#It wants to live a little white picket fence life.
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lightdancingwords · 18 hours ago
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One Day - Part Two of ?
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Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N Female character
Series Summary: You were rescued by Dean Winchester a long time ago. Over time, you kept bumping into each other.
Word Count: 2,420
Tags/Warnings: Violence, profanity, angst, argument, monsters/supernatural
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! This story is AU as it does veer a bit from the history we see in Season 1 of Supernatural. There will be references to episodes and seasons, but it'll change as the chapters come. Enjoy the ride!
Dividers: credit to @talesmaniac89
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Chapter Two: Scent of a Woman
If you looked up repetition in the dictionary, Dean was convinced you’d find his photo. His life for the last two years since that rather eventful week in Indiana was essentially fucking, drinking, cheating at poker, and hunting down monsters. It was perfect.
There was only one problem: no Sam.
In the two fucking years since Sam left to go to Stanford to live a boring ass ordinary life, Dean remained daddy’s good little soldier. He did what he was told and he was damned good at it.
Unlike Sam, John didn’t judge what Dean did on his free time. Hell, John was so busy doing whatever he was doing that they barely spoke outside of hunting. That suited Dean just fine, if only because then he didn’t have to see the disappointment in John’s eyes.
As for Sam… Christ, it was obvious that he was enjoying the picket fenced life. Neither John nor Sam were aware that Dean stopped by Stanford to check on his baby brother. He had been tasked with keeping Sam safe and by God, he’d do it.
Not that Sam needed protecting. He seemed to be doing damned fine. He went to classes, hung out with this drop-dead gorgeous blonde, and overall seemed so damned happy it was like a knife to Dean’s gut every time he went.
So when John called Dean with a job while Dean was checking on Sam, he grabbed it instantly. Anything to forget that big ass smile on that baby brother of his.
God. He might go get drunk after this hunt. Maybe find a hot chick or two and bury his emotions for a while. Just enjoy the fucking and—
Dean’s line of thought sputtered to a stop as he pulled up to the address John sent him. It was a goddamned mental asylum. Either John was telling him to commit himself or there was a serious clue Dean was missing.
Let’s see. Power wasn’t on, big sign. Okay. Metal bars on the windows, wildly illegal after a point in history. No fences of any kind, that was puzzling.
What the hell did his father send him to this time? Was John trying to convey something without outright saying it? He hoped not, but it wouldn’t be the first time the Winchester men made a mess out of not talking. They specialized in fists, not words.
Pausing long enough to grab a flashlight and his shotgun and a pocketful of rock salt bullets, Dean headed inside. The fact the front door gave way easier than Elizabeth Hurley—
He sighed, shoved that little sexual fantasy to the side, and kept on going.
It was so sterile and bland that Dean had to keep checking he wasn’t missing anything noteworthy. White walls and white linoleum with white curtains. Christ. Didn’t these people hear of color?
Halfway through his very boring walk-through the asylum, it occurred to Dean there was a scent in the building that stood out. Underneath the stench of stale air and standing water, there was something flowery. Fresh. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Every so often, Dean would flash the light behind him, to the sides, and see absolutely nothing. Yet, he was convinced he wasn’t alone, that something or someone was mirroring him at the other side of the asylum.
“Ollie ollie oxen free,” he muttered. God. Why was that flowery smell niggling at him? As though something or someone was here and he ought to pay attention. Well, excuse me princess. Despite the obvious skill set—he was alive after all—Dean was hard pressed to declare himself worthwhile of saving.
God, he needed a drink. And a girl. Preferably both.
He was so distracted in his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the click of a gun behind him, followed by the low, husky tones of a woman’s voice:
“Don’t move.”
Dean hesitated, sighed. Great. Just great. He half-turned to glance over his shoulder, but couldn’t see who it was. “You know… it’s polite to introduce yourself before you turn a gun on someone.”
“Right. It’s also ‘polite’ to break into an asylum,” she retorted. She sounded familiar, but Dean’s memory couldn’t call her up. Maybe one of his one-night stands? One of the people he rescued in the past? He couldn’t remember.
“Uh, lady, you broke in too,” he retorted.
She was quiet. He could almost feel her scowling at him and he grinned. Slowly, he turned around and saw her. He narrowed his eyes as her as he studied her. Oh yeah. He knew her. He just couldn’t place her. Then he got the whiff of the flowery scent again and the memory came back. That damned kiss. That vampire. That silo.
“Shit. Y/N?”
She drew back in surprise, then took a step closer. Then another. He could feel her eyes on him, taking in the details. The leather coat. The jeans. The boots. The amulet. Then he felt her study his face, and the focus sharpened.
“Oh my God…” she muttered. “Dean.”
He smiled lopsidedly. “Fancy meeting you here.” His expression darkened, the smile gone. “Why are you here? In fact, what the fuck are you doing with a gun?”
“Long story,” she said defensively. “Why are you here?”
“Long story,” he echoed back with a scowl. Son of a bitch. This complicated matters. Last time he saw Y/N, she was studying to be a veterinarian, not being a wanna-be hunter in a potentially haunted mental asylum.
She met him in a stare down. He waited her out, determined to out-glare her. God, he felt like a 10 year old in an argument with another 10 year old. In the two years since he last saw Y/N, she definitely did not change. Still fiesty, still hot.
His libido did it again. It popped out of the box and inquired, if you please, if this time, he got the girl. He tried to ignore it.
“Oh come on!” He caved and he was not happy. God damn, she could really stare him down. “This isn’t right! You shouldn’t be here! You should be back in—in blasted Indiana, getting your groove on with your fellow college kids, not here!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a choice,” she shot back. There was something in her voice that had he slanting a look at her.
“What do you mean, you didn’t have a choice?” he demanded.
“After you left, I… I tried to pretend I wasn’t aware of the supernatural, of monsters.” She shook her head. “It lasted two weeks before something else happened.”
“What?” Dean was so surprised he took several steps toward her. “What else happened? Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“Because I dealt with it,” she said fiercely. Dean stared. The fuck? She dealt with it?! “It was a haunting in one of the dorms. A time capsule had been dug up, someone stole a bracelet from it, and pissed off a spirit.”
Dean couldn’t believe his ears. He was the hunter, and this chick was aiming for his job! He couldn’t decide if he should be impressed or annoyed. “Are you shittin’ me? You decided to play hunter?”
She set her jaw. God help him, it looked hot. Damn libido. “Yes, I was the hunter. I did the research, tracked down the stolen bracelet, salted and burned it.”
Oh shit, she’s a female Sam. “So… what, you decided, ‘hey, I did this right, I’ll do it professionally’?”
“God, could you be any more condescending? No, that’s not what happened!” She shifted her stance, and God, that did everything to emphasize her curves. Dean yanked his libido and shoved it back into a mental box. Not the time or place, Winchester. “I went back to classes, I did the studies… but…” She sighed. “Things kept happening. I started noticing a pattern. And… I quit.”
“You quit college? You?” He wasn’t about to forget how hard Y/N got on his case about how she had a scholarship to Purdue and no, it wasn’t easy missing classes.
“Yes! I couldn’t…” There was something in her expression that tugged at his heart. He sat on his emotional reaction; he couldn’t afford to go soft. “I couldn’t forget what I knew, what I saw. T-the vampire, the ghost…. I started noticing weird things in the news, local gossip. I tried, Dean,” and her voice cracked. “But I couldn’t ignore it.”
“So you… instead of, oh I dunno, calling me, telling me about this shit, you decided to go hunting yourself?! How the hell did you even get trained?” He raked his fingers through his hair, wanted to scream at her. She was reckless, untrained. It was a miracle she even stayed alive this long.
She frowned at him. Shit, she looked hot mad. “The number you gave me on that fake card? Disconnected, dumbass. What was I supposed to do?!”
“Not hunt them yourself, that’s for damned sure!” Dean would’ve said more, but then there was a creak. He froze, glanced around, reaching for his gun. Y/N noticed and also followed his lead, looking around. Thank God, she had brains and knew when to pay attention.
“Do you smell that?” he whispered.
Y/N looked around and frowned. “It smells… cold?”
“Yeah. That’s not good. Come here,” he said, reaching for her. She moved over to him willingly, half-turned so her back to was to him. Smart girl. Damn.
There was a loud BOOM that echoed through the asylum, rattling the walls and sending a shower of dust raining down from the ceiling.
“What the hell was that?” she hissed.
Dean spun around, just in time to see chairs, broken tables, and shards of glass hurling down the hallway toward them, propelled by some unseen force.
“Move!” he shouted, grabbing her arm. They bolted as debris smashed into the walls around them, splinters and glass flying like shrapnel.
The hallway twisted into chaos. A metal filing cabinet slammed into the wall inches from Y/N’s shoulder. She stumbled, and Dean yanked her upright without breaking stride.
“There!” Dean pointed to an open doorway. They darted inside, pressing their backs against the wall as the storm of objects roared past the door.
Dean’s breathing was heavy, his green eyes scanning their surroundings. “Okay, so I think it’s safe to say this one’s pissed.”
“No kidding,” Y/N whispered, clutching her gun like a lifeline. “Did you see where it came from?”
Dean’s gaze flicked to the hallway. “It’s not random. Something’s triggering it.”
They peeked out into the hallway. The barrage had stopped, but the oppressive energy still hung heavy in the air.
Y/N’s flashlight beam landed on a pair of cracked, wire-rimmed glasses lying in the center of the chaos.
“There,” she said, nudging Dean and pointing. “Think it’s those?”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Wouldn’t be the first time a haunted object’s caused this much fun.” He pulled a salt pouch and lighter from his jacket. “Cover me.”
Y/N stepped into the hall first, eyes darting, gun at the ready. Dean followed, moving swiftly toward the glasses. Just as he bent to scoop them up, the air around them chilled, and the light above them shattered.
A guttural scream ripped through the hallway, and a shadowy figure materialized at the far end, surging toward them.
“Hurry!” Y/N shouted.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He dumped salt over the glasses, struck the lighter, and flicked it into the pile.
The glasses caught fire instantly, the flames licking unnaturally high as the shadow let out a deafening shriek. The figure dissolved into smoke, its form writhing and twisting before vanishing completely.
Dean stood, brushing ash from his hands, and glanced at Y/N. “You okay?”
She exhaled a shaky breath, lowering her gun. “Yeah. You?”
Dean smirked. “I’m fine. Another day, another homicidal spirit taken care of.”
She gave him a look. “You’re lucky that ghost didn’t chuck you into the wall.”
“Hey, I’ve got a thick skull,” Dean quipped, flashing a cocky grin.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. Together, they turned back toward the exit, their footsteps echoing through the now-silent asylum.
Once they reached the outside, he glanced at Y/N. “You know, I’m still not cool with you being a hunter.”
She sighed. “You gonna stop me?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. Short of tyin’ you up—and man, that’d be fun—you’d just keep hunting after I left. I don’t suppose you’d listen?”
“I can’t,” she said, glancing away into the dark. “I… I know too much now. Unless you knew a way for me to forget…”
“Lobotomy?” he offered. She scoffed, and he grinned halfheartedly. “There isn’t. This… this is it, Y/N. This is my life. It doesn’t have to be yours. You can just go back to your life. I got this. I’ll even give you my real number, okay?”
She hesitated, and for a long moment, he dared to hope to keep someone from the hunting life. He grew up in it; it was all he knew. He wasn’t set for the picket fenced life, no matter how much he’d envy seeing families together, happy and innocent. Then she shook her head, and he felt his stomach sink. Damn. Hot and stubborn, just like before.
“I can’t, Dean,” she whispered, and he was surprised to see unshed tears glittering in her eyes. “Ignorance is bliss. I can’t pretend to not notice all the wrong things around us.”
