached to, to observe who it is.

Bright blue eyes, pink lips, a sharp jawline, and wavy hair. A silver Vivienne Westwood chain hanging from his neck, sitting atop a white t-shirt that had a bear in a watering can, surrounded my grass and little flowers. Blue jeans and, last but not least, white air forces covering his feet.

He looks familiar. Hot, yet still familiar.

“Oh, hi.” He grins, snapping me from my thoughts.

That’s when I realize we’re both still holding the can, but I don’t let go.

“Hi.” I reply, my gaze set on his face.

“I think this is the last pepsi.” He points out.

I nod, raising my eyebrows at the obvious statement. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Pepsi’s my favorite.” He adds.

I can’t help the smirk that tugs on my lips, “Do you want a cookie?”

He shakes his head, chuckling, “I can’t have it?”

I only repeat his action and shake my head in return, pursing my lips to keep the smile from forming.

“Can we share it?” He asks, giving me puppy dog eyes.

And just like that, I’m folding. With a shrug, I pull the can from his grip. I open it up and dump some of its contents into my cup, then bring the can up to my lips, taking a drink all whilst holding eye contact. I notice him intently watching me, before grabbing the can and taking his own drink, licking his lips afterwards.

“You’re Y/N, right?” He questions.

I nod, biting my inner cheek, “And you are?”

“Chris.” He smirks, eyeing me and up and down. “Well, Y/N, we basically just kissed.”

I can’t help the loud laughter that falls from my lips, nothing less than amused at his statement. I can see the smirk on his face turn into a full blown smile as I try to catch my breath, recovering from the fit of giggles he put me in.

“That was corny.” I say, smiling at him with a shake of my head.

He tosses his hands up in defense, shrugging, “I mean, did we not?”

I don’t say anything, and bring my mixed drink up to my lips, downing all of it in one go. His eyes widen as he watches me. I don’t like alcohol, but I can manage. It doesn’t take long for it to take effect, on top of the shots I had earlier, I can already feel the warmth coating my insides. With a surge of boldness, I lean forward and place a small peck to the corner of his lips, swiftly pulling away and making my exit.

Just before I slip away, I turn back and flash him a smile, “See you around, Christopher.”

As the party goes on, I can tell the alcohol I’ve consumed has fully kicked in. The loud music is no longer bothersome, I don’t feel suffocated in the sea of people, and I feel good. It’s been around an hour since I’ve been here, and I’ve only ran back into Sage once. She’s off with her other friends, mingling around, and I’ve just been vibing.

I’ve seen Chris around, more times than I’ve seen anyone else. Unless I’m just fixated on him. It’s like every time I turn my head, my eyes are meeting his, and I never want to look away. Though, to save myself from embarrassment and humiliation, I force my gaze elsewhere.

After downing another shot, I make my way to the makeshift dance floor, and let loose. Under the Influence starts playing, and I can’t help but move my body to the beat, letting the rhythm flow through me. My hands make their way into my hair, my hips swaying in sync with the beat booming in my ears. Suddenly, I feel a warm presence directly behind me, causing me to spin around.

Hot and delicious.

Christopher.

“Hey, mama.” He slurs, a goofy grin showcasing across his lips.

He’s definitely invading my personal space, but I don’t even care. Especially when his enchanting scent is filling my nostrils, winding me in closer.

“Hello, Christopher.” I reply, my speech slightly incoherent.

“I knew you knew who I was.” He stammered, his body damn near pressed against mine.

“Mhm.” I hum in response, turning around and backing into him.

“You look good like this.” I hear his voice in my ear.

I grab his hands that were just barely grazing my waist, bringing them to fully grab my hips as I move into him. His large hands guiding me back and forth.

“You’re so pretty, it’s distracting.” He mumbles, his breath fanning my neck.

I can feel the goosebumps spreading, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

“You’re drunk.” I softly say.

He shakes his head, “I’m not drunk. I’m just intoxicated by you.”

Again, I’m bursting into a fit of giggles from something he’s said. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m drunk or if he just makes me nervous.

“You’ve been stuck in my head since I first saw you earlier.” He admits, stumbling over his words a bit.

I turn back around, looping my arms around his neck as we continue rocking to the music. His hands go up to my waist, pulling me into his chest.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask him.

He licks his lips and shakes his head, a slight chuckle escaping, “You don’t wanna know.”

Instantly, my eyebrow raises, “Try me.”

“I see you flipping your hair around and all I want is to wrap my hands in it while you’re taking my cock.” He states, his voice low and husky.

I immediately feel heat rush to my core, the sound of his voice and the words he’s saying, turning me on. I bring my bottom lip into my mouth, biting down on it to prevent the large smile that’s close to taking over my face.

“What if I was thinking the same thing?” I ask, the grin breaking through.

“Will you freak out if I kiss you?”

Looking up into his eyes, I subconsciously scoot closer to him as I shake my head. His eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips, then he slowly leans in. The second his mouth meets mine, my eyes flutter shut and I’m savoring the feeling of his soft lips on my own. One of his hands reaches around me and cups my ass while his other one is wrapped around my throat, pulling me impossibly closer. As our lips mold together, I find my hands in his hair, my arms holding him into me. The kiss is desperate yet soft, passionate yet hot. He pulls away, his face only centimeters in front of mine.

“Follow me.” He says, his breath slightly heavy as he intertwines our hands.

I do as he says, following closely behind him. We walk through the kitchen, dodging everyone in our way. We round the corner to a staircase leading downwards. He pulls me in front of him, ushering me to go down.

“After you.” He says, holding his arm out for me.

I shoot him a look, before grabbing his hand and walking down the stairs, him following in suit. We get to a door that he opens for me, nodding to enter. It’s a large bedroom, quite tidy in itself, and I can smell his scent wafting through the air. Only now did I realize this is his house. As he shuts the door, I walk around, taking everything in. My hands trail across the edge of his bed, feeling his comforter beneath my fingertips.

“Do you like my room?” He asks.

I turn around to face him and he has a soft, innocent look upon his features. However, I can already see right through him. I know what’s about to take place.

“I do.” I nod, “It’s very neat, and it smells good.”

“Thanks.” He grins, strolling over to me.

“Why didn’t you tell me this was your party?” I ask him, sitting on the end of his bed.

He shrugs, “Why did you pretend you didn’t know who I was?”

I toss my head back, soft giggles pouring out of my mouth. I look at him with a cheeky smile and low eyes, shrugging my shoulders. He just grins at me, before kicking his shoes off and nodding towards mine. “You can make yourself comfortable if you want.”

Within seconds, I’m unstrapping the uncomfortable heels and setting them aside. He lays back on his bed, his legs dangling off the side. He grabs my hand and gives it a soft tug, so I copy his actions, and lie back. We’re both facing one another, drunk and happy.

“How come I’ve never seen you at any parties?” He questions, his fingers playing with mine.

“I’m not really a party girl. Definitely not an influencer party girl.” I admit, warmth building in my stomach at his soft gesture.

“Well I’m glad you came to this one.” He says, staring into my eyes.

“Why’s that?” I smirk.

“Because who knows if I would’ve met you had you not.”

I can’t help the blush that pools to my cheeks at his response. He’s flattering and he knows it. I don’t say anything, I just take in his features for the millionth time tonight. His hair slightly out of place from my roaming hands, his face flushed from the heat upstairs, his eyes lidded from the alcohol in his system, his pretty pink lips looking oh so kissable. He looks so good. Without a word, he pulls me closer to him, my body flush against his.

“Is this okay?” He asks me, trying to read into my facial expression.

“It’s perfect.” I nod, enjoying the warmth he’s providing.

“You’re so pretty.” He whispers, his breath fanning my face due to our short proximity.

A smile sneaks onto my lips as I look down, attempting to hide the red color that’s now adorning my skin. His large hand grabs my chin and lifts my head so that he can see my face. Our eyes meeting in an intense gaze, holding it for what seems like forever. He only breaks the eye contact when he puts his lips on mine again. It’s only a soft, chaste kiss.

“So pretty.” He says again, his voice low as he continues to press gentle kisses onto my lips.

The delicate kisses turn into feverish ones, our tongues now gliding in and out of one another’s mouths, lapping each other perfectly. Our lips move together so well, like we cannot breathe without each other. My hands return to his hair, softly tugging it, eliciting low groans from him. One of his hands cups my cheek, the other one resting on my lower back, pulling me even more into him. He flips me over onto my back and hovers above me, staring into my eyes once more as a small smile takes over his face.

“God, I can’t get enough of you.” He groans, smashing his lips into mine again.