He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I had a feeling.” He pursed his lips, grabbed one of his fake cards that had his actual phone number on it. “Here. It’s my real number. Call me, okay, if you find something you need help with. I’ll come. I promise.”
Y/N took the card, studied him. “Thanks.” She cleared her throat, blinked back her tears. “Thanks for… helping me.”
He quirked a half-smile. “Yeah, well, you didn’t give me a choice.”
She chuckled, lightly patted his cheek. “Remember that next time you try to shove me out of a hunt.”
“Yeah, well…” God, her hand was soft, and she looked so freaking good. “We still have time.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit as she heard the husky, flirty note in his voice. “Not happening, Winchester.”
God damn it. His libido screamed in the box in his head. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Yes, I can.”
He grinned. “See you around, sweetheart.”
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Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl
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selfcontainedunivcrse · 10 months ago
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thinking abou t. my silly axolotl and its silly interpersonal relationships. Seventeen from heathers isn't not cvwoop
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zyafics · 8 months ago
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MASTERLIST: RAFE CAMERON
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 mood boards
✦ ethnic gfs | all east asian ༯˖. south asian ༯˖. middle eastern ༯˖. west african ༯˖. southeast asian ༯˖. filipina ༯˖. albanian ༯˖. east african ༯˖. brazilian ༯˖. mexican ༯˖. spaniard ༯˖. syrian ༯˖. afrolatina ༯˖. tongan ༯˖. wasian ༯˖. moroccan ༯˖. armenian ༯˖. egyptian ༯˖. algerian ༯˖.
✦ finish line | fic, blurb
✦ all american sinners, pt. 2 | fic, blurb, series
✦ good girl gone wild | fic, blurb, series
✦ angry god | fic, blurb, series
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 social medias aus
✦ HEARTBREAK: LIVE | Masterlist | SFW
fluff, angst – radio host!reader, ex-lovers, second chance┆after a mysterious breakup, you went offline. when you're pulled back to the spotlight to host a radio show, rafe wants you back.
✦ RED FERARRI CHASE | Masterlist | SFW
angst – hs sweetheart!reader, second chance┆ when new management takes over his team, rafe learns that you are part of it. but after years of returning back to the circuit (and him), you return with a new ring—engaged to his boss.
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 imagines
✦ tlc | SFW
fluff – rafe hollering at you from the passenger side of his friend's car.
i love you so | SFW
angst – rafe learns you got engaged to someone else.
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 drabbles
✦ headspace | SFW
fluff – established relationship, academic weapon!reader┆when rafe comforts you regarding your upcoming exam.
✦ proofs | SFW
fluff – established relationship, academic weapon!reader┆when you need rafe's help to finish a math homework.
✦ mangos | SFW
fluff – established relationship, vietnamese!reader┆when your spice tolerance is different from your boyfriend's.
✦ white picket fence | SFW
fluff – established relationship, dad!rafe | when your baby daughter wakes rafe up, he goes to comfort her.
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 oneshots
✦ stay the night | NSFW
fluff – fwb to lovers┆if rafe sees you as a fuck buddy, then you're going to remind him what that truly means.
✦ reality check | request | NSFW
fluff – bsf to lovers┆when rafe gets a buzzcut, it changes how you view your best friend.
✦ finish line | NSFW
older sister maybank!reader, racing rivals┆when your little brother has to forfeit a race against rafe, he seeks your help to replace him and win.
✦ dirty air | NSFW
older sister maybank!reader, fuck buddies┆when rafe wants you as a booty call, you're going to make him work for it.
✦ te amo | nsfw + fluff
mexican!reader┆after a fight with his father, rafe shows up to your door for comfort.
✦ all for the game | request, sfw + angst
reporter!reader, basketball player!rafe┆when you get the chance to interview your first athlete, it turns out to be none other than your ex-boyfriend, rafe.
✦ whatever she wants | request, nsfw
bitchy!kook!reader┆you always wanted rafe, and when he finally came to you, you expect nothing but the best experience.
✦ shotgun wedding | nsfw + fluff
maybank!reader, fuck buddies┆when rafe suddenly has the idea to get married.
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ᯓᡣ𐭩 series
✦ brother's rival | in progress, nsfw
brother's rival, secret romance┆when your brother is determined to steal something important from the king of kooks, rafe is going to return the favor.
01 • 02 • 03 •
✦ play fake | in progress, nsfw + angst
fake dating┆when rafe needs to secure a girlfriend, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.
01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • 05 • 06 • 07 • 08 • 09 • 10 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 / END
— extras: 3.5 • 5.5
✦ angry god | sfw + angst
twin flames┆when rafe discovers you're more like him than he realizes, he'll do anything to have you.
01 • 02 • 03 / END
✦ dead man walking | oneshot (for now), nsfw + angst
mafia boss!rafe, reluctant allies┆when a shootout injury is more life-threatening than it appears, you have to save rafe or lose your life.
01 •
✦ ALL AMERICAN SINNERS | Masterlist | NSFW
coke addict!rafe, sex addict!reader ┆ when two addicts fall in love, what's the worst that could happen?
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andywritingstuff · 15 days ago
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okay but imagine this...
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It wasn't a secret that Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart; dreaming of a white picket fence life. A wife, kids, all that jazz. However, how he lived his life wasn't exactly marriage material. He swore that he wouldn't fall in love with anyone. He erected walls around his heart, guarding it behind lock and key.
  And it worked. Until you came along.
  You, with those long lashes and gorgeous eyes. That smile and oh how soft your hands were when they accidentally brushed against his, how you always spluttered out “sorry,” quickly and quietly - his demeanor didn't give anything away, but he felt like he was burning from the inside out whenever he was in your presence.
  He started to linger around you, wishing to just listen to your voice or feel that electric buzz of cursed energy that flowed in and around you - unique, just like anything and everything else about you. Although quiet, he was satisfied. Did you think he was weird? Perhaps you did. But for Kento, being was enough.
  “It isn't worth the hassle,” he tells himself. After all, he'll probably die early. On a mission. He probably wouldn't be grieved if he died right now. And you don't deserve that instability. You deserved a man that could come home, guaranteed, every single day. You deserve someone that could strike up a conversation with you so easily. Just like Gojo—
  The mere thought has him fuming in a way he has no right to. Of course, you could choose to be with anyone you wanted. Still, the mere thought of Gojo Satoru, of anyone that wasn't him, being the only person to have the exclusivity of your affections, of those discreet glances, of knowing you like he wants to, has his heart thrumming against his ribcage at an unsteady rhythm and his jaw clenching like he wanted to chew on his own teeth. No, pulverice his own teeth. 
  Little by little, pebble by pebble, you have, unknowingly, broken down the barriers that Kento Nanami had built around his heart. All with just being there, doing nothing but existing.
  “It isn't worth the hassle,” that's something he keeps telling himself, but he's made up his mind.
  He's completely devoted to you.
  Small gestures such as buying your favorite drink from the vending machine because he's seen you drink the same thing every time. Offering you some “spare” lunch because he “accidentally” made too much food yesterday. Giving you a ride home because “it's on his way” (it isn't). Finding little excuses every day so he could spend time with you. So he could get to know you outside of fighting curses or bad-mouthing the higher ups or teaching the students.
  Kento Nanami, as previously mentioned, is a romantic at heart. He fully believes you're the woman that's supposed to be his until death do you part, but he just… Can't bring himself to do this to himself. To you. What if he doesn't come home again? What if he gets too injured by a curse and he's not the same again? 
  But even as the thoughts plague his mind and make his face contort into a worried expression, your presence eases his heart. Your presence, your soft “hey, what's up?” And he can just smile - a tiny one, sure, but a smile nonetheless. 
  “It's nothing,” he replied, “thinking about some curse.” Love is the most twisted curse, isn't it? Inserting itself like a nasty maggot and eating his dead insides and replacing them with a warm fuzzy feeling all over, a crave for you. A need for you, you, you, you.
  Over the course of a couple of months, you've been growing closer to one another. Close enough to know you're not just a friend, but someone he holds dearly. Someone he cares about. Someone he loves against his will. 
  He remembers the first time you called him by his name. Until then, you've only called him Nanami - which is fine. He prefers professionalism while on the clock, but it slipped out of your lips so naturally, so easy. Like it was meant to be.
  A curse had hit him. A Special Grade grade - it was supposed to be a lower grade. Still, he got too careless, and the curse hit him. “Kento!” You had yelled out, and, despite the pain that radiated through his entire body, he could still feel the movement of that nasty love maggot eating away at the last of his dead insides to make space for all of you. The last pebble of the wall around his heart being destroyed like it was never there. 
  “It isn't worth the hassle,” he tries convincing himself but loving you is like second nature to him. Running to shield you from a cursed energy hit, only to see you do the same for him. Loving and protecting you comes like breathing to him - no, like having a heartbeat. It wasn't a hassle. It was in his nature.
  “It isn't worth the hassle,” but as he sees your worried expression and he brushes his thumb along your cheekbone with relief painted delicately over his features, he can't help but give you a kiss to your forehead and wrap two strong arms around you, keeping you close to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a silent reminder that he was here. Alive. Safe. Just like you were. And he has to remind himself that this isn't a hassle. This isn't a chore. This isn't something he's expected to do - he just does it.
  The silence after the fight settled. The air was crinkling with energy, his entire body was shaking with adrenaline and he could feel you, too.
  “Darling,” he finally murmured against your hair, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax. "I'm here." He assured you, his caresses on your hair and back a silent confession to his feelings.
  Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart. And only you've been able to know how much of a romantic he truly is. 
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klausysworld · 1 month ago
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Apart of the Family
Loving Elijah Mikaelson wasn't an easy thing.
He pushed me away the entirety of the start of our relationship, he wouldn't talk about his feelings or his thoughts. Sometimes he thought breaking up would protect me from him and his family.
If I hadn't loved him so much then I would have left but I couldn't help but stay. We met in Mystic Falls when he was there to deal with Klaus and avenge his family. I had thought he'd left when Klaus daggered him so I was so happy when Damon woke him back up.
He came to my house even before getting his haircut to see me and he ended up staying the night before having to leave with plans to wake his family.
Rebekah didn't like me much to start out, none of them trusted me or wanted me in their house but that didn't stop Elijah from coming to mine. But if he wasn't with them, looking after them 24/7 like a father figure then they all started to fall apart.
He started to pull away again, so I had to confront the Mikaelsons myself, which was admittedly terrifying but overall worth it when Klaus's eyes shimmered with respect and I got to shove past Rebekah and up the stairs of the mansion. Elijah was practically feral after listening to me stand up to his siblings.
His mother liked me, although I'm not really sure if that should be taken as a compliment or an insult. Elijah liked it though. I think he's always sought approval from his parents.
He was distraught when he found out his mother planned to kill them. More broken then any of his siblings could ever know. He made me promise not to tell them that he'd been sobbing into my chest for over two hours that night.
We left for a little while, Elijah needed some time and I jumped at the chance of having him alone for a little while before he was inevitably called back.
We'd been living such a domesticated life We had our own house, yard, stupid white-picket fence.
Even though I knew it was impossible, I started to dream of having his child. I knew he'd been the perfect father, he had a thousand years worth of practice.
I could imagine if we had a son, he'd be all dressed in his little suit with his hair combed neatly. Elijah was just perfect, but he couldn't have children so I wouldn’t either.
I thought I was happy with that, until I found out that Klaus was having a baby.
It wasn't fair. He didn't even want a child and neither did Hayley. Elijah was the only reason the child stayed alive and Klaus still daggered him.
"I promise you, I'll bring him home." He told me when I'd found out he wasn't even in the house somewhere but under Marcels mercy.