One of his hands rests on the bed by my head, the other one rubbing my outer thigh. Just his soft touches are enough to make my skin hot beneath his fingertips. My hands connect with the hem of his shirt, lifting it slightly and running my hands up his torso. He breaks from the kiss and removes his shirt, tossing it on the floor, then reconnecting our lips. He’s positioned between my legs, his groin inches above mine. My hands continue roaming along his torso, feeling his hot skin. I bring my legs up, hooking around his waist, pulling him down into me. His clothed erection presses into my heat, causing a low moan to leave my lips.

“Are we really doing this?” He pulls back and asks, his fingers playing with the hem of my dress.

“Yes, please.” I answer, my voice soft and breathy.

He grinds down into me, his hard on hitting exactly where I need him, causing another moan to leave my mouth.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to feel you.” He groans into my ear, leaving a wet kiss on it.

I shudder in pleasure as he continues down my neck, sucking and biting, marking me up. I reach down for his dick, palming it over his jeans. He lets out a low moan, bucking into my hand, before harshly grabbing both of my hands and pinning them above my head.

“You first.” He mutters, holding my wrists with one hand while his other one travels down my body.

His hand swiftly makes its way between my legs, my dress riding up as he kneads my thighs. Then, he’s rubbing my core through my underwear. Hums of pleasure come from me, and I can feel them growing wetter and wetter.

“Can I take your panties off?” He asks, his voice raspy as he looks into my eyes.

“Y-yes.” I answer, moaning louder as he presses harder into my heat.

“So good using your words, mama.” He groans, licking my neck.

He then pokes his fingers in the waistband of my panties and slowly pulls them down my legs, discarding them to the side. He spreads my legs again, my dress and skirt now sitting completely on my hips. He throws his head back at the sight of my pussy glistening with my arousal. Without another word, his face is hovering above my center, his warm breath hitting it. I can feel myself clench around nothing, desperate for any type of stimulation.

“Look at you. I haven’t even done anything and your pretty pussy’s begging for me.” He smirks, his fingers now prodding at my folds.

Now coated with my juices, he runs a finger over my clit, rubbing in soft circles. I’m physically writhing beneath him, so badly needing more. He then thrusts a finger into me, causing my body to jerk and my mouth emitting a loud gasp. He continues pumping it in and out of me, then adds another and doing the same with it. My hands squeeze the bed sheet beneath me, attempting to release the tension building. His fingers are moving so fast in and out of me, curling in the right places. My mouth falls open, my brows furrowing as pleasure overcomes me.

“You look so pretty coming undone like this.” He says, peppering kisses all over my thighs.

“Feels s-so good, daddy.” I moan out, clenching around his fingers, unaware of the name that slipped from my mouth.

His eyes are completely black as he stares up at me, watching me fall apart. His dick is rock hard, throbbing and impatiently waiting to be inside of me. Without a second thought, his lips are wrapped around my clit, sucking on it as his fingers fuck into me. That alone is enough to push me over the edge, my legs shaking as I let go, giving into the building pressure. I feel my cum ooze out of me, quickly being slurped up by Chris, tasting every drop of me as his fingers help me through my orgasm.

“Mmm, you taste so good, ma.” He says, licking my lips.

He pulls his fingers out of me, coming back up to hover over me, shoving them in my mouth. I moan around his fingers, sucking my own juices from them. He harshly grips my jaw, slamming his mouth onto mine, the taste of me lingering on our tongues.

Breathless, he pulls away and stands up, pulling me to the end of the bed by my ankles. His hand travels up my leg from my foot, tenderly squeezing along the way.

“Can you stand up?” He asks, softly rubbing my hip.

I nod and scoot to the edge, standing up on shaking legs and looking up at him. He cups my face, brushing my cheek with his thumb. He plants a sweet kiss on my lips.

“Take your clothes off.” He says, his tone firm.

I happily oblige, stripping from my clothes as he does the same. I watch as his dick springs from its restrictions, hard and throbbing. Just from the look of it, I know I’m in for a treat. He strokes himself as he looks over my body, licking his lips. He steps in front of me, his member poking into stomach. His hands run up and down my body, pressing kisses into my neck.

“On the bed, on your knees.” He demands.

I do as he says, and he follows behind me, holding me up with his hand on my throat. His lips meet my neck, sucking and biting all over it, causing soft whimpers to leave my mouth. He pushes me forward, laying me flat on my stomach. He leans over me, licking and nipping my back, leaving a warm trail of saliva. His hands part my thighs, squeezing himself in between them. I can feel him run his tip between my folds a few times, causing me to push back in anticipation. He pushes me back down, slowly sliding himself inside me.

“Ugh, fuck.” He moans, bottoming out.

“You’re so big, daddy. Feels so good.” I moan, feeling him slowly thrust in and out, filling me so nice.

His strokes start slow and hard, before the speed picks up. His hands are on my back, holding himself up as he fucks into me at a delicious rate. I can’t help the moans that continuously fall from my mouth, feeling nothing but never ending pleasure.

“You feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock, mama.” He groans out, fucking into me deeper and deeper.

It doesn’t take long for me to feel the buildup in my stomach once again. His hand wraps around my hair, tugging back as he leans over me once more. His mouth comes to my neck again, leaving wet kisses. I can hear his heavy breathing and low moans in my ear, and they’re driving me insane.

“Feels like you were made just for me.” He whispers. “I knew you would feel good, but this is better than I imagined.”

“All yours.” I babble, ridden with pleasure.

“You’re so tight, I can’t take it.” He moans, his voice holding a rasp to it.

I clench around him, feeling seconds from giving into my orgasm. A string of moans and curses fall from my lips, pure bliss coursing through me.

“You’re about to cum, I can tell.” He says, “Let it go, baby. Cum for me.”

And just like that, I’m releasing all over his cock with the loudest moans. His thrusts start to grow erratic, indicating he’s close to finishing as well.

“Such a good girl. Taking my cock so well, mama.” He moans out, thrusting harder.

Within a few more strokes, his dick twitches and his hot load is spurting into me, lewd groans emitting from his mouth. He pumps a few more times, riding out his orgasm, before slowly pulling out and watching his cum drip out of me. He collapses next to me, breathing heavily, looking me in my eyes with a goofy grin. His face is flushed red and his hair is sweaty, sticking to his forehead.

“That was amazing.” He breathes.

Unable to form words, I nod in agreement. His hand interlocks with mine, gently squeezing as his other hand brushes my hair out of my face.

“God, you’re so pretty, Y/N.”

I bashfully smile, “Thank you.”

“Will you stay with me tonight?” He asks, his eyes shining with hope. “We can shower and you can wear some of my clothes.”

I ponder for a second before shrugging with a nod, “That sounds perfect. I’ll just have to let Sage know.”

He smiles, brightly, pecking my shoulder over and over as he pulls me into him.

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

—

a/n : this took me entirely too long to finish, so sorry ab that!! also not proofread, as per usual. hope you enjoyed this!! continue sending in reqs and i promise i’ll get to them eventually <3

[kidasthings]

Echoes of Eden by Kida

Noa x Mae - #thatcampfireisnttheonlyslowburn

Chapter 2: https://www.tumblr.com/kidasthings/750737651564478464/echoes-of-eden-by-kida

Next Chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/kidasthings/751482584388829184/echoes-of-eden-by-kida?source=share

Chapter 3

They didn’t make it back to the village that night.

The small group of apes and the single human amongst them decided to set up camp before proceeding further into the midnight woods. The apes were tired; they had traveled many hours by foot, had a rather tense, life-threatening confrontation, and found the return trip too arduous to complete overnight.

The navy sky was littered with a splatter of stars, each winking in and out like fireflies. The group stopped at a tree-lined grove, the symphony of crickets and frogs serenading the night world. A breeze stirred the fingers of the trees overhead and leaves whispered secrets.

Noa gave the signal to stop, a welcome relief to Anaya. The poor ape was still shaken from the encounter with the Fort Wayne five and wanted time to recuperate. Soona gave a long, contemplative stare at Noa before her dark eyes darted to Mae with an equally dark look. Mae had trailed behind, following the simians like a sad shadow. The whole affair gave her a flashback to the time she spent on the heels of Raka and Noa before they had ascertained her intelligence to be that of more than a mere animal.

And now the creatures she considered beasts once-upon-a-time began to nest, gathering sticks and branches from the forest floor to create a few widely-spaced fires. Mae found Noa offset from the others, throwing dry tinder into a cluster as if he were waiting for her.

For a moment, she was brought back to the far-flung moment when he first gave her the blue blanket as she hovered, freezing, as close as she dared to a fire attended by a strange orangutan and distrustful chimp.

Raka.

She allowed herself to feel a bright burst of pain, sharp as a supernova, and then suppressed it. It was her fault he was swept away, after all.

He wouldn’t be gone if Sylva hadn’t been searching for her.

He wouldn’t be gone if she had found them another route besides that old bridge.

And he most certainly wouldn’t be gone if he hadn’t tried to save her life.

Yes, Raka’s death was on her. Two years ago, she would have said good riddance. One less ape on this planet was one more chance at humanity regaining a foothold within it.

And now? She felt nothing but regret she would never, ever admit to. Her fingers drifted upwards, their calloused tips running over the embossed pendant still hanging over her neck.

Noa looked up then, his gaze catching on the placement of her fingers over the necklace against her heart.

“Cold?” he inquired gruffly.

Fighting back another memory, Mae just nodded silently. She crept closer to the campfire, just as Noa ignited it in a burst of hungry flame.

“Why are you … traveling back with us?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he were only discussing the weather with an acquaintaince. There was a stick in one of his long-fingered hands, and he used it to stoke the fire and send up a spray of sparks.

“We need to talk,” she told him, settling down in a cross-legged position nearby. Noa leaned against a tree, not too far away, but Mae still felt there were miles between them.

Probably for the best.

“About?”

Staring stonily at the flickering light before her, Mae swallowed thickly. “I’d like you to let me look through their supplies.” Her eyes slid sideways in their sockets, assessing his reaction carefully.

Noa stilled. A few seconds skated by, and then he snapped the stick he was using as a poker in two and threw both halves into the fire. “I can’t do that.”

“It doesn’t belong to you.”

It didn’t belong to the apes. The same old, tired argument between them.

“Will you ever trust anyone?” Noa asked suddenly, sharply. His stare could cut glass.

Mae jerked her head up, jaw tense at the reprimand. She gritted her teeth, then jerked her head sideways and shuttered her eyes. “It’s not that kind of world that we live in.”

“It could be.” His voice is horrifyingly gentle.

Mae returned her attention to him again, the bright highlights in her wide, blue eyes jittering. The reflection of the fire danced on her face, creating an intense interplay of light and shadow.

“Raka…”

“Raka is dead,” she drilled back, cutting Noa off.

He nodded quietly, agreeing on that number. His light eyes were distant, a glazed look on his furred face. She hated seeing it that way.

“Please, let me look through the things you confiscated from them.”

“Why, Mae?” Noa’s features were calm, serene even, but his voice contained a dangerous edge. She caught a rustle of fur and realized he had stood up. He prowled closer, leaving her to crane her head back as he loomed over her. “What is so … important to you, to them?” His voice had something like heat in it, a nearly seductive slant she had never heard from him before.

She was imagining things. Certainly he wouldn’t…

The brunette found she couldn’t trust her own body’s responses. Her heart sped up, pounding in her ears, and she broke out in goosebumps as he stooped before her and crossed his arms so that his palms rested off his knees. He was so close she could probably breathe him in if she wanted to.

The two watched each other, spellbound, and then the dark downward slash of his mouth kicked up a little. “Well?”

“I think..” she began, completely at a loss of what to think. She could see the erratic pattern at the center of his iris this close, the burst of amber that bled into green. His eyes were really beautiful; the thought shattered her focus entirely.

Sputtering nonsensical noise, she scuttled backward on unsteady hands. “It’s nothing to you, trust me. It’s important to us.”

You. Us.

Other.

Noa grimaced. “Always back to that,” he sighed wistfully, turning his head back to regard the fire in moody contemplation. He seemed to mull over his next words, and then he spoke up when he was ready. “I will … make a deal with you.”

Mae forgot her unease for a moment and leaned closer, the damp soil shifting beneath her. “Yes?”

“You can look through … their things…”

Mae visibly brightened, an eager look painting her features.

“But…”

The hopeful expression vanished. “But what?”

“You cannot take anything. You will be … watched.” With a soft grunt, Noa moved back to his prior spot next to the fire.

Mae struggled to speak, and it took her three tries before she could formulate something coherent. “That won’t work. I need it!”

“Explain,” Noa retorted, exhaustion creeping into his rough tone. He seemed weary of the same, circular arguments.

“It’s...” Mae gave into an attempt to make him understand in a context he could comprehend. Noa was intelligent, yes, but he hadn’t been exposed to human technology, much less trained on it, like she had been. “We were expecting them.”

“We?”

“There are others like me. Sort of.” Mae made a frustrated motion with her hands, wringing them before her. “We made contact with that group and they travelled here to find us. They have something that will help us.”

Noa shot her a startled look over the tops of the licking flames. “How will it … help you?”

This is where Mae grew mute. She could not possibly verbalize the very thing that would not be beneficial to Noa. Instead, she took up a cross-legged position again and basked in the bobbing heat of the fire. “We used to be intelligent. We could speak. All of us.”

Noa blinked. “We came across books … in the vault,” he began slowly, like she might spook. “There were symbols in them. Ape..” He touched his chest, then pointed to her with two fingers and an extended arm. “Echo.”

Mae nodded encouragingly.

“The apes were trapped. Echoes watched the trapped … apes.” A gusty sigh followed and he shook his head, trying to dismiss the recollection of that time in that damnable metal hell hole. “No paradise … for apes.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Mae agreed, brooking no argument.

Noa scowled into the fire, and then shifted closer to Mae. “Echoes kept apes in pens.”

“You were like the humans are now, back then,” the woman provided carefully. “Something terrible happened and we became like animals. We deserve to reclaim our technology, our things, our lives..”

Our place.

“Will the things those humans came with … help you do that?” Noa queried, ever observant. “Will you find an … answer in their supplies?”

“A solution to help us, yes.” Mae grew quiet. It was no solution that would benefit Noa, but he did not need to know that just yet.

“How should I trust you and yours … not to harm us?” Now that the tables were turned, Mae found she had no answer. She watched him gloomily, her eyes narrowed. He came closer again, the long digits of his hand reaching for the pendant around her neck. “Caesar would want peace, so Raka would say.” Noa’s eyes burned holes into the diamond-star symbol of the pendant as he turned it thoughtfully with his hand.

Unbidden, Mae’s hand reached up and encircled his across the back of his hairy knuckles. They remained like that, her cross-legged before the fire with Noa leaning all of his weight on the closed fist of one arm while the other held Caesar’s medallion.

Her touch burned.

Their eyes met over the length of the chain, and once again neither could look away.

“Promise me,” he entreated huskily, his eyes darting desperately over her too-human face. “Promise me you will … look, not take.”

Mae wasn’t even sure what they were talking about anymore. She found herself giving in all-too-easily.

“I promise only to look,” she affirmed, lips half-parted in wonder. Breathing became a difficult thing.

Noa nodded slowly, an incline of his head. He seemed mollified, if partially, and leaned closer still as Mae trembled. He was so close, he could --

“Noa?” a female voice cut the moment like a sharp knife, cleaving it in two.

Two pairs of heads swept sideways to take in the unexpected speaker. Mae broke away first, pushing herself backward while a bright red bloom stained her cheeks.

Noa was less reactive. He gave the human woman a long, telling look before dropping into a crouch and turning to Soona. “Yes?”

“Would you like to join us … at our fire?” the female ape asked. “Anaya has finally fallen asleep.” Notably, her invitation only seemed to be extended to Noa. She did not look once in Mae’s direction.

Noa seemed to turn it over in his mind, examining all angles. Mae dropped her gaze and concentrated on the fire instead, shifting her expression into careful lines.

“No, not now,” she heard Noa tell Soona with no small measure of finality.

There was a poignant quiet, and then Soona must have acknowledged him through sign or a nod; Mae heard the female ape move off, the dead leaves crackling beneath her feet before fading away entirely.

“Mae,” Noa said simply.

She glanced up at the sound of her name.

“We have a deal.”

Mae pursed her lips, watching Noa's inscrutable face for a small eternity before she gave a lift of her chin.

Raka might be gone, but perhaps his influence wasn’t.

[crackedpumpkin]

|| ʙʟᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴠᴀꜱ || ᴘᴛ. ᴛᴡᴏ ||

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ] | [ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

The sun is annoying, and the world can survive without vegetables.

This is the conclusion you’ve drawn after waking up to warm, yellow rays that shine directly onto your closed eyes. You blink groggily, rubbing your tired eyes with a free hand while the other brushes your teeth. 

“Honey, you’re gonna be late!” 

You mumble out an incoherent reply to your mom from the bathroom, quickly tossing on a thin cardigan after rinsing your mouth to rid the intense menthol sting that lingers on your lips. Entering the kitchen once done, however, provides you with a delicious reminder of how amazing of a cook your mom is. 