"Klaus." I whispered, I could feel my eyes getting wet with tears and he sighed.
"I wouldn't let him get hurt. I know you think I'm selfish and I use my brother...to an extent that's true, but I do love him and I know that you do. He'll come back and I'll undagger him before the baby is even born." He promised and I didn't have much room to argue. Instead I just went back upstairs.
Even Rebekah came which was a nightmare. I don't know what her problem was for me but somehow my favourite Mikaelson in that house was Klaus.
Until Klaus finally brought him back.
I didn't care that Rebekah was pissed that I got to hug him first, I refused to let him go and he didn't seem to be budging much either. I could feel his face nuzzling my neck as I breathed in his scent.
"He made us stop at a suit shop on the way over, he refused for you to see him all dusty and-"
"That's enough, Niklaus. Just leave us be." Elijah muttered and I sighed in relief at the sound of his voice.
By evening I was snuggled up to his bare chest, his hands on my back as he pressed a series of kisses to the top of my head.
"I love you." He mumbled and I smiled, he didn't like saying it often. He worried it would lose it's meaning.
"I love you too." I whispered, wanting nothing more than to lay with him forever.
Things got better and worse from then.
Everything was Klaus centred again of course. When wasn't it?
But I did feel bad for him, to have to go as far to fake his child's death. It was the first time I'd ever hugged him, I could feel his tears on my neck as he tried to sniff them back. Elijah was looking at me from across the room, a slight nod to his head as he finished the phone call with Rebekah.
Things were quiet after that.
But then everything went wrong again, Esther and Mikael came back. Elijah's 'Red Door' opened and he almost suffocated me in his sleep.
He wouldn't touch be for almost a month, not even hold my hand, it was torture. It took a very hash breakdown and a really long cry for him to finally wrap his arms around me and apologise.
It was really hard for a while, but seeing him with Hope in his arms did something to me. It broke me.
That was when Rebekah finally realised we weren't that different. She sat with me on the bathroom floor whilst I sobbed over not being able to have his child and we stayed there until Elijah came in and found us. I wouldn't tell him what was wrong and ended up leaving for a a few hours but it was obvious that Rebekah had spoken to him about it by the time I got home.
He welcomed be back into his arms and he held me tight, caressing my arms and my back before finally breaking the silence.
"I truly refuse to believe that with the amount of magic in this world, that there is no possible chance of me being able to give you a baby." He whispered and I sniffed.
"You're dead Elijah, your sperm is dead." I mumbled and he ran his fingers through my hair.
"Witches bring people back from the dead, I think they can revive a couple of my swimmers." He chuckled and I let out a half cry/half laugh.
"You really think that?" I whispered and he kissed the side of my face.
"I'm at least going to try." He murmured.
It wasn't really mentioned again for a while so I assumed that it had just been a fleeting idea to calm me down.
That was until I walked into our room and found it covered in candles and rose petals. Elijah was stood in a fresh suit, his hands clasped together with a rose between them.
"What..." I mumbled and he let out a shaky breath.
"I found a witch." He stated and my brows pulled together for a second before the realisation washed over me.
"You did?" I whispered and he nodded. I dropped my bag down and made my way inside, standing in front of him and taking the rose from his hands, placing it down on the vanity. "Are you sure that it'll work?" I asked and his lips twitched.
"There's only one way to find that out." He murmured lowly, his umber eyes bleeding into obsidian.
I reached up to carefully undo his tie, my fingers unloosing the fabric in the way he liked to do it so that it wouldn't stretch or 'fold funny'. I pushed his blazer down his shoulders and rest it over the chair before reaching up to undo each button one by one. I made sure my fingertips brushed over the firm muscle of his chest before pulling the shirt off his arms and onto the chair as well.
My eyes glanced up to his as I loosened his belt, slipping it away from his hips and popping the button on his trousers. He let out a soft sigh through his nose as they dropped down to his ankles and he stepped out of them. I let him take his boxers off whilst I unbuttoned my dress all the way down and slipped my panties off and reached back to get my bra off.
His hand was round my waist, pulling me to bed in a second making me smile and lean back into the mattress as he hovered over me.
"I promise I'll give you a baby, Y/N." He uttered and I felt my heart and lower stomach flutter.
His hands stroked down the length of my body before my thighs were gripped and pushed open. I bit my lip to hold back my grin as his lips worked their way down from the top of my neck to my navel.
"Does this help make the baby?" I whispered with a breathy laugh as his hot breath stimulated my clitoris.
"It might." He murmured with a grin before his tongue licked a strip through my folds before focusing on my clit. My head went back, resting against the pillows and my legs fell open against his hands that gripped my thighs firmly. I looked up at the ceiling through heavy eyes as his tongue swirled perfectly. Heat stroked me so precisely that I was a trembling mess in a matter of seconds. It always amazed me how easily he broke me.
It never took long before my fingers were latched into his hair, ruining the neat appearance he always held and forcing groans to vibrate through my lower body and set fire to my core.
I never received any time to recover before he was cupping my face and lifting my legs, hushing my whine as my leg was stretched over his shoulder.
"Look at me, darling." He murmured but his voice was somehow always clear. I did as he said, my eyes locking with his as I felt him push inside me; stretching and filling me inch my inch until all the air was gone from my lungs.
His lips pushed to mine, filling my mouth with his tongue and teasing mine. "Elijah..." I moaned quietly against him and he pulled away with a groan, looking down at me and kissing my forehead as his hips drew back before pushing forward with force. I let out a sharp breath as he did so, my hands cupping his neck and my nails scratching the back of his head. "Gods..." I whispered and he let out a low hum as he build a steady rhythm to move against me.
"I can't wait to pump you full of my child." He uttered, his eyes swirling with that familiar darkness. I panted with a smile on my lips, feeling my leg strain as he pushed be deeper into the bed and moved quicker. "Feel you milk me of my last drop." He breathed out as his mouth now hovered back over mine, making my skin hotter and hotter. "See you round and swollen..." He grunted, his body stuttering before getting a little rougher.
His grip started to get tighter, his fingertips pressing bruises into the skin of my thigh and hip. The veins starting to scatter beneath his eyes and down his stubbled cheeks. My hands slid round from his neck to feel how they raised against the pads of my thumbs.
"I need you." I whispered and his brows furrowed.
"You have me." He muttered, thrusting particularly hard as if to make a point. "All of me."
"Prove it." I breathed and his blunt nails dug in a little before one of his hands let go and slid down my body to massage my clit so well that I knew that was it for me.
His other hand was round my throat, forcing me to look back at him as his warmth started to fill more and more, one thrust at a time until he stayed completely still above me. His forehead rest against mine, his skin warm on mine as he shifted to kiss my lips.
"I promise you, by the end of the year, you'll be carrying our child and I'll be massaging you until you're perfectly sated." He smiled and I mirrored it as he shifted so that I was laid on top of his firm body. "We should lay for a while...so that it can take." He whispered and I hummed.
"I'd lay with you forever."
"Always, and forever." He corrected softly.
489 notes · View notes
alphabetboyluvr · 1 year ago
Text
NIGHT CRAWLERS - JJK
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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
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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
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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."
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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?"
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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."
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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."
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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. 
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WATTPAD // AO3 // KO-FI // CARRD
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3K notes · View notes
two-white-butterflies · 6 days ago
Text
gave you all my best me's (i)
Description: Aemond needs a fake-girlfriend. It's a good thing that he has leverage over his nephew's ex-girlfriend.
Pairing: (past! jacaerys velaryon/reader), aemond targaryen/reader
Notes: I wanted to rewrite this fanfic before writing a bonus chapter. I'm not a big fan of the old version of this: you're losing me. TWO PARTS SO COMMENT TO GET TAGGED.
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It is a beautiful thing to be admired for your talents, but when the media begins digging into your personal life - it is difficult to decipher where one draws a line. "When are you getting married?" The late-night host asks.
You answer him with an awkward chuckle.
Despite your social media branding - you longed for marriage, a white picket fence, and children. "There's so much more to life than getting married," you pursed your lips into a thin line. You could already see yourself in tomorrow morning's tabloids - trending on Twitter AND Tiktok with a witty hashtag.
"I agree, but for other people, it's a milestone moment for them. Is it not in your plans to get married in the future? Or is it an if it happens, it happens kind of thing?" The man continues to inquire.
You forced a smile on your face.
You did want to get married, but it's not in Jace's plans. He's the type of man who goes from hotel to hotel - the type of man who doesn't have his own apartment because he likes to act like a cowboy. Jace is the type of man who'd wear speedos with Birkenstocks. He does not ever see himself getting married, but he sees himself staying with you forever.
"I, unfortunately, don't see myself getting married. I mean respect for the people who are married, but for me, it's not really a necessity because I already see myself staying with this one person my entire life, and for me, I don't feel the need to get married." You explained, echoing the words that Jace whispered to you last night.
"- but yeah, if it happens, it happens." You rolled your eyes.
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You placed your Le Smoking YSL Jacket loudly on the table, hoping that Jacaerys would take a hint and know that you've finally arrived. It has already been three-weeks after the viral interview, and he didn't seem bothered by the attention.
"I missed you," you smiled at him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He always smells like vanilla. "- did you watch the interview?" You asked, pulling away from the embrace. He returns back to typing on his 3-year-old Macbook. "I watched it," he confirms.
You took a deep breath, which probably means that his family has already watched it. "I'm sorry my PR manager forgot to warn me. I seriously felt like a deer caught in headlights," you complained, pausing to see if he was mad.
Jacaerys is the oldest son of Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen. He is the scion of the two oldest families in America. His great-great-great something on both sides came to this country on the Mayflower - and thus, they took extreme precautions when it came to safeguarding their privacy. Rhaenyra was already adamant about allowing her son to write his little books, and now that you were in the picture...
"It's fine, I hope they stop asking about that marriage thing." A sigh escapes his mouth, and you can hear him clacking on his keyboard - typing without an end. "Maybe it's a sign for us to talk seriously about the topic." You begin.
"Marriage is for people-pleasers. We spend a lot of money on this one celebration where everyone gets to eat and dance, but marriage doesn't mean being with someone forever." He articulates, unable to say, that he doesn't want to repeat his parents' mistakes and that he doesn't want to live in a bickering home.
"I want to get married," you blurted out.
He responds with silence. It is obvious that he is thinking of an appropriate response - but you know that the answer is no. "I have everything that I could ever want in the world, a perfect career, a perfect boyfriend, a perfect house. The only things that I want now are marriage and babies, Jace." You continued to explain, and his face dropped to the floor.
You reach for his hands, entwining them with yours. He gazes up from his laptop, and he stares right into your eyes. "We're not going to be like your parents." You promised.
"We aren't a hundred percent sure of that. I can't even promise you everlasting love, I can't even promise you that I can love you with the same strength every day." He tilts his head. Which leads you to believe that the only reason he hasn't married you yet - is because he doesn't love you at all.
"I know, but you choose me every day. You choose us every day, and that is the same thing as love." You persuaded.
You could sense the reluctance in his movements. "We're fighting all the time. I haven't seen you in almost a month. Getting married is not going to fix our problems." His voice softens. He loves you with all of his heart, but he doesn't know how to show that love without first ruining it.
"Let's break up," he proposed.
He was expecting you to say no, like all the other times before, but this time - you retreat silently. You grab your things and you leave his hotel room.