You grab a fork, devouring the scrambled eggs on toast. Sriracha stains the plate as a result of your messy eating habits, placing the now-empty plate in the basin with a satisfied hum. “Thanks, Mama!” You grab your school bag and rush to the door. You pause at the small alcove before the door, stepping down and slipping on your shoes. 

“Bye, Mama! See you later!” You call out before shutting the door behind you. The walk to school is as usual, with loud car horns being beeped as people rush to work while you stroll past graffiti-filled walls on the side of buildings. The street outside your school is already crowded with various cliques chatting away, and you enthusiastically greet some of them with nods and half-smiles as you enter through the main gate.

You polish off your taco, throwing away your napkin after using it to wipe your lips of any grease stuck on them. You look up at the sound of your name being called, grinning once you see a short brunette walking down the hallway. “Morning,” You greet Nicole cheerfully, opening your locker and pulling out the textbooks and notebooks you need for the day.

“What’s with you today?” 

You hum at her question, glancing at her with a quick shrug as she scrolls through Instagram. Nicole’s the first friend you made here in Brooklyn High School after transferring here four months ago. She had been the first to approach you, asking to borrow a pencil after she forgot to bring hers to class. 

Like any other teenager being forced to move cities to somewhere completely new, you stick to her like glue after that, eventually infiltrating your way into her friend group. 

“You know me, studious and independent’s the vibe I got goin’ on,” You grin at Nicole, draping an arm around her shoulder and giving her an affectionate squeeze. She looks up from her phone with a frown, using her finger to push up her glasses which had slid down slightly from their usual perch on her nose.

“Don’t be so uptight,” You chuckle, nudging her side. She sighs, rolling her eyes in amusement instead. You’re interrupted from your conversation on where to hang out this weekend at your name being yelled out from a distance away. 

“Eyyyy, que pasa!” You laugh at Michael’s greeting as he comes up to you with an outstretched fist, bumping it gently after removing your arm from where it was resting around Nicole’s shoulders. “Have you studied for the quiz today?” He asks, slinging a casual arm around your shoulders while you walk down the hall with Nicole beside you. 

You hum with a quick shrug. “Think so?”

“Man, you gotta get your head down from the clouds, bro.” He chuckles, trying to move sneakily to stand beside Nicole, who simply holds up her hand, stopping him from coming any closer with a glare. He retracts the arm he’s about to sling around her shoulders with a sheepish grin, holding it up in surrender.

“Anyway,” He brushes off her clear rejection, focusing back on you, “I’m planning a hangout with a few friends to celebrate the end of exam season. You in?” You immediately nod with a wide grin, already excited at the thought of goofing around with your friends. 

“Of course, you’re invited too. Maybe we can have our own little hangout-” 

“I’d rather stab my right arm.” Nicole cuts him off with an angelic smile, though her venom-filled words elicit an amused laugh from Michael. “Ah, how I love that icy nature of yours,” He sighs with a shake of his head.

“Who’s coming?’ You ask absentmindedly, adjusting the two notebooks in your arms. 

“Jeremy, Ally, Geoff, Tiff, Miles…”

“Miles? As in, Miles Morales?” Nicole finally speaks, eyes wide in surprise.

“Who’s that?” You don’t recognise the name. The rest you’re familiar with, though. They’re all in Brooklyn High, just in different classes. You’d seen them in passing around the school, and they recognised you in turn as one of Michael’s friends. 

“Right, you don’t know him. He transferred a while before you joined. He’s in Brooklyn Visions now. Here,” Nicole holds up her phone to your face, and you squint at the picture on her screen. Huh. He’s kinda cute, you suppose.

“Cool. Guess we’ll meet during the hangout then.” You sit down at your desk, Michael sitting at the desk beside you while she takes her seat in front of you.

“Wait, how do you know Miles?” Nicole rolls her eyes as she turns around in her chair, placing her elbow on your desk as she leans on her palm. 

“He helped me out a couple of times.” She answers simply. Michael frowns slightly. “Were you two….?”

“Why? Are you going to be devastated if I say yes?” Nicole smirks. “Unfortunately, it’s actually because our moms knew each other.” She sighs, holding up her free hand to observe her nails.

Before Michael can respond, the bell rings to signal the start of classes. They pass by in a flash, and all too soon, you’re outside the door to the art classroom. You’re hesitant to enter, eyeing the doorknob as if it’d burn you as soon as you touch it. 

“Well? Will you stay outside collecting dust, or will you enter?” You flinch at the sudden voice, looking up to see Miss Dawson looking at you with an expectant gaze. Her arms are crossed, waiting for you to go inside. 

“Y-yeah, I was just about to, but then I realised I forgot my…. brushes?” 

“You stored them in my desk drawer last week because they were too heavy to carry home with you.” 

Damn it. You purse your lips, huffing at your forgetfulness. “Fine,” You mutter, grabbing the doorknob and turning it, walking to your usual corner of the room. You pull out your sketchbook and pencil case, leaning back in your chair and waiting for Miss Dawson to start her lesson.

“Today, I’ll be assigning you a task for your end-of-year exams. I know some of you are interested in building up your portfolio to apply for the Brooklyn Academy of Fine Arts or maybe even to other schools in different states.” You perk up slightly at the mention of art school, placing your hands on your sketchbook. Miss Dawson speaks slowly yet surely, looking at each student with pure conviction. When her gaze lands on you, you’re a hundred percent sure she can see every thought that crosses your mind, each doubt that lingers in your heart. 

“Your topic is, Your Favourite Scenery.”

Murmurs spread through the class, everyone looking at each other with worry. You bite your bottom lip, chewing on it in thought as you furrow your brows. Sure, the topic might seem simple enough on the surface, but the fact that it’s so broad is exactly what unnerves you.

Having a chosen topic is good as a guideline, even more so when you know precisely what your favourite scenery is. With the addition of inspiration and motivation, it’d be a breeze to complete.

The problem is, you have none of the above.

You’re not sure what scenery you enjoy, much less have a favourite. Sure, sunsets are pretty, and skyscrapers are cool, but not much really struck you as deeply. You’re made aware of Miss Dawson gesturing for you to come over to her desk, hesitantly standing up and walking there while everyone else is discussing among themselves about the topic given.

You part your lips to greet her, only to be cut off when she holds out her hand expectantly. You huff, handing her your sketchbook. She flips through the pages, frowning slightly when she sees the random doodles and mindless sketches until she stops on a specific one.

She hums, taking in whatever’s on the page. You can’t remember what you’ve drawn, but you’re more than reluctant to admit how much of a slump you’ve been in lately. It’s not like you can come into class, declaring your lack of talent whilst waving your hands in the air.

You focus on Miss Dawson's makeshift jar of pencils on her desk, recalling someone else gifting it to her for Teacher’s Day. The blunt nibs are a testament to how much she uses them, a bedazzled one drawing your attention. You pick it up, observing the tiny sequins firmly glued to the wood with a fascinated gaze. 

You flinch when Miss Dawson suddenly clears her throat, automatically moving your hands behind your back and focusing your attention back on her. “So, I assume you had an encounter with our city’s local hero?”

“How’d you know?” You ask, eyes wide in surprise. 

She simply turns the sketchbook around to face you, the sketch you’d made last night of Spiderman clear as day. Your cheeks warm, the drawing having slipped your mind. “Looking through your sketchbook, it’s obvious that you’ve been in a slump, honey. But this sketch…This is really good, maybe even one of the better ones you’ve done.”

“Thank you?” You’re not sure if she just complimented or insulted you. 

“Seeing him must have helped your inspiration somewhat, didn’t it?”

“I guess so. I dunno, it’s not like a switch I can turn on and off anytime I want.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn how to keep it on. And for this assignment in particular, I want you to focus not just on your favourite scenery. I want you to focus on what exactly makes it your favourite.” Miss Dawson hands the sketchbook back to you with a knowing smile, and you take it from her unsurely.

“Right…” You return to your desk with one dismissive wave from her hand, sitting back down with a defeated groan. You prop your chin onto your hand, staring at the sketch blankly.

An art slump is the worst. Besides, it’s just a drawing of Spiderman; although it is admittedly some of your best work, it’s not like you can just channel that again at the snap of your fingers.

You need inspiration. You need motivation. You need….a muse, which can only mean one thing.

You’re gonna attempt to find Spiderman.

Attempt #1: Have a friendly run-in!

“This is such a bad idea; why am I even trying to find a superhero? I’m literally just going to ask him to be my muse and he’s gonna say no, which is gonna be so embarrassing and I’ll never be able to show my face around here again and what if next time I’m being robbed he turns away because it’s me??”