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archiebald22: OMG WHY?? DIDN'T SHE JUST HAVE AN INTERVIEW WITH JIMMY FALLON 😭
pussydaposi: This is my roman empire
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(ONE YEAR LATER)
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nameofficial: I Love You, I'm Sorry OUT NOW!
liked 1,293,012 others
>comments
sacramentoLove: When are you gonna pay ur taxes 🇪🇸
Destination12: Shakira x Y/N Collab cuz they both don't pay taxes to the Spanish government
oompaloompa: Y/N singing bella ciao link in bio 😭
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"Who's the guy?" You whispered in Lucie's ears, and she turned around to look at the man who had been staring at you for the past five minutes. "Holy fuck, that's Aemond Targaryen. His family literally owns half of Texas." She whisper-shouted.
It didn't help with the fact that the man was smoking hot. Lucie stares at her phone for half a minute. "Wait, can I leave alone for just a second? Cecil forgot to bring his polo, and the receptionist is not letting him in." She groaned. "I'll be fine," you gave her a slight smile.
Lucie leaves your side, and Aemond begins walking towards you. "(Your Name)," you introduced yourself with a smile. "Aemond Targaryen," he shakes your hand.
This could be the beginning of something new...something different. "You don't look like the type of person who'd spend her weekends in old country clubs," he smiles charmingly. "I came here with my friend, Lucie. She's supposed to have a date with this guy, but he seems to have forgotten the rule of the country club." You chuckled.
Aemond tilts his head softly, and he whispers. "Always wear a shirt with a collar." He laughs.
"It's such a preposterous rule, I bet you that I'll have to hear about her boyfriend's expensive suit and how it is preposterous that he wasn't allowed inside." You giggled.
"I bet you that the staff doesn't get paid enough to deal with people like them," he led you to another part of the gardens. This part was exclusive only to esteemed members of the club, which probably means that this Aemond fellow is important. "I heard that a beautiful singer was going to be here. I had to my brother's golfcart to make it in the Clubhouse in time," his eyes narrowed.
Of course, the people that he heard those sentiments from weren't exactly appreciative of your presence. It was one of his mother's cousins who said something about these idiotic celebrities eating in the place where they were eating. "Oh please, you don't need to sugarcoat their words. I bet you that Lucie is scandalized for bringing me," you snorted.
You hate spending time around these old money folks. In your eyes, they've spent the majority of their wealth, and the only thing that they have left is their snootyness. "They're all idiots anyways," Aemond rolls his eyes, pleased that you weren't one of those cunts who'd kiss ass to the wealthy.
His phone rings, and he reaches for the call card inside of his wallet. "I'd love to take you out on dinner sometimes, not here, but you choose where to eat. Please call me as soon as possible," he placed a hand on your shoulder.
He bids farewell, realizing that his business partners were calling him already.
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It was a surprise to see that Aemond had a follow-through; the next day, he had already arranged a dinner with you. "I honestly had no idea where you'd want to eat. I mean, I'm sorry for bringing you to this small diner." You chuckled.
Rich people can be so banal sometimes, they eat at the same five restaurants, they wear the same clothes from the same five ateliers, and they all go to the same yoga studio, for goodness sake. You knew that if you wanted Aemond to consider you worthy of his attention - you needed to stick out. Which leads you to this diner, the real heart of NYC.
"It's beautiful. I've never been here before." He looks around with an appreciative smile. "I used to eat here a lot when I was a college student, I couldn't afford anything else - and the food here seriously tastes better than some Michelin restaurants. It's nice here, it feels so ... raw." You struggled to find the words.
The food was amazing, but the community that this diner constantly fed - it's a thing for the books. The cab drivers, the hotdog stand sellers, and the college students. It is home. "It must be hard being famous," he shoves a piece of pizza inside of his mouth.
You licked your lips.
"I've been famous for as long as I can remember. I don't know how to live without all of the cameras." You pierced the pancake with your fork, bringing it to your mouth. "I need your help." He places both of his hands on the table.
"Where?" Your eyebrows merged together.
"My father is dying. He says that he'll leave his entire inheritance to the first person who gets married in our family. My siblings and my nephews are fighting for that spot, seeing that my older sister doesn't want any ties with us. Now, I know that there are cases against you by the Spanish government, and I can make all of that go away," Aemond offers.
"I'd love to help you but I'm really good at making mistakes," your eyes narrowed, weighting in your choices.
His eyes softened.
"The only mistake that you've made is allowing your father to control your finances. He's in jail now, and if you're not going to fix yourself, you're going to end up there too." He says.
You play with the rings on your finger, inhaling the scent of maple syrup. "So, I marry you, and you clear up all my charges?" You inquired.
"I fake our marriage, clear up your name, and give you $10 million to start again." He corrects.
"Alright then," you hummed. "Do we have a deal?" You smile.
He shakes your hand.
"We have a deal," he confirms.
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Being in a pretend relationship with Aemond was honestly one of the easiest things that you've ever done. He makes it really hard not to fall in love with him. The way that he places his hands inside of his pockets, the way that he gives you the sweetest smile - it almost makes you think that his feelings are genuine. It is not, you remind yourself.
You flick through the rack of dresses in front of you. "What are your parents like? Are they traditional, or are they as laid back as you?" You questioned. He pauses for a while, trying to find the words that would properly describe his parents.
"My dad is a traditional man. He likes guns, and he believes in the Second Amendment. He's a senile old man. My mother, however, is trendy, and she's warm up to you." He informs.
"Tell me more about your family," you pressed.
You needed to be prepared for this battle.
"My older brother is an armchair socialist. He's always complaining to our mother about some animals dying. He's a vegetarian, although he always orders Chipotle on Fridays. His morality is a grey compass," Aemond snorts.
You giggle too.
"Helaena, my older sister. She's my second older sister. I think she's the person that Aegon thinks he is. She's too busy running this non-profit for refugees, but you don't need to worry about her, she's kind." He comforts.
"Then, I have a little brother, Daeron. He doesn't like us. He'd much rather spend time with our uncle." He turns to look away. Your eyes land on the vintage white dress you've seen in Lucie's wardrobe, it's a dress that Chanel never showed the general populace. An iconic piece, but not famous enough that it would seem tacky.
His hands snake around your waist. "What?" Your eyebrows merged together, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, subtly pointing at the paparazzi that were standing outside of the boutique door. "Kiss me," he says, pulling your body closer - until you could smell his cologne.
"You are so demanding," you teased, reaching to cup his cheeks. Standing on your tiptoes as you pressed your lips together. The paparazzi outside of the door were caught in a frenzy, flashing lights of all colors greeted you.
He tastes like cherries and diet coke. It's intoxicating. A taste that is so different on your tongue. You pull away from the kiss - and he pretends to gasp at the sight of the paps outside of the door. "Let's go," he mouthed - pulling you into a deeper part of the store, where the media couldn't see.
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ynkittens: (fan sent the picture) Y/N L/N with mystery man in NYC. Who is this man???
liked by 92,239 others
>comments
DoodleCop: OH MY GOD I miss her and Jace 🥺
YNNationSupport9: Stop, you're losing me
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Aemond stares at his phone, an indescribable frown on his face as it continues to vibrate due to the number of notifications sent to his personal account. "I didn't expect your fans to be this crazy," he mumbled, seeing his face shared all around Instagram.
"You did tell me that our relationship needed to be public to be believable," your eyes narrowed. "Yeah but now they're calling my personal number," he shows you his phone.
An amused chuckle exits your mouth.
"If you can't handle the smoke, don't start the fire." You shoved a piece of pastry inside of your mouth. Aemond slumps on the blue cloud couch and turns his phone off. He has been staying in your apartment for the past month now, after the whole scenario with the paparazzi the studio apartment that he was renting was no longer safe.
"Helaena has been blasting my other phone since yesterday. She's a really big fan of you," he smiles, pulling you closer to him until you are laying on his lap. "She sounds amazing, when are we going to meet?" You inquired, reaching for a book on the coffee table.
His fingers comb through your hair, untangling the knots that your hairbrush couldn't fix. "Maybe tomorrow during the family reunion? She kind of just shows up," he says.
He couldn't deny your beauty. As time grows, he slowly finds himself loving everything about you...from your gentleness to your fickle mindedness. You weren't satisfied with making a decision without first looking at every possible perspective. When someone does a bad deed, you say well, maybe it isn't their fault, maybe it's the way that society has treated them.
Even when the situation proves to be difficult, you still choose to be kind. It's just a summer thing, he tells himself because nothing beautiful ever chooses him. All the good things wilt in his hands.
He flicks a strand of your hair away from your face. "I'm a little nervous about tomorrow," you admit. "- I've never felt like I belonged, you know what I mean?" You scrunched up your nose, and he continued to massage your scalp.
"I'm so hesitant when it comes to attending these parties because when I was a kid, my dad took us to one of his black tie parties, and my mom let me wear this beautiful unicorn dress, but apparently, the black-tie rule was for everyone, regardless of age. The host didn't want me to go inside the halls with my pink glittery dress because it didn't reach past my ankles...one of my cousins pitied me so much. She let me borrow her dress, but it was too big on me." You flinched at the faint memory.
"I had to sit beside my mom the entire time, and all of the kids were staring at me like I had a third leg." Your teeth burrowed into your lower lips. "That sounds horrible," he frowns. "Which is why I promised to never look unfashionable ever again..." You say.
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nameofficial: our secret moments, in a crowded room. @aemondtargaryensapphires
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MaybeThisTime3: Rue, when was this?
aemondtargaryensapphires: ❤️‍🔥👸🏻 - nameofficial: ❤️
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Lucerys stuffs a large amount of vanilla ice cream inside of his mouth. "Did you check Instagram?" He teases his brother, continuing to play on his Nintendo Switch - almost smearing an entire spoonful of vanilla on the screen.
"Can you stop being annoying for five seconds?" Jacaerys rolled his eyes.
"He is so bothered," Joffrey giggled while scrolling on his phone. "I am not bothered," Jacaerys gritted his teeth.
"He's not bothered, but he's turning red!" Lucerys piped in once again. "I wonder if he'll take her to the reunion." Joffrey ponders, and a sigh escapes the oldest brother's mouth. Give you my wild. Give you a child. Give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other. Now, the only thing he's answered with is a different type of silence.
It's neither of your fault that the relationship ended. It was just too much of a chasm, your personalities were too different. You were the type of person to fight for the relationship, the type of person who disobeyed fate, and he is the opposite of that.
Because if something is meant to be, then the whole universe conspires for you to have it by your side. If it is meant to be - you wouldn't need to fight for it.
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You were wearing a white-satin dress that reached past your knees, it was embroidered with Swarovski crystals, truly a miracle that the dress ever held up. "Remember the story, I proposed on the beach, we didn't bring any cameras." He whispered, and you could sense his nervousness.
The car continues to drive inside a long entryway that curves to the side, you are greeted with tall bushes that cover the facade of the mansion. As you reach the third turn, the beautiful mansion is made known to you.
It was truly a sight to behold.
A mixture of French and Italian architecture was made even richer by the aged bricks that were used in constructing the estate. The mansion was about the same size as Central Park. It was clear that Aemond Targaryen was richer than God.
"You said family reunion," your lips pursed into a thin line. He gives you a stare, telling you that he didn't expect this many guests either. "My father must've invited his golfing buddies," he explains, regaining his composure.
He reaches for a box inside of his pockets. He opens it, showing you a beautiful emerald oval ring, a ring that is simple and elegant - a ring like you. "Are you ready to meet the vipers?" He smirks, placing the ring on your ring finger.
A doorman begins to open the doors to the car.
"If we wait until I'm ready, we'll be waiting forever." You plastered a smile on your face, straightening your posture, and exiting the car - making sure that everyone's eyes were on you.
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Jace freezes as he sees the faint silhouette of your body. His relationship with you ended on good terms; he was happy with the outcome, but seeing you a year later - brings him back to pleasant and unpleasant memories. He partly wishes that he was stupid enough to his ex-girlfriend, but he is smarter than that.
He knows that the only time that he was ever truly happy was when he was with you, and now you've left him. Now, the only thing that brings him back to those pleasant memories are the songs that you've written about him.
What a horrible day to be alive.
His jaw clenches, watching as his uncle's hands snake around your waist, the very same waist that his hand used to fit like a perfect puzzle in. He watches as Aemond leans to whisper something in your ear, and you giggle. He bets that the joke isn't funny at all.
"Isn't that (Your Name)?" Rhaenyra inquires, and suddenly, Jacaerys' hand feels clammy around the champagne flute. He desperately wants to puke. Rhaenyra's eyes softened instantly, heart heaving for her oldest son. "Oh Jace," she cooed and he forced a smile on his face - he took a lazy sip of his champagne, and the drink bubbles in his stomach.
"I'm alright, mom." He insists.
Jace still cannot understand why his heart longs for you. He has everything he wants - he has everything that you prevented him from achieving because you dreamed of marriage. Why is he missing the shackles that he allowed destiny to remove?
Aemond begins to march in his direction, a satisfied grin on the other man's face. Could he have known? Jace asks himself. "Jacey," the man teased, one hand wrapped around you, and the other hand on a glass of merlot. Aemond was absolutely glowing.
"Uncle Aemond," Jace answered.
"Have you met this lovely lady?" Aemond tilted his head, half-expecting you to smile warmly at his nephew, as you have done to all of his relatives, but he was greeted with silence. Your eyes trailed back and forth between Aemond and his nephew. "Uncle?" your eyebrows merged together.
"I'm too young to be an uncle. My sister had him early." He informs. "I didn't expect you to be here," Jace says plainly as if Aemond was not standing right beside you. "I could say the same thing," you replied, your grip on Aemond tightens.
Something shimmery on your fingers catches Jacaerys' eyes. An engagement ring. An oval emerald engagement ring - like the color that the other side of his family proudly wore. "Congratulations on the engagement," he greets, forcing himself to be happy. Marriage is the only thing that you didn't agree on with him - he found it useless, you found it monumental.
"Thank you," you and Aemond say in unison.
"When she's the one wrapped around your fingers, you have to make a fist." Aemond stares at your face. Jace could only hum in return, his throat felt dry again. "I know the feeling," he takes a sip of his champagne.
He curses himself for still having these feelings for you. He should have fought against the world to have you beside him. He should have taken you dancing, bowling, skating, singing - but he didn't, because he was too engrossed in his own little world, unaware that everything was unfolding outside of his bedroom window.
He takes another deep breath, the world is bigger than the stories inside of his laptop. He can't believe that it has taken him this long to figure that out.
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"Can you please sing something?" Helaena requests, flashing you her puppy eyes. You turned to look around you, and everyone was looking in your direction. Viserys raises an eyebrow as if asking for you to sing.
Daeron hands you one of his acoustic guitars.
"Do you have any song in mind?" You inquired, prepared to sing one of your love songs. "How did it end!" Helaena cheers, pulling Morghul (her dog) on her lap.
"That's a nice song that you've chosen," you forced a smile on your face. Of course, she chooses the one song about your breakup with Jace.
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aemondtargaryensapphires: beautiful ❤️
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helaenatargaryen: YOU ARE SO FAST WITH THESE HAHA
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Jace watches as the waiters begin to serve their food. It was a gourmet meal provided by his step-father's fine dining restaurant, the food was beautiful, and it had the right color. You couldn't help but feel out of place - like the girl who wore a unicorn dress to a black-tie event.
"I'm allergic, I can't eat this." You whispered, flashing Aemond a concerned look. "Sorry, Aemond was the one who confirmed the samples." Rhaenyra's voice sounded apologetic, and sad because she was the one who planned the entire event. "Oh, it's okay." You smiled.
"How long have you known each other?" Jace blurts out, swirling the champagne in his glass. The first thing that couples do while knowing each other - is going on a date, and if you've been on a date with him thousands of times, wouldn't Aemond know about your likes and dislikes?
"Nine months, and it's alright, you can have Aegon's salad. He only pretends to be vegan." Aemond switches your place with Aegon's who is currently occupied in the bathroom. "Thank you," you mumbled.
"Your brother is going to throw a fit once he sees that," Alicent interrupts. "Mom he won't even notice," Helaena looks at you with hearts on her eyes.
Jace could only raise his eyebrows. Nine months and, his uncle wasn't aware that you're allergic to lamb sauce. He bets that Aemond doesn't even know that your eyebrows merge together when you're angry. He bets that the other man doesn't even know that your favorite game is Overcooked, and you refuse to move to the next stage when you fail to reach all three stars.
He's losing you to a man that hardly knows you.
"Where did you meet?" Lucerys pipes in, taking a sip of his strawberry milkshake. "In the country club," Aemond smiles. He looks at you like you are the earth, and he is nothing but a moon that rotates around you. "Her friend Lucie Churchill, she introduced us to each other," Aemond lies.
Alicent smiles, a look of adoration on her face. Aemond has chosen the best possible woman to fall in love with, a woman who's mantle is heavy with her own achievements. "When are you getting married?" She chimes in, happy with the idea of having grandbabies.
"Soon, I've always wanted a summer wedding." You answered coyly. You glanced at him, and suddenly, this summer thing was beginning to look real. "The good ones never wait," Aemond smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
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Jace enters the balcony, seeing that you are sipping wine on your own and staring at the French skyline. The dress that you were wearing was now slightly wrinkled, and the ring on your finger was slightly loose.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Sure about what?" You asked with a rough voice.
"My uncle," his lips are pursed into a thin line. He looks for a glimmer of hope behind your eyes, but it is too far.
He is too late to bring this love back to life.
"He's the only thing that I'm sure of," you answered.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, and your eyebrows merge together. "Sorry for what?" You scoffed.
"I'm sorry that I didn't fight for us." He continues. "- it was always doomed from the beginning. I could never have asked you to make that sacrifice for me. I didn't accept it at first, but that just wasn't the life for you." You finished.
"But if I asked you back then, you would have made that sacrifice for me, so I'm sorry for not being what you needed." He says, slowly walking out of the balcony, completely oblivious of the man leaning on the door and eavesdropping on your conversation.
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nameofficial: I can't help falling in love with you... ❤️ This is the beginning of forever baby 💍
liked by 2,129,391 others
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ynkittens: wait did u get married? - nameofficial: Engaged. I'm sorry for not making it clear in the caption haha 😭
JacintaRobin: "I wanna teach you how forever feels like" aint for JACK IN A BOX bcs it's for mr aemond - Bananashake44: Aemond the literal alpha male??? THE SIGMA GIGA CHAD ??? THE ULTIMATE RIZZLER
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PART TWO
@glame @xcinnamonmalfoyx @winxchesters @yentroucnagol @hotchnerswife @mxxny-lupin @mxtantrights @urmomsgirlfriend1 @kravitzwhore@sweethoneyblossom1 @introverbatim @flrboyd @kemillyfreitas
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angelsdean · 2 months ago
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thinking about young dean who dreamed of being a rock star. dean who wanted to go to college and have friends and stay in one place long enough to plant roots. dean who thrived at sonny's, who won the state wrestling championship. dean who when he was 12 wanted to play on the baseball team and then pretended not to care when john moved them around too much for him to be part of any teams. dean who loved being a P.A. because he liked to be part of a team. dean who wanted a normal job and a normal life. dean who got his GED quietly, secretly, despite not needing it for the life he led, but he wanted it. perhaps because he was still dreaming of an after. because john always said there would be an after. "after we kill this thing...after we avenge mary..." because despite all john's faults and failure, he was still, paradoxically, a dreamer. he was still mary's suburban dream. he still believed, despite everything, that the past 22 yrs could be overcome by simply killing the demon. that at the end of it, they'd go back to being a normal family. sam would go to college. dean would have a home. and i imagine him telling his kids this, that it all ends when they kill the thing that killed mary. that's the finish line. in lebanon, john is shocked to find that was not the finish line. shocked that there was no return to the Normal, no white picket fences. he doesn't understand that they were all irrevocably changed the night mary died and john chose to seek revenge. but anyway, i think of young dean, holding onto that belief, for a time, that there could be a life after hunting. so he gets his GED, just in case. because he's still dreaming, despite, despite. and i think of dean who outwardly scoffed at apple pie this and that, and whose favorite food is pie. dean who seeks home cooked meals and comforts. dean who wishes for food he doesn't have to buy at a mini mart. dean who nests when he finally has a static place to call home. dean who decorates his room with pride, who grins giddy at the thought of a mattress that remembers him. not an anonymous motel bed, but one that is his own, that will mold to the shape of him. dean who michael drowns in "contentment" and his contentment is simply...not hunting. his contentment is being the safe place to land for his family and having a normal job and serving others. his contentment is waiting for his family to come home and offering them a drink and some food. he doesn't want for much, but he wants his family to be safe and cared for. dean who pretends to be a horrible cook to comfort his mom, the actual horrible cook. dean who bakes his kid a lopsided cake (his first time baking!) out of love. dean who sees a married couple dancing together in their living room and thinks "i always thought i could do that (have that)." dean who earlier in that same episode takes pointers from garth on how to "dance", following along until he can do it himself and then dancing with LAMP. dean who, even after losing everything, after losing his best friend and his HEART, still tries, even if he is perhaps going through the motions, still tries to live some kind of normal, who picks up a job application, who still dreams of doing something other than hunting. because hunting was never the dream. because inside of him is still a little kid who wanted to be rockstar, or a mechanic, who wanted more, and thought maybe he could actually have it.
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lizpottersworld · 4 days ago
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. ۫ ꣑ৎ . EVERYWHERE, EVERYTHING (james potter x reader)
summary: even as ruin runs wild around the wizarding world, nothing can stop the love between you and james even if it be death do us part.
pairings: james potter x reader, wolfstar, dad!james potter, mum!reader.
warnings: death, Voldemort, unfortunate sad ending, angst with no comfort, no happy ending, crying children (help)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
to be loved by someone as loud and passionate as james potter was every girl’s wish. he always knew how to please, how to care and how to love. to be loved is to be seen and heard and he listened intently, observing every little thing you do. plus, when james potter is in love, boy does he fall hard. especially when it’s by someone as soft and sweet as you, a sweetheart who takes pride in him and gives him the affection he craves.
no doubt when everything around him is falling apart he clings to the one thing he can’t live without, which he would protect with his whole lifeline. when his friend group was falling apart, you arms was where he went. after his parents passed and he couldn’t hold himself together anymore, it was you he ran to.
it was the same goes the other way, if anything happened to you, minor or major he was where you spend those fearful nights and terrorising mornings. if home was a person, they were without a question at home when with each other.
even after a complicated beginning, where james had been whole heartedly chasing someone else, at the seeing of you he immediately changed his mind. as soon as you came into the view, you was all he thought about since.
your friends had called you hopeless, oblivious and caught up in your book ideals but nothing could stop the two of you. giggling and crying as you snuck into each other’s rooms at night, no spell being able to stop that. being intertwined to each other’s sides, glued forever without any care or discourse about it. stuck to your lover’s hip for all eternity? okay, didn’t want to be apart anyways.
even as the class of ‘78 graduated, you both hadn’t even thought about breaking up. in turn the two of you bought a flat in london near your other friends who were also rooming together as partners, remus and sirius who you both knittedly were close with from first year. no matter there petty arguments and disagreements, you and james could never say that ever was a problem with you two.
call them young or naive but even at 20, you already had your whole future planned out. a happy family in a house with white picketed fences, raising a new generation of potter’s. supportive parents who would grow old in the house that they lived they’re best life’s in, that would eventually pass together happily and peacefully.
at the raw age of 22, you had unexpectedly fell pregnant by accident but fatefully. soon after, you and james’ were engaged and as you neared nine months the two of you eloped. maybe everything was rushed, but why waste precious time! especially with the raging war happening with Voldemort. time truly was delicate in their case, with james being an auror for the order. praying most nights with your growing bump that he would make it home that night. thankfully, he always did.
then you gave birth to your first daughter, ivory potter, in the warmth and love of your cottage in scotland. many tears shed and sweat fallen, you and james happily welcomed your beautiful firstborn with open arms. ivory lived her first two years with loving parents and humorous uncles who spoiled her rotten.
you had then fell pregnant again, in times of scarce and fear as the war was spiralling and Voldemort had been closing in on the two of you. despite your lack of involvement in the death eaters, they still despised the idea of the prophecy child that had been told to you in divination during seventh year. no matter how much you two and james ignored it, the reality of it had been becoming more aware.