“Okay, calm down. He’s not going to turn away because he rejected you, or he wouldn’t be a superhero. Also, you’re literally being paranoid because I’m not there with you.” 

You frown, pulling your phone away from your ear to check if it really is Nicole you’re calling. “That’s not true.”

“I know when you’re lying.”

“Okay, maybe I’m being slightly paranoid, but for good reason! Why can’t you just come with me? You’re good at getting people to do what you want.” 

Nicole’s soft chuckle somewhat relieves you, knowing she took it as a compliment. “I’d come over, but I have to help plan the outing with the group, remember? And I’m not the one with a ride to an Art Academy on the line - you are.”

“Wait, outing?”

“Yeah, remember this morning? You’ll meet Miles then; I think you’d get along. Anyway, you’ll do fine. Michael told me Spidey swings by the hotdog cart every Tuesday, so I guess it’s reliable information.” Nicole reassures you, though her last few emotions are filled with a tinge of doubt. She pulls the phone away to mumble something to someone, and you’re sure it’s an insult based on the irritated bite in her voice when she returns to the phone.

“Fine, I’ll see you tomorrow then…” You say reluctantly, unwilling to hang up the phone.

“Yeah, bye.”

The monotonous dial tone greets your ears after Nicole’s curt goodbye. You shut off your phone, flipping your sketchbook to an empty page with a sigh. You rifle through your pencil case, picking up the sequined pencil you’d accidentally taken from Miss Dawson and tapping it against the blank paper.

Draw your favourite scenery.

You look around, taking in the vibrant green trees and serene lake, the joyful laughter of children and parents filling the air. It’s peaceful. Dogs wander around, some leashed and some set loose. One approaches you, but you wave it away, flinching when it gets too close for comfort. It’s no longer peaceful.

“You can go away now…” You mumble, poking its side to hopefully urge it to move away from you. Your legs automatically move up to the bench, drawing your knees close to your chest. “Shoo, bad dog! Where’s your owner?” You glance up to check if their owner is nearby, only for your bedazzled pencil to be snatched out of your hands.

“Hey!” You exclaim angrily, reaching out to grab it from the dog’s mouth. You hesitate when you see the dog drool dripping onto the end of the pencil, eyeing it with a shudder. You take a moment to steel yourself, grabbing the slimy end with as much force as possible, trying to yank it free from its mouth. 

“Let go of my stuff! That’s not yours! I have to return it to Miss Dawson, you stupid dog!” Your grip slips, and you land on the ground with a yelp, wincing when your knee gets scraped by the coarse dirt through your ripped jeans. 

“Give it back!” You demand, lurching yourself forward and grabbing the pencil again. However, the dog growls playfully, thinking of it as nothing more than a game for entertainment. “This is why,” You grunt between shallow breaths, “I prefer cats!”

Your sketchbook had fallen beside you, the beautiful cover now stained with dirt. You narrow your eyes into a glare, scowling at the dog. “Let go!” 

It finally does, maybe because it sensed that you wouldn’t be playing with it. You fall back once more, your back hitting the ground harshly. The breath is instantly knocked out of your chest, and you inhale deeply, trying to force more air back into your lungs with a choked gasp. 

You sit back up, holding the pencil up victoriously until you remember that there’s dog drool all over your hand. You groan in disgust, searching for a tissue to wipe it off. Wait. Your sketchbook is missing. 

You look around frantically, only to see the exact same dog from earlier now burying a half-open sketchbook into the dirt. Your sketchbook. A strangled yell rips itself from your throat, practically throwing yourself at it with a glare that could rival even Karen herself. You push the dog away, scrabbling at the dirt to uncover your almost completely buried sketchbook. 

“Bye, Spiderman!” Your head instantly turns at the sentence, spotting the familiar black silhouette nodding his thanks to the hotdog cart owner, his hotdog securely held in his hand. He flicks his free hand and shoots a web onto the side of a building, beginning to leave.

“Wait! I have a ques-” 

He swings off into the distance, already blocks away in the span of a few seconds without hearing your cry. Your arm falls to your side, collapsing back onto the ground to catch your breath while your sketchbook lies buried in the dirt. 

Damn it.

Attempt #2: Get Mugged!

“God, I hope this works,” You mumble. The streets around you are dimly lit, and you’re armed with nothing more than your bulky pencil case and a whistle, both stored in the deep pockets of your hoodie. The handbag containing your wallet and phone bumps against your waist, the strap loosely slung across your shoulder.

You’re the perfect walking target to be mugged.

Granted, this is probably one of the worst ideas you’ve had in the history of bad ideas. The chilly Brooklyn night breeze tickles your ears with an icy breath, and your body gives an involuntary shiver. You scan the empty streets hopefully. When was Spiderman – or better yet, a robber, going to show up?

Whether it was desperation or pure adrenaline driving you forward at this point, you couldn’t tell.

But you’re here, and you’re determined to see things through.

Minutes pass of you wandering the dark streets like a fool, and you’re just about to head back home when you sense that something’s off. Your steps slow, and you hear someone else’s shoes scuffle a short distance behind you. 

You start to speed up, fingers gripping the heavy pencil case in your pocket. You’d been hit by it before by accident and did not get away unscathed by any means. Your heartbeat quicks its pace in your chest, sensing them get closer with each step. 

There he is.

You finally spot Spiderman chilling on the roof of a nearby apartment building, breaking into a run. The mugger behind you grunts in surprise, and you hear him start to run as well. Your breaths are short and ragged, and you finally reach just below the building. 

“Stop right there, missy!” Looking up from where you’ve bent over to catch your breath, you see the sharp knife blade held up at you. The robber is slouching, just as out of breath as you are. However, he straightens his back and flashes you a yellow-toothed smirk from under his cap, and you shudder at the bits of dirt clearly seen in his beard. 

You hold your arms up in surrender, risking a quick glance up, only for Spiderman to jump down and land smoothly right in front of you. “Hey man, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play around with sharp objects?” He tuts, shaking his head as he uses his web shooter to tug the knife away from the robber.

The knife lands in his hands with ease, the robber immediately turning to flee. “I don’t like doing this bit, but you leave me no choice!” Spiderman does a quick frontflip and lands before the robber, grabbing his shoulder and tilting his head. “You should’ve known better,” You hear him scold, and spot a light blue electric current flowing from his fingers to the robber, knocking him unconscious. 

Spiderman lets go, taking a surprised step back as the robber falls to the floor, unconscious. He winces, dusting off his hands and walking toward you. “You shouldn’t come out here during the night,” He chides playfully, grabbing the knife that had fallen to the floor when he caught the mugger. “You’d be in a lot of trouble if I wasn’t here.”

“Yeah, thank you. Actually, I wanted to ask-”

“Whoop.” He cuts you off, glancing at his watch, “I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls! You’re gonna want to take a right down here, another left, and then one more right and you’ll be at the main street. Stay safe!” He gestures down to a more brightly lit street, patting your back before shooting his web shooter at a nearby building.

“Wait- Ugh,” You groan in defeat, watching him swing off again without hearing your question. Your arm is outstretched, fingers barely brushing against his arm before he leaves. 

DAMN IT.

Attempt #3: If he doesn’t stop and listen to the goddamn question, you’re going to lose it.

“Calm down, pinto.”

“I spilt pinto beans on myself, one time, people. One. Time.” You frown, crossing your arms. Nicole smirks, shrugging nonchalantly in response. 

“Yeah, yeah. Michael told me that he saw your Spidey boy swing around the taco truck down the street a couple times every Thursday, so we should keep a lookout. Don’t want your sketchbook taken away from you again, do we?” 

“How does Michael even know all this?” You mumble. 

“Look, we don’t ask him questions, and he doesn’t ask us any. It’s a two-way street, pinto. Use those brains of yours.” You shove Nicole lightly with a roll of your eyes. Falling back, she leans against a wall, immediately pulling out her phone and scrolling through it. 

God, she has a serious internet addiction. You choose to scan the crowd instead, your gaze sweeping over the kids from the Brooklyn Visions Academy filling the street, having just gotten out of their clubs. You look somewhat out of place with your own uniform, shuffling your feet slightly when they glance over with confused gazes. 

You raise your brows in response to a few of them, and they leave with a haughty scoff. You roll your eyes. Stuck up snobs, the lot of them. Hopefully, the information Michael provided is accurate, though you’re sure you’ll never know where he gets it from. 

“Hey, is the bowling alley chill with you for the hangout? Miles sucks at bowling, so we can team up to obliterate the boys.” 