Dumbledore and the order moved you into a secret safe house temporarily as they tried to defeat voldermort. no inside or outer contact, just your little family trying to make the best of the situation. a year had passed since living in this house, you had given birth to your son, harry potter, who was now the youngest in the household. everything became unserious at the amount of time since nothing had happened, you weren’t always living on the edge. secretively having contact with some friends from Hogwarts.
perhaps thats how the word of your son had come out, the supposed prophecy child to have been born. you didn’t think it was possible that your friend’s could have told the death eaters about it, even now it felt like no one in that group even seemed the little bit guilty of it.
every day came pathetically repetitive, being closed off from the rest of the world. from family and from being able to actually see your friends in person who hadn’t even meet harry apart from photos. despite the alluring idea of sneaking to visit them all, nothing was worth the risk of your children. nothing amounted to that protection.
you and james were still blissfully in love, raising your beautiful children with gentleness and grace that you were sure carried throughout their ways. little angels who knew nothing but that.
it was the 31st of October 1981, and even though the kid’s couldn’t join in on the muggle trick or treating tradition like all the other’s in the neighbourhood they still dressed up. ivory dressed up as a young witch with a big grin and her homemade broom, harry dressed up as a golden snitch which was solely because of james’ contribution to costumes this year.
the sun had set and the kid’s were put to sleep in their respective rooms, leaving you and a breathless james dancing around the living room with wine glasses in hand, so obliviously unaware. wrapped up in the other in a unspoken adoration that carried the room.
there was a knock on the door and james went to the door expecting another trick or treater, leaving his wand that coordinated his costume on the sofa.
“oh hi pete!” he chirped, a grin on his face as he inspected the fear and something unfamiliar on his face that he couldn’t place. peter repeatedly mumbled apologies shaking his head as a green apparition happened behind him.
james smile fell instantly, yelling desperately to his wife, “y/n, he’s here, go upstairs and stay with the kids!” you dropped the wine glass passing a look with james as you ran up the stairs, wiping a tear with a nod as you hear him for the last time, “i love you, forever my love, keep them safe.” immediately you panicked running to grab ivory from her bed and bring her into the nursery of her brother’s as you soothed their cries and wiped their tears hearing their father groaning and shouting downstairs.
one final scream and a green light shook through the house and you sobbed in pain as you held on tight to your kids, aware of the ticking time you had. ivory held onto her brother protectively as you whispered to them, “listen, mummy and daddy love you both so much,” you cried, “never forget that, okay? we love you, we’ll always be here,” you yearn begging for this all to be a dream.
as he appears in the doorway you stand up in front of the two kids in the crib, “leave them alone!” you yell as he comically laughs at your misery knowing your disarmed. his sinister smile sickened you as he caressed your face with his wand, your tears falling achingly down your cheeks.
“your pathetic husband is dead,” he snarled, peering at the crying babies behind you as you followed his gaze protectively. “and soon will the rest of your little family,” he grinned, “murderered and forgotten.” you shake your head profusely.
“you can take my life, but you won’t get any closer to my children then you are now.” you growled, his smile morphing into something angry and furious. he chanted avada kedavra and the light fell from your eyes, nothing but the framed picture of your family on the wall in front of you left in your memory.
the cries and sobs of the kids echoed through the house as voldermort scowled at them, whilst ivory held her brother close to her, “mama!” she cried, tears streaming down her face onto her brother’s at their proximity.
he threw the curse at them which rebounded onto himself as he yelled and disappeared into thin air, leaving two scarred young children who had nothing but their parent’s distant memory. and the love and protection that saved them from the ending that their parents suffered. the oldest daughter comforting her younger brother as she innocently made grabby hands at his mother’s unconscious body.
“its otay haz, i’ve got you now,” ivory sniffled as the two dozed into their own sleep, hopelessly waiting for someone to realise and come and get them.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
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vifilms · 5 months ago
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i think some skin to skin with cowgirl abby could and would fix me :P
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❝ IM IN LOVE WITH YOU ❞ ✶ ABBY ANDERSON!
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an. nonnie, thank you for the request. it's more angst than i planned so i hope that's okay! i also wanna credit the cuntress queen @astralnymphh for this concept. so, so good. y'all need to check it out asap.
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Since she could feel it, from very early on, she’s liked women and never enjoyed the company of men other than to have an occasional beer with. Most of the girls around her worried about settling down, finding a perfect man, one who is respectable, stable, loving. Pleasing the wishes of their parents who are ever so demanding with a downpour of insured judgements. 
It’s all left to be found here, the bellows from a man and a woman living unhappily together, telling others how to live their life. Yet, Abby from a young age yearns for someone else, the piece she believes is missin’. 
The sought after, happily ever after. 
Not a soul she had met for her bill so she keeps her head down. Late night escapades are tight lipped, hidden from spectator’s eyes, ones they would throw slurs her way without a second thought if they knew. Just like they had when she hadn’t kept it a secret.
 Sometimes, it burns. Other times when she was buried in between a woman’s thighs as they cried for mercy in her ear, it didn’t. 
Underneath the midnight sky, her fingertips dance on the white wood — the one she shouldn’t be stepping her boots back on. 
Despite how she tells herself, this will be the last time, it never really is. It’s a quiet night in the small town tucked away in a small town in South Texas, the stars shine bright in the countryside, moonlight shining brighter than it has all month long. 
Abby steps up to your front porch, the pearly white picket fence, the home your dad built with his two bare hands and a dream. When she’s met with your shining smile, the doubt is evident, barely visible but it’s there. 
Is this what you want? Or were you just too kind of a woman to say no? 
Nothing is said between the two of you as you pull her into your home, a senseless wonder swirls in your eyes, getting lost in impenetrable blues. Maybe, it’s what pulls you in and keeps you there like the failed dreams in a dying town. Perhaps it’s when you dream of the sound of her voice at night when she decides not to come, leaving you alone to think of not a single thing but her. 
Once the door closes, it’s just the two of you. Abby’s musk is overwhelming, she tends to be, but you seem to welcome it with open arms. There's a pot roast you made for her, devouring it silently at the round dining room table, her muscular thigh touching yours, reminding you of the feelings which never seem to wither. 
Her brown, weathered stetson hat sits on the empty chair, her fingertips picking at the frayed edge, the nagging thought in her brain shouts at her to say something, anything, but you beat her to it. 
“You don’t have to stay, Abby. You’ve got an early morning, so do I.” You pick up the emptied plates, washing them at the sink when you feel strong, protective, arms wrap around your waist, her chin resting against your shoulder. 
“Why are you putting words in my mouth, darling?” Pink lips decorate deliberate kisses along the side of your neck, “I’m right where I wanna be. M’here with you, not going anywhere.” 
With her pointer finger, she tilts your head to her, dominant lips catching hers, Abby’s hold keeping you in place as she reminds you of what it feels like to be held by the person you call home. The quivering feeling shoots a shiver up your spine, her hands don’t stop moving as they caress your body. 
“C’mon now, you need some sleep.” Her southern drawl is strong as ever as she leads you up the stairs into your bedroom. “S’late, can’t have you not gettin’ sleep because of little ‘ole me.” 
You know what she wants and you know you’ll do it too. 
Anything for her. Right? 
A freshly showered Abby emerges as naked as the day she was born. Porcelain skin tanned by the radiance of the sun from a hard day’s work, a constellation of freckles cover her body. There’s an abundance collecting at her shoulders, across her collarbones as they dust her strong nose and spread across perfectly sculpted cheeks. 
The time you have with each other is few and far in between, occupied by the responsibilities of managing a ranch with her father commands most of the hours of the day, keeping her effectively away from you.
Plus, the feeling swarming in her heart she refuses to see yet she’s here a few times a week, wanting this. If Abby wants more, she’s good at hiding it, but the thought alone is dangerous. You can allow yourself to want more, not when she gives you nothing in return. 
“Are you gonna come over here, gorgeous?” She slides in between your legs, some of her weight soothingly collapses onto you. “Patience darling, m’right here, not going anywhere.” 
With a sigh of content, she grabs you by the waist as she pulls you on top of her with ease. Abby’s golden waves kiss your face as she hides her face in the crook of her neck. Meticulously, the blunt of her fingertips draw patterns on your skin, playing with the hem on your lace undergarment, the only piece of clothing left in your body. 
“You will go somewhere. In the morning, you’ll leave without saying goodbye. Jus’ like you do after every night.” Abby tightens her hold, thinking if she keeps you close you won't slip through but truth be told? She’d be the first to drop you, even if it wasn't her intention. 
“Sorry, m’not strong like you.” 
“I think you’re a lot stronger than you think, y’know?” Her lips find yours as her skin smothers you in the body wash she keeps in the cabinet. Soft breasts melt against her own, calming her in a way Abby can’t quite comprehend. 
This was more than just sex. If that’s all this was, she would be the nearest bar picking up the closeted women who fawn over her before she even steps her foot in the front door. The most sought after woman in town, yet it’s her tongue in your mouth, claiming in a way words fail her. 
“Abby—” The moan vibrates through her, she falls into the sensation of your heavenly skin, smooth against her calloused hands. Every inch of your body feels golden to her. It’s what she craves, the intimacy without having to be, so good, a delicate sigh leaves her puffy lips. “I—” 
With a loving look in her wondrous pools of deep sea blues, with a hint of gray stowed away beneath the light, she inquires for you to continue as she looks up at you. 
Your hands gently touch her face, thumb lovingly soothing over the apples of her cheeks and the scar decorating one of them. There’s nothing she despises more than it, makes her look far too damaged, but you’ve always thought it makes her the person she is. 
Strong, loving, imperfectly perfect. 
The first time you did it, she flinched as she gripped your wrist, pulling your fingers away from marking. Now, she closes her eyes and lets you. 
“When can I tell you without you running? When are you gonna stay?” Abby wants to tell you, say it. I won’t leave. I’ll always be here, right with you, forever. 
She doesn’t. She can’t. 
The words die on her tongue, the three little ones she feels but can’t let through. The past hurts haunt her as it disgusts itself as a never ending hangover which she holds it against you. It’s not meant to be cruel, it certainly isn’t fair, but it’s all she can do until time heals the festering wound. 
“I don’t have an answer for you—” Her blue eyes open, her lips ghosting over your again. “But, this, you? It’s just you and me. No one else, darling.” 
For now, it’s enough, but Abby stresses over the day where you’ve had enough cursing at the wind and whatever god sits above. 
One day, somewhere in the near future, she won’t be.
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taglist: @plutolovesyou @brackishkittie @nybueckers @tlouloser
wanna be tagged?
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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 9 months ago
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Spencer Reid x Read fic. Reid and Reader are friends, like best friends. Reader is always offering Reid donuts and listening to his fun facts and info dumps. It's one of those, they both like each other, but also are convinced the other doesn't like them.