“Sure,” You reply absentmindedly, only to pause and turn to face her. “Is he not free to meet up before, though? I’d like to get to know him first, so it won’t be as awkward.” 

“Nah,” Nicole frowns at her screen, “He’s busy on all the days I suggested. Something about homework and stuff. Maybe he’s turned into one of the snobs.” She puts her phone away with a snort. “Also, there’s your Spidey-guy.”

“What?” True enough, he’s at the taco truck right now, ordering a taco and waiting patiently. Spiderman has to have lunch breaks too, you suppose. You watch him tap his fingers against the metal table, bobbing his head along to a beat playing in his mind.

You grit your teeth, grab your bag and keep your now clean sketchbook, having wiped off all the dirt with a cloth and the best surface cleaner you own back home. Your eyes shine with a determined glint, practically marching through the crowd to him.

“Hey!” You stumble back, looking down at the bright yellow mustard on your pristine white shirt. “Are you kidding me?” You growl in frustration, looking up to see a girl dressed in the Brooklyn Visions uniform holding up her ruined basket of fries, the small toppled tub now on its side and most of the sauce on you.

“Watch where you’re going!” She huffs, looking at you with pure disdain. 

“Watch where I’m going? Watch where you’re going!” 

Oh God, please let him still be there-

Spiderman is holding his taco now, trying to slip away through the crowd. Your eyes narrow into a glare, pushing past the girl with a muttered apology, running as fast as possible to catch up to the superhero.

You spot him jogging into an alleyway, following suit. You stop, however, when you see that it’s empty. “What?” You mumble, looking around frantically for him. You hear a loud coo, looking up to see the very hero you’re looking for crawling along the wall of the Academy dorms. 

“Wha-?” Now you’re baffled. You watch him reach a specific window, using an arm to open it and enter before sliding it shut behind him. Three floors up and the last one down the hall. Got it. You run to the entrance, only to be stopped by a security guard.

“Woah, woah, woah. Only students of Brooklyn Visions Academy are allowed inside.” He chuckles, holding a hand in front of you to stop you from entering. 

“No, you don’t understand! I need to talk to someone inside.” You try to plead, but he merely raises his brows. 

“Okay, what’s their name?”

“W-well. You see, here’s the thing.” You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. 

“Mmhm. Come back when you have their name, and I’ll call them down for you, okay?” He dismisses you, using his hands to turn your shoulders around. He pats your back slightly, sending you on your way.

You frown, brows furrowing in thought for a way to get in. Maybe Nicole would have an idea. She’s eerily good at stuff like this. Your feet pound against the pavement in a steady rhythm as you run back to where you had left her waiting.

“Nic!” You call out, panting heavily once you reach the girl who’s still in the same position as when you left. “I need help; I gotta sneak into the dorms of the snob school.” You say through your gulps for air, your lungs screaming for more oxygen.

“You need to sneak in?” She asks, looking up from her phone with raised brows.

“Yeah. I can’t explain right now, but I really need your help.” You confirm breathlessly.

She mulls over your plea for a moment before shrugging, moving away from the wall and pocketing her phone. She stretches her arm above her head momentarily. “Stay here.” She orders before stepping out of the alleyway and out of your sight. 

You wait, albeit impatiently, tapping your foot as urgency consumes you. Nicole soon returns with the Academy’s blazer in her hands, tossing it at you with a grin. “Got it for free; you can keep it. I gotta go for a study session. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Yeah, thanks, Nic.” She never fails to impress you every time. You thank her quickly before returning to the dorm entrance, wearing the blazer on the way. You halt once you reach it, keeping your head down and fastening the buttons securely, hiding the bright yellow stain on your shirt. 

God, it’s probably going to get onto the blazer too, you wince. Spotting a group of girls walking into the entrance, you jog over and stick close to them, walking past the security guard from earlier. 

Once you’re inside, your tense shoulders sag with relief, a massive weight being lifted off your chest. The atrium is pretty cool, but you don’t have time to admire any architecture right now. You glance at the two winding staircases, signs directing the students to the boys' or girls' side.

You recall the window being on the right side of the building, walking up the respective staircase. Luckily, not many students are around. Most of them have gone out. 

Third floor, last room down the hall.

You take the lift up, exchanging an awkward smile with another girl who’s clearly sneaking in as well. She gets off at the second floor, and you spam the button to close the lift doors. As soon as they close, you practically collapse against the wall with a long, drawn-out sigh of relief.

The lift doors open to the third floor. You peek your head out, looking around. Good, there’s no one.

Stepping out of the lift, you pause. Do you go right, left, or straight? From what you recall of the exterior structure, you’re pretty sure it’s the hall on your left. Steeling your resolve, you walk down the carpeted floor, your footsteps muffled. 

There it is, the room at the end of the hallway. You raise your hand, knocking on the hard wood once, twice, three times.

Silence is all that greets you.

“Is anyone there?” You call out softly. When no one responds, you grip the doorknob just to check. To your surprise, however, the door swings open with a single push, revealing the room inside. 

It wasn’t locked.

“Pardon my intrusion….” 

You step over a pile of clothes on the floor, your nose scrunching at the smell. Deodorant and musk fill the air. A picture frame sits on a desk to your left, with a photo of a short boy.

That can’t be him; his stature is too different.

Another picture sits on a small nightstand, and you pick it up to see a familiar face. The boy in the picture with his family is tall, with chocolate brown eyes and raven-black hair. You frown, tilting your head. Where had you seen him before…?

A soft thud draws your attention. Something had fallen to the floor from where it was squashed between the bedframe of the bunk bed and another piece of furniture. You bend down, picking it up. 

Spiderman’s mask hangs loosely in your grasp.

You look multiple times from the mask and the poorly-hidden suit to the picture, finally connecting the dots. You pull out your phone, hurriedly texting the one person who could confirm your surefire theory.

yo, Nic. send me the picture of the guy - Miles, i think? - Read, 2pm

Sure ig. dont go stalking him tho - Nicole, 2pm.

The strong vibration of your phone alerts you to a new text. You look down, thankful for Nicole’s fast reply. Opening the text, an image of the ever-so-elusive Miles Morales fills your screen. 

Oh my god.

Your eyes widen, your suspicions confirmed.

It can't be.

But it's the only explanation that makes sense. 

Miles Morales is Spiderman. Spiderman is Miles Morales.

You hide the mask back where it's dropped out of its hiding place, swallowing thickly when you hear the lift ding, making your swift exit.

Rushing down the hall, the last thing you expect is to bump against the very boy you’ve been looking for. You don’t dare risk a glance, recognising him just by his shoes alone. Ignoring his apology, you run off, making your exit.

Once you exit the dorm entrance, most of the tension leaves your body. Making your way back home, your mind reels from the discovery.

Miles Morales is Spiderman.

While you slip away from his notice, Miles spots something in his peripheral vision. His suit had fallen slightly out of his hiding place. Thinking nothing of it, he goes to stuff it back in when he sees a small spot of yellow on the side of his mask.

Yellow?

He brings the mask up to his nose and takes a sniff. His brows furrow at the familiar scent.

...Mustard?

He wipes it off with a shrug.

[whumblr]

Losing battles, winning wars

Crossed out - Continued from ch.11 - Prologue

-

“A visitor?”

Ava brought up her agenda for the day, pressing the phone to her ear with her shoulder. Sure enough, she hadn’t missed anything; the only thing scheduled for the upcoming hour was a quick meet with Sarah. No outside clients for today. With half an eye still on the file in her hand and the phone in the other, the name the receptionist gave her didn’t fully register through her surprise—and annoyance.

“Yes, ma’am, he is—"

“Tell him I don’t do walk-ins, Fletcher, and that he can make an appointment like the rest of the world.”

A soft rustle sounded, as if Fletcher turned away from his visitor and cupped a hand to the phone. “He says he’s police,” he whispered, “and that it’s urgent.”

Ava didn’t bother repressing an annoyed sigh. “Send him up, then. I’ll give him ten minutes.”

Police… she mused when she put the phone back in its holder, a little more forceful than necessary. Not uncommon given her line of work and the defendants they represented, but usually handled through the right networks and with the right communication. Given this deviance – and the ambush – she had a feeling she knew what this was about.

The USB drive Lucas had given her was snugly plugged in her laptop. She removed it, put it in a drawer, and closed all digital files still open. Unreasonable, she knew that, not like he was going to tell by glancing at the stick what was on it or get anywhere near her computer, but still.

A knock on the glass door interrupted her musings and she turned.

“Ava.” Her secretary, already a girl of small stature, stepped aside in the doorway, dwarfed by the man she was escorting. “Mr Mathison.”