Spencer is taking care of a slightly drunk reader whose grandmother called and asked why they're not engaged when they're younger sibling is married and expecting a child. At some point Spencer makes his ever classic comment about how it's safer to kiss and drunk reader, before being able to think, kisses Spencer. I hope that made sense.
OOPS I DID EXACTLY THAT
Safer to Kiss (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader
Word Count: 2899
Warnings: Mentions of food, drinking alcohol, mild cursing, outdated expectations of women, and lots of pining
A/N: Hi I wrote this in 2 hours and was extremely entertained, please enjoy and if you send me a fic request I'll probably do it bc this is my hyperfixation hobby right now and very much keeping the demons at bay xD @bxm-1012 thank you for dropping by my inbox! I am VERY tempted to make a part 2 of this, I hope you enjoy! c:
-----
The whole expiration date thing that women faced was, in your humble opinion, complete and utter bullshit. Here you were, slowly approaching thirty (definitely still told people you were twenty-five, when, in fact, you were actually twenty-eight), and the biological clock was ticking. No, you didn’t want kids. Not right now, anyway. Not when you were only two years into your career as a profiler for the FBI’s prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not when you still had tons of things to check off your bucket list - go to Europe, visit an independent bookstore in every state, pilot a helicopter. 
And you didn’t buy into that whole ‘once a woman hits thirty, her stock plummets’ crap. Not usually, anyway. 
But Nan’s phone calls always left you questioning your existence. 
Back home in Ohio, your little sister, Kendra, had just announced her pregnancy. Three years younger than you (ironically, the age you told everyone you were), and married to a power plant manager, Kendra was living the dream of a woman from the 1950s. You tried your best not to look down on it, to wish for more for her - but Kendra was happy. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and you couldn’t imagine anyone better suited for the role. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and a mother, to devoting one’s life to it. You reminded yourself of that every time you spoke to Kendra. You especially reminded yourself of it every time you spoke to Nan. 
That sympathetic tone your grandmother used when she said, “Oh, Button, you’ll find someone eventually, and you’ll be just as happy as Kenny” was like nails on a chalkboard. You resisted the urge to gag into your speakerphone and simultaneously rip your grandmother a new one. You wanted so badly to explain to her that you were perfectly fulfilled with your life. 
You helped lock up bad guys on a weekly basis, you wanted to remind Nan. Your brain was one of few that had been chosen for a task force that caught criminals based on their behavior. It was amazing, working for the BAU, bouncing ideas off of your colleagues, finding a family within this small group of people that spent more than forty hours a week together. 
Nan didn’t see it that way. She wanted you to be just like Kendra. She wanted you to have that white picket fence in the suburbs, with a broad-shouldered husband and two little tykes running at your feet. Domestic bliss just wasn’t in the cards for you, you’d decided. And that was okay.
You were still reeling from your conversation with Nan the night before when you walked in to work on Monday morning. It was Derek who caught the raging RBF first. “Woah, pretty girl. Pump. Your. Brakes.” He said, halting you just as you entered the BAU’s bullpen, holding a hand up to stop you. 
“Good morning to you, too, Derek,” You flashed him a phony grin, and he rolled his eyes. 
“And you’re grumpy this morning… why, exactly?” Derek asked, turning to walk beside you, essentially escorting you to your desk. 
“Because I’m allowed to be?” You proffered, shrugging your shoulders, not really wanting to talk about it with him. You loved Derek - hell, you loved all your coworkers - but he was not the person you wanted to go to with these thoughts. You didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, actually. You just wanted to ride the cranky train until it came to a complete stop. 
Emily was returning from the kitchenette with a fresh mug of coffee and decided that the conversation concerned her as well. “What’s going on?” she asked. 
“Y/L/N’s wearing her cranky pants this morning,” Derek filled her in. 
“Oh, those so don’t match your blouse, Y/N,” Emily teased, winking at you with a smirk before looking at Derek. “Cut her some slack. No one likes Mondays.” Derek held up his palms defensively. “Alright, alright. Forgive me for being a concerned citizen.” 
“It’s appreciated,” You told Derek genuinely before setting your bag down at your desk. “But unnecessary.” 
It wasn’t until later in the morning, around ten, that anyone bothered you about your obvious bad mood again. This time it was Spencer, the one person you couldn’t possibly be annoyed with. He rolled on his desk chair around the partition that separated your workspaces, holding his hand out expectantly, like he usually did this time of day. 
Without speaking, you opened the bottom drawer of your desk and pulled out the white bag of mini powdered donuts that you always kept in stock. They were your guilty pleasure snack, and one of the first things you and Spencer bonded over when you started at the BAU two years ago. That, and the fact that you were the closest agents in age, was how you got along so well so quickly. Over several cases, varying in degrees of intensity, you and Spencer became really great friends. Best friends, actually. 
There wasn’t anyone else in your life that you trusted more than Spencer Reid. 
You opened the bag of powdered donuts and shook one haphazardly into Spencer’s palm, then grabbed one for yourself. Silently, you cheers-ed your donuts together, and ate them simultaneously, making weird-but-comfortable eye contact as you did. 
“Derek says you’re in a bad mood today,” Spencer pointed out with a teasing smirk on his face. A smirk, and white sugar blanketing his upper lip.
“Derek’s full of shit,” you grinned after swallowing your snack, the smile on your face totally facetious. “I’m extremely happy.” 
“I can tell,” Spencer snickered as you set the powdered donuts back in your snack drawer, closing it with a clank. You watched as he brought both of his legs up into his desk chair, crossing them like a kindergartner. 
The action made your stomach flutter. You’d felt strongly about Spencer for a really long time, probably a year and half, if you had to try and pinpoint it. But there was no use in going down that road with him. For one thing, he was your best friend, and you didn’t want to risk flushing the best relationship in your life down the toilet. For another thing, you knew it was one hundred percent impossible that he could feel the same way. 
“What’d you do this weekend?” Spencer asked, and you could tell by the question that he was trying to discover the source of your poor attitude. 
“Stayed home, caught up on chores,” You said, crossing your knees and leaning back in your seat, your expression telling him that you knew exactly what he was doing. As much fun as playing mind games with Spencer was, you decided to throw him a bone. “Spoke to my grandmother on the phone last night.” 
Spencer nodded understandingly. “Say no more,” he said with a chuckle. “She gave you the whole ‘when are you going to get married’ spiel again?” 
You nodded. “Unfortunately. I usually don’t let it bother me, but for some reason it’s just, like, lurking in the back of my mind today.” You shrugged your shoulders and exhaled through your nose. “What about you?” You asked. 
“What about me?” Spencer arched a brow, and you rolled your eyes playfully. 
“What’d you do this weekend?” 
“Oh,” Spencer began, pursing his lips for a moment, like he was hesitant to tell you. “I actually went on a date.” 
Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah?” You choked out, forcing a smile. “Who with?” 
“That girl, Lisa, from the coffee shop, the one you told me wouldn’t stop ‘ogling my boy band hair’,” Spencer held up air quotes when he repeated your words from memory.
You recalled the cute barista from the coffee shop just down the highway from Quantico, a popular morning stop for agents on their way to work. You tried to stop the jealousy from turning your blood into fire. “How was it?” You asked, trying to resist the urge to sit on the edge of your seat, trying not to hang on his every word. 
Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay. She was very nice, but there just wasn’t…” he trailed off, gesticulating as the words failed to come to that supercomputer brain of his. 
“It was like a donut without powdered sugar on it?” You suggested with a small chuckle.
“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, nodding, meeting your eyes and smiling, mildly amused. “Exactly.” 
Spencer went back to his desk a few minutes later, and the rest of the day went on. It was quiet, especially for a day at the BAU. There were, weirdly enough, no open cases right now, so you spent the day catching up on paperwork, which there was always plenty of. 
You caught the elevator about ten minutes after five with Spencer in tow, and you held the door open for him. It was just the two of you as you made the descent from the sixth floor, and Spencer leaned against the back wall. “Plans tonight?” He asked. 
“Not really, no,” You said, shaking your head. “Why, you want to do something?” You asked. 
Spencer nodded. “There’s this landscape and nature photography exhibit at one of the galleries downtown,” he said. “Might be fun. There’s this artist, Milton Harvell, who takes photos of renowned locations around the world but zooms in on an obscure detail and gives the framed photograph to the person who correctly guesses the location.” 
You smiled slowly at that. You loved it when Spencer went off on one of his tangents. You found it completely adorable. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” Spencer went on, an amused tone lining his voice, making it sound lighter. “Kind of like a Where’s Waldo, but in reverse. There was this one photograph he took of the Louvre in Paris, but he zoomed in really tightly on a young boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He even went so far as to edit the photograph to make it look like it was a different time of day. The four thousand and eighth person to view the photograph was the person who guessed the correct location.” Spencer’s head bobbed and he was smiling like an idiot. 
God, you were down bad. 
“Was the four thousand and eighth person… you?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him scrupulously and allowing a teasing grin to cross your face. 
“The photo’s hanging in my living room,” he confirmed. 
You laughed softly. “Will there be alcohol at this function?” You asked him, and he nodded. 
That was all you needed to hear. 
— — —
You and Spencer went straight to the art gallery from work, sharing a cab rather than bothering with your cars. You immediately bought a glass of red wine, and began to follow him around the gallery. You weren’t an art aficionado, not by any means, but you enjoyed looking at beautiful things, and you especially enjoyed spending time with Spencer that wasn’t hunched over a dead body or trying to map out a killer’s comfort zone. It was a rare occurrence, so you tried to soak it all up as much as possible. 
Plus, your Nan’s words were still lingering in the back of your head. It’ll happen for you someday, Button. Men just don’t find you strong, career types attractive. Maybe you should soften up your look a little. 
You downed your first glass of wine within ten minutes, and caught one of the catering staff passing out champagne almost instantaneously after. The champagne fizzled down your throat as you strolled with Spencer through the art gallery, listening intently as he went on about each piece, rattling off whatever contextual knowledge he had. But you were a little bit biased; you could listen to him list different types of soil and find it interesting. 
After the glass of champagne came another glass of champagne, and by the time you made it to the main exhibit Spencer wanted to see, your cheeks were flushed. It wasn’t that you couldn’t hold your alcohol; rather, it just made you a little bit silly. Your inhibitions were lowered, just like it would affect anyone. But with your arm looped through Spencer’s and your Nan’s nagging message still in the back of your mind, you were perhaps a little more loose than usual. 
As Spencer examined the exhibit, you tapped your foot, unable to keep still, and scanned the open space. Your eyes landed on another patron of the gallery, a conventionally handsome man about your age, and you found yourself unlooping your arm from Spencer’s, subconsciously not wanting to appear taken. 
“Are you gonna go talk to that guy?” Spencer asked, and you snapped your eyes back to his. “Because you can, if you want to. Don’t let me stop you.” 
It was almost like he was daring you to. Spencer’s jaw seemed tense as you examined his expression, the way his gorgeous brown eyes darted from the man and back to you. “You don’t mind?” You asked, arching a brow, almost like a challenge.
Spencer shook his head, his lips pursed. “Not at all. I’ll wait here for you?” 
You nodded, and turned towards the man. There wasn’t any harm in getting a guy’s number, right? Your feelings for Spencer were a lost cause, anyway. Plus, as Nan liked to point out, you weren’t getting any younger. 
The man’s eyes locked on yours and he seemed to understand that you were about to speak with him. He met you halfway, and you shook his hand. “Malcolm Greene,” he introduced himself, and you spouted off your own name in return. “You’re not here with that guy?” He asked, jerking his chin over to Spencer. Your eyes followed Malcolm’s, and you saw Spencer with his body turned towards the photography exhibit, but his head turned to the side, as if he were keeping an eye on you with his peripheral vision. 