The man gave a polite nod and smile at the girl in thanks and she didn’t seem uncomfortable in his presence.

Ava, however, put on her game-face to hide her surprise. She had seen this man before. Leading a pack of black-clad armed men into a theatre. Marching back out with a bloodied Lucas.

He was wearing the same long black coat as he had then, a white dress shirt underneath and wearing black slacks. Given his clothes, here in the business district he could pass as a cunning lawyer or business man – probably what he was going for in public – and if she’d passed him in the lobby, she wouldn’t think twice about that assumption. But his manner and poise – the at ease stance with his hands behind his back – betrayed a little something else. And, well, having seen him having a bloodied man carried out of a public theatre might skew her judgement. Despite his attempt at this ‘disguise’, it was clear up close that this man was law enforcement through and through.

Not to mention she had done her research. Or rather, Lucas’ research, combined with some searches of her own. She was well aware this was the man Lucas suspected of murder, a man in charge of a prison, probably holding Lucas in custody. Illegal custody.

“Mr Mathison,” she echoed her secretary, but with a hint of ice in her tone. Time was precious after all, especially if it was taken from you like this.

“Ms Akwebe,” Mathison returned the greeting with a slight nod, his voice a deep rumble.

He shook her hand, less firm than she’d expected, and he immediately took a step back, making sure to keep a distance. The gesture seemed polite, but to Ava it seemed calculated. A façade that he merely kept up to compensate for his intimidating presence and that now clashed with how he’d bulldozered his way in here.

“Thank you for meeting me. I understand I am taking up your time so I’d like to get straight to business.”

He sat down on the sofa without waiting for an invitation. And just before he settled down, something caught Ava’s eye and she bristled with suppressed fury.

“Mr Mathison, you’ve either got a lot of guts or a lot of issues carrying that into my office.”

She nodded at the slight bulge next to his chest, under his coat, where she’d noticed his shirt had crinkled in a way that seemed familiar.

He didn’t seem bothered, didn’t adjust his coat nor moved and merely gave a polite smile. “Well spotted.”

“Do I need to call security in here?”

“I do not believe that is necessary. After all, they cleared me at the entrance as I have a concealed carry permit. I do apologise if it makes you uncomfortable.”

While anger was a form of discomfort, bubbling up inside her chest, she would never let it show. She had remained standing behind the other couch, perhaps an unconscious manner of creating some distance between them. But before he could notice and add to her ‘discomfort’ she walked around and sat directly across from him. This was a power play through and through; showing up assuming she’d make time for him, carrying a gun into her office.

“I assume you’re here about Lucas,” she said, not wanting to give the man a way to beat around the bush. After all, ten minutes is ten minutes.

“I am,” he said. “You are his supervisor?”

“I don’t supervise, mr Mathison. I lead a team of skilled people and I need them to be competent enough to work independently, without me holding their hand along the way.“

“Maybe it you hadn’t just held his hand but actively pulled him back we wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

He held up his hands. “My apologies. You are aware what the charges are against him?”

“Helping a client with some less than scrupulous advice.”

“Yes. We are under the impression that he was acting independently, so none of that rubs off on you or the other people here.”

“Which client?” Ava pressed, and she expected him to blink and go ‘what?’ in that fake polite voice of his but the man didn’t hesitate at all.

“Unfortunately I cannot tell you that. The investigation is still pending and I can’t name names. I’m sure you can understand.”

“I need to know to make sure others don’t fall for the same trap.”

“I can assure you this person will never walk into this building to seek legal or other unscrupulous assistance again. Should that change, I will be the first to give you a heads up.”

He was quite invested in this fake story. While Ava was more interested in the real story and the illegal detainment. But she was stuck there. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t hint, couldn’t press. She’d only oust herself and paint a clear target on her back. So against her principles, she had to relent and allow him a win here. She’d strike when the time was right.

“We think he acted independently,” Mathison said again when she sat back on the sofa, “but I wanted to ask you if you noticed anything… different about his behaviour the weeks before his arrest.”

How antsy he was, bolting out of the building at random times, working overtime once his regular work files had been finished – though uncharacteristically rushed –  clearly exhausted but working like a possessed man? While she’d hated him ambushing her at the theatre, at least it cleared the fog and he had finally confided in her. “Nothing unusual,” she lied.

“You were with him the day of his arrest.”

Ah, so that’s why he was here. Combed through security footage, now, had he. She could turn him away with a single word; merely as warden this man did not have the jurisdiction to get involved with any investigation. But doing so wouldn’t get her anywhere, it would only give her a mental win while what she needed were answers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We were at the theatre. We were seeing a movie.”

“Which movie?”

“The journey to Mars.”

“Did you plan this trip?”

“We happened to meet inside.” Close enough to the truth with him ambushing her.

“Did he give you anything?”

“Cash for my niece to get snacks.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.” An enormous headache, sure, but probably not as bad as his own when they’d carried him out, near-unconscious. A tinge of rage twisted in her stomach.

He asked several more questions and she answered with as little information as she could but still enough and being cooperative, to make sure that, first, he’d believe she was no threat, and second, to never have him ‘visit’ again for more follow-up questions. At the end, he seemed satisfied and at ten minutes sharp, he stood, thanked her for her time and left as sudden as he’d announced his arrival.

Ava dropped back on the sofa, still whirling from this force of nature that had just blown through.

A knock on the door again, this time from a welcome visitor.

“That was him?” A blonde woman, carrying a stack of files almost reaching her chin, walked into the office. Sarah, the person she actually had a meeting with and who probably had hovered awkwardly in the hallway, carrying pounds of paperwork and waiting for them to finish up.

Ava nodded and sat back with a sigh, gesturing for her to sit down. “That was him.”

With a heavy thud Sarah dropped the stack of files on the table in-between the two sofas. She looked back, as if she could still see the imposing man retreating out the door. “Seems like a handful.”

“You have no idea… What did you want to discuss?”

“You asked me to look into the financial aspects of the prison. His prison.” She nodded back.

“What did you find?”

Sarah scattered a number of files over the table and opened one of them. “Mostly what you’d expect to find. There are, however, monthly recurring transfers that aren’t from the government or charities or corporations, but from private persons or institutions. Booked as donations.”

“Is that uncommon?”

“Not in itself, but it is in this amount and usually donations are one-off. So, I looked into some of the names and that’s where it starts to get odd. I recognised some of the cases connected—” she pulled out two files from under the others and opened one, pointed at the name, “— this one, rather obvious, connected to the local mob, so that’s enough to make you wonder. But this one—” she opened the other file and tapped the name at the top of the page, “—Newport, government family who lost a son in that hit-and-run a few years back, whole thing was splashed over the news.”

“I remember. High profile case. They donated? The family?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Multiple times?”

“Over multiple years.”

“Are we sure these donations are voluntary?”

“No. But it seems they are.”

Ava furrowed a brow. “Are they donating or paying…?” she pondered out loud.

“Donating to keep their son’s killer incarcerated?”

A far reach. Something she absolutely would have dismissed before. Before she had read Lucas’ research on the prison.

She didn’t want to speculate too much. Get the facts first, they will point out a pattern and confirm their hypotheses or not. “Good find, Sarah. Run through all the names behind the donations. Double check them with the names of inmates – ask Robin for help with that, he’s looking into that – see if some are connected to the mob or rivalling factions, families connected to any crimes or victims—”

“Everything.” Sarah nodded, already ahead of her. “I’m on it.” She stood, but lingered near the door. “Any word on Lucas?”

“Nothing. All silent on the front.”

Sarah bit her lip, gave a solemn nod but her eyes blazed with determination, and turned back to her own desk.

Ava looked at the stack of files in front of her. A wry smile formed at her lips and the same determination lit in her eyes.

You may think the world bends to you, Mr Mathison, but that’s going to snap back at you some time.

Backing down was not her style, but she knew damn well when to pull back a little for the sake of winning in the long run. She wasn’t sure she’d parried all of his suspicions but even if he weren’t fully convinced they weren’t involved, he couldn’t do a thing about it. They were all involved. And they were coming for him, and coming for Lucas.

She opened the file Sarah put on top of the stack, settled in for work, and read the top line.

Newport v Georgiou.

-

Tag list: @gala1981 @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop @andithewhumper @tippytappytyping

@suspicious-whumping-egg @cherrychupachup @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @withdrawingramen

@light-me-on-pyre @treasureguardingdragon @notactuallyluska @fortunately-cool-penguin

[minimomoe]

Love Bites

Baker Fem Reader x Toji Fushiguro. (mafia au)

word ct: 15.1k, 11 Chapters

tags: Fluff, grumpy x sunshine, found family, a little angsty but nothing too bad, marriage proposal, established relationship, (last chapter only: kitchen sex, creampie, oral- fem receiving, other sexxy funtime stuff)

Chapter Three: Mint Chocolate Chip

“Shit, I forgot his book,” you curse and rush back outside. Luckily you parked your car close enough to the bakery that it wasn’t a far walk, but the bad news was that the snow was picking up and sticking to any exposed skin. You fumble with the ring of keys, muttering angrily to yourself for not clearing it out already. You rush inside to grab the wrapped book sitting in the cramped office space and double check the rest of the bakery before slowly backing out. 

Just as you turn around to open the clear door, you see Toji holding onto the door handle and jump back in surprise. 

“I didn’t think I would see you today! I can whip you up something really quick if you’d like.”

Toji steps in and closes the door behind him, dusting off the snow on his shoulders before meeting his gaze with you. He takes in your appearance, the melting snowflakes caught in your hair, your slightly fogged up glasses, the carefully wrapped present you held in your hand. The gingerbread wrapping paper crinkles softly as you nervously squeeze it and wait for Toji to talk. 

“I’m not here for that. Happy birthday,” he says, and holds out a rather large gift bag that bulged at the sides. Your eyes widen at the offer, and you look back up at Toji whose face was, as always, expressionless. You scuffle to put your gift on a table for customers and gingerly take the bag from Toji, as if you were afraid that he would take it back. 

“For me? Really?”

Toji stiffly nods and shakes the bag a little for you to take it out of his hand. You giddily take the bag and set it on the table, pulling out the decorative paper on top to see the expensive gift at the bottom. You slowly pull out a deep mauve scarf that was thick in material and impossibly soft. You ran your hand over the fabric and felt your eyes pricking from emotion. You took another look in the bag and saw that there were knitted gloves the same color at the bottom, along with fuzzy white earmuffs and a matching beanie. You shoot a glance at Toji who has his hands stuffed in his coat.

“Toji… Thank you. Thank you so much,” you tap the corners of your eyes to catch the tears before they fall. Toji steps closer to you until he stands right in front of you, grabbing the scarf off of the table and slowly wraps it around your neck. The bakery is a lot colder now that the ovens and lights aren't on, but the thick wool is the perfect shield from the weather. 

“It’s not a lot but this color looks nice on you. You always wear purple,” Toji drops his hands and you immediately miss his proximity.

“It’s perfect. I love it.” You dig your chin into the scarf and take a deep breath in. You don't know if it’s because Toji is standing so close or because the gift itself has stayed around him so long, but you catch a whiff of his cologne and try to steady yourself. 

“Would you.. would you like to share some hot chocolate with me? I’m about to leave but I’d like to have a cup before I go.” 

Toji nods so you busy yourself with a new task, and when you both sit down you gush over your presents as Toji’s ears flame red, and he covers his growing smile by drinking more chocolate. He peers down into the cup and raises a brow.

“Oh it’s mint hot chocolate. I like it better than the normal one,” you explain. 

“I like it too.” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot, and before you know it you have shared two cups of chocolate with Toji before you finally force yourself to leave, and he walks you to your car to send you off. 

~~ 

“I brought you a new book I think you’d like,” You say and sit beside the hospital bed. “I wrapped it up but you know I’m horrible at keeping secrets. I’ll try not to spoil it for you.” 

You brush the hair of your brother and look up at the monitor. The rhythmic beeps of his heart is the only thing showing, and when you look down at his face she can see the ventilator cloudy from his breathing. 

“I read a new book this month. It was called We Are the Ants by Shaun Hutchinson. Horribly sad, but it made me hopeful at the end. We are truly just ants in the grand scheme of things,” you mutter. 

You take your hand off of his face and hold them in your lap. “And I have a new crush. Or at least I think I like him. I think he likes me. He got me this scarf,” you tug at your gift then sigh.

“I miss you, Ezra. This is hard. Really hard without you, or mom, or dad, but I’m trying. I really want you to wake up so you can meet him, and tell me if I’m making a mistake or not. That’s my one birthday wish.” 

You wipe away the tears that fell down your face but didn’t bother after a few minutes. You cry quietly in the corner, right beside your brother, until you fall asleep breathing in the scent of your new scarf. 

Chapters: I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI.

M.list || Ao3 || Twitter || Ko-fi

[kojitheopossum]

Just saw your siren au and I’m obsessed, politely asking for more crumbs when you have the chance 😔🙏🏼

I’d strongly recommend you also go check out the other ask for some more crumbs!! Here’s some etho specific lore o7

Etho is a type of leviathan which mainly utilizes aggressive mimicry to lure in prey. They are known to perfectly replicate human speech and emotions and convince humans to get closer. They also use their long ribbon like fins and trail of pearlescent specks to attract attention or provide distraction. While humans are their main prey, they will also hunt smaller whales and large fish like tuna, sharks, squid, etc. These beasts are largely solitary and avoid interacting with members of their own species when at all possible. Most interactions are a result of hunting the same prey, which ends with the more mature leviathan to attack the younger. They stick to the open ocean, preferring cold temperatures. Etho had a run in with an older leviathan when he was young, and to avoid future confrontation chooses to live in the deep arctic ocean, developing a more sickly pale and red appearance than the typical dark and shiny appearance of other leviathan.

Etho is a fully conscious beast, while he uses mimicry to speak, he can form original thoughts and feel emotion rather than just copying whatever he sees humans do. Since he’s been around for so long, his voice doesn’t match any particular persons and he has a wide vocabulary. His awareness can be determined pretty quickly by having a conversation with him, but he rarely speaks and prefers the distance he gets when others view him as just a fish. He dislikes being held in captivity for obvious reasons, but he does come to appreciate how much he learns and sees.

Throughout the story, etho is physically portrayed several different ways. He seems himself as one whole organism, one separate from human. Bdubs however views him as just his upper part, and as if he’s a slightly off human. To him, or at least his subconscious, something with intelligence equal to humans is humanized in his mind. His coworkers, however, see etho as an animal and thus incapable of intelligence. Through the thick glass, etho does look somewhat human (at least to bdubs), but, as he makes what seems to bdubs as a choice not governed by intelligence (aka human morals and reasoning) his full form is shown as animalistic, and his human features are cast into shadow, blending and morphing. What that choice is who’s to say hehe.

Anyhow here’s some concept art :D

[princessbrunette]

kook!pope taking care of drunk pogue!reader😵‍💫😵‍💫

ohhhh this is so delicious !

୧ ‧₊˚ 🐚 ⋅ 👙 ⋆˙₊˚

“please don’t throw up on my porch.” he stresses, steering you by the shoulders outside, his party still in full swing on the inside. you groan, escaping his grasp and swinging around, nearly falling but he catches you.

“m’fiiiine. i have a reaaally strong gag reflex. you should stick your fingers in my mouth and find out.” you giggle, holding onto him so that you didn’t fall.

“i think i’m gonna have to take a rain check on that.” he presses his lips together, shaking his head.

“whys that?” you frown, swaying.

“because i’d rather not end up with chunks of congealed vodka mixed with whatever you last ate all over this shirt. it’s designer.”

“fancy…” you giggle, stroking the silk material over his chest. he almost folds, staring at your pretty face for a moment before pulling away.

“stay right there, okay? i’m gonna go get you some water. i mean it, don’t move.” he backs off, hastily heading back inside to weave his way through the crowd and fill up a glass. when he arrives back outside, you’re no where to be found. “perfect, no that’s brilliant actually.” he curses to himself, walking inside and asking around until he spots the back of you and all but manhandles you back outside.

“hey!” you giggle before getting a grasp of his thick bicep. “ooh, strong.” you pur.

“sit down. drink this.” he shakes his head, letting you lower yourself onto the outdoor bench before he holds the cup to your lips. “sip. don’t chug it.”

you listen, before pulling away and he begrudgingly wipes your mouth for you like you’re a toddler. you giggle, trying to catch his hands to play with them.

“why’d you always look after me, pope?” you smile, voice a tad softer than before. he blinks a couple of times, caught off guard.

“uh— i don’t know, it’s the right thing to do. you’re a girl, drunk at a party filled with coked up kooks. some of these guys are… yeah. it’s just better someone keeps an eye on you.” he explains, glancing at you as he stuffs his hands in his tailored pockets. you grin, hazy eyed.

“well thank you. you’re really sweet. i like you a lot.”

“you’re not gonna remember this conversation, just sober up okay? i’ll call you a cab.”

he was right. you didn’t remember the conversation, but he did — and he thought of it everytime he saw you.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🐚 ⋅ 👙 ⋆˙₊˚