“Yeah, I am,” you said, and Malcolm’s head inclined to the side. “I am. I’m here with that guy,” you panicked, suddenly realizing in that moment that you weren’t interested in speaking with Malcolm. No, you had absolutely no interest in spending your time with any other man but Spencer Reid. “I just, uh…” Your cheeks flushed, and you stifled an awkward laugh, anxiously trying to come up with some excuse. “I came over here to tell you that your shoe was united.” 
Your eyes followed Malcolm’s down to his shoes, which were loafers. Laceless loafers. Malcolm’s mouth opened as if to point this out to you, but you managed to stammer words out first. “Ok, well, have a great night, goodbye!” You turned on your heel and marched back over to Spencer, your cheeks red as you reached out for his arm. 
Spencer furrowed his brows down at you as your arm gripped his. “I need another glass of wine,” you confessed. 
Twenty minutes later, after two more glasses of wine and a very watchful eye out for Malcolm, you and Spencer left the art gallery. You were awfully giggly on the cab ride back to your place, cracking puns and humming along to the radio intermittently. Spencer seemed to be amused, but more so concerned with getting you home in one piece. 
As he walked you up the stairs to the door of your apartment building, he was teasing you about your conversation with Malcolm, which you still hadn’t told him completely about. “I still can’t believe you didn’t get his number. You were talking with him for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds. What, in that short of an amount of time, could have turned you off to him so quickly?” He pondered aloud, a playfully mocking tone lining his voice. 
“Listen, I shook his hand! I had my fun!” You exclaimed, bursting into laughter as you leaned against the handrail of the stairs that led up to the door. “Good, clean fun!” 
“You know, the number of pathogens that are passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss someone,” Spencer rattled off, and your eyes snapped to meet his. 
You don’t know what took you over. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected in the irises of his eyes, or how you stood just a few inches away from him. Maybe it was his stupid tweed blazer, how he looked like a tenured art history professor despite barely being thirty years old. Maybe it was the way he smelled like pine and printer ink, a combination you wouldn’t have ever thought was attractive. 
But when Spencer said that, you stood up on your toes and kissed him. It was slow and innocent at first, until it passed the border into lingering, and Spencer’s hands found your hips, pulling your body closer to his. There was a cool night breeze that filtered through the space between your bodies, and by the time you pulled your lips away from Spencer’s, and slowly opened your eyes, you were completely red in the face and breathless. 
No, that certainly wasn’t the safest choice you could have made.
——
read part 2 here
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Can I get a whiskey with Steve Rogers as a married couple please one where it’s not quite marvel universe?
New Perspective.
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set in a universe where steve doesn't leave, but instead stays to live out the rest of his life in happiness. this is just tooth rotting fluff. <3
warnings - the tiiiiiniest bit of angst at the start. mainly just sweethearts in love.
word count on this is 1k <3
3k masterlist here.
masterlist. inbox.
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It's panic, first.
Then horror.
Sadness comes next.
And then... complete and utter relief.
You'd begged him not to go. Pleaded and bargained, promised him anything and everything. But he insisted.
You knew the risks. You also knew you'd never forgive yourself if you let him go while you were arguing.
So, you accepted it. He was leaving to go on a mission through space and time, and you were fine with it. Completely and totally fine with it.
You kissed him goodbye on the platform, whispering gentle love against his lips.
"You come back to me in one piece, Steve Rogers. You understand?"
He nodded gently, pressing his forehead to yours.
"Yes, ma'am. Understood."
He'd told you he loved you at least forty times before he went. It didn't do anything to quell the unease in your heart.
And then, it was time. And he was gone. And you held your breath. And the minutes went by. And he hadn't returned.
"Where is he, Bruce?" you questioned softly, trying not to let on how scared you were.
"Yeah, where is he, Bruce?" Sam had said, firmer, laced with more fear.
"I, I - I don't... I'm trying, okay?"
"Trying?" Bucky asked in disbelief, scoffing. "Trying?"
All four of you began to panic. Chests heaving, bones vibrating, lips chewed between teeth.
Finally, there was a noise. A clattering whoosh, a signal of return. You watched the platform, waiting for him to appear.
And he didn't.
"Where is he, Bruce? Where the fuck is he?"
It was the most upset you'd ever seen Sam. You didn't like it. You'd scanned the horizon, and saw broad shoulders and blond hair in the distance.
"I think he's back."
You were whispering, afraid to ruin the tension of the science. You slowly walk over to the bench, and there he is. In all his golden glory.
"Steve?"
"Baby?"
He looked a little dazed, a little confused. Suppose that happens, when you travel between dimensions.
"You okay?"
"I did it. Everything's back where it should be."
"Proud of you," you smiled, sitting down next to him and linking your hands together. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. Saw some old faces. They just made me want to get home to you."
You had grinned at him, then, all bright and blinding. You surged forward and captured his lips with yours, throwing your arms around his neck.
"Never leave me again," you'd laughed. "My heart can't handle it."
"Never again," he'd promised into your mouth. "Never again."
That was years ago.
You'd both vowed to live a simple life, from that moment on.
You got married a couple of months later, in a quaint little courthouse in downtown New York. Sam and Bucky were your witnesses, both of them standing with tears in their eyes as you and Steve promised to love each other forever. The four of you grabbed dinner afterwards, at a small family run place that Sam recommended. It was perfect.
You bought a house on the outskirts of New York, out of the city. You wanted greenery and nature, and Steve vowed he'd give you anything you ever asked for.
It's a three bedroom cottage, plenty big enough for the both of you. There's a white picket fence and a rustic stone wall, pathway paved with lawn on either side. The front door is forest green, painted by your husband at your request. You'd suggested Captain America Blue first, but he'd protested. You'd laughed and compromised, picking out paint colours hand in hand at the hardware store.
You've planted fruit trees in the garden, watering them carefully every evening. Apples, pears, cherries, plums for Bucky. You're hoping it'll be warm enough to plant an orange tree or two next year. Steve helps, more than happy to muddy his jeans and get his hands dirty, on his knees in the soil with you. He's hung fairy lights and lanterns among the trees, illuminating the backyard. It's the perfect atmosphere for a dinner party, your friends and family laughing and chatting around a carefully prepared table, food and wine scattered across the cloth. You live for nights like those. Both of you do.
One of your favourite places is your sun room. Big glass panes, sunlight beaming in at all hours of the day. It's prettiest at sunrise and sunset, pinks and oranges cast across the space. You and Steve curl up on one of the love seats, limbs and heartstrings tangled together. You watch the sun come up, excited at the possibilities the day holds. Then, you watch it set, content and warmed by the fullness of your love. You drink coffee there in the morning, and tea there at night. Whiskey, sometimes. You'd be happy to sit there forever, never leaving your husband's side.
Steve installed a vintage claw foot tub in the bathroom. It has ornate gold feet, shiny and intricate. You light candles, close the blinds, and fill it up with warm water and bubbles. Both you and Steve slip into it, your back against his chest, strong arms keeping you steady. He washes your hair carefully, taking his time, slow and gentle. He presses kisses to your wet skin as he works, memorising every inch of you. As if he doesn't already know it by heart.
The most frequented room in the house is the kitchen. You and Steve spend hours cooking, baking, making cocktails. You'll perfect a recipe while Steve sits on the counter, stealing kisses as you work. The sunlight glints off your wedding bands, illuminating the big, open room. It's light and it's spacious and it's a haven filled with love and laughter. And cake. Lots of cake.
He keeps his promise right until the very end. He never left you again.
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ashwhowrites · 2 years ago
Note
can i request a little bit of angst?
eddie is in his late twenties, finally got his shit together, a baby on the way with reader! and eddie’s OLDER brother shows up. he’s an asshole, exactly like their dad, tries hitting on reader, crashes on their couch, makes eddies life hell then it all comes to a head and they end up fighting!
I really love this request!!! 🫶🏻
Never proofread
I hope this is what you wanted, thank you for requesting &lt;3
Happy ending
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~~~
If there was one thing in life Eddie didn't think he'd ever achieve, it was getting his life together. He never thought he'd make it out of the trailer park. And he definitely never thought he'd have a wife by his side and a baby on the way.
It took Eddie a long time to get on his feet. Selling drugs and living with his uncle was not the future he wanted for himself. He used his dirty money and got himself a shitty apartment, in the corner of the dirtiest neighborhood, but it was all his. And being on his own was something he could be proud about.
~~~
He was living in that apartment for around five years when he met Y/N. She moved into the apartment next to him, struggling to carry boxes through the front door. Eddie was happy he lived on the first floor, easily walking out behind her, trying his best to not seem creepy.
She turned around and screamed as she saw him. A hand over her chest. Eddie jumped at the scream, hands in the air to show he meant no harm.
"I am so sorry! I just wanted to see if you needed help." He offered with the friendliest smile he could manage.
Who would have thought in three years, he would have been marrying that girl.
~~~
Marriage life was the best thing Eddie has experienced, and he felt that fatherhood would be the same. He never knew how badly he craved a family until he was on the path of creating his own. He could start fresh, start a new family tree of the Munson name. A name that didn't have to be originated from prisoners, dealers, and being poor. He wanted the Munson name to be carried on through generations, with all good things behind it. Having a wife like Y/N take his name, told him he had a strong beginning.
She was around six months, her belly growing by the day. Together they made enough to buy a small home, in a safer neighborhood. Nothing too flashy, but it was their home and it meant everything. Eddie gagged at the thought of a white picket fence but he loved seeing it shine in the morning sun when Y/N watered the plants.
The nursery was nearly finished. The walls painted baby pink, and the furniture white. Eddie's favorite bands posted on the walls. He claimed their daughter needed to get her music journey started right away.
Eddie was the happiest he's ever been until an unwelcome visitor showed up at his door.
Y/N knew everything about Eddie, except his family. She knew Uncle Wayne and that was all. She respected that Eddie was private about his family and that he didn't care to share who they are.
So Y/N stood in shock when an older man stood at her door, the same shade of brown as her husband. A similar smile on the man's face, and a slightly bigger version of Eddie's nose.
"I'm looking for my brother," the man stated, looking her up and down. A tiny smirk on his face. But his smirk didn't give her butterflies, it made her stomach turn in a bad way.
She screamed for Eddie, a polite smile on her face. The longer Eddie took the more nervous she got.
"How far are you?" The man questioned, his hand reaching for her stomach.
She took a big sigh of relief when Eddie's hand shot out and stopped the man's touch from touching her. He stood in front of her. Completely blocking her view from the stranger.
"Little E, how the hell are you?" The stranger asked
"What are you doing here?" Eddie snapped. She watched as his body was stiff, she slipped her hand in his back pocket and stood on the side of him.
"Got out of jail, needed a place to crash. Wayne is going out of town and doesn't trust me alone in his place." The man rolled his eyes as he finished his sentence.
"I don't blame him since the last time you did you trashed it," Eddie said, his jaw was tight and his face was hard.
"Come on, E, help a brother out."
~~~
Eddie wasn't sure why he said yes, but he already regretted it watching the way his brother's eyes were glued to his wife.
"Quit staring," Eddie snarled, using his foot to kick him under the table.
Y/N hummed in the kitchen as she checked the chicken. Trying her best to keep her attention off of the two men at the dining table. She felt her body shudder underneath Michael's stare.
"Quite a woman you got there," Michael said, sipping on his beer
Eddie didn't say anything, accepting the silence instead.
Y/N smiled as she placed the food on the dinner table. Putting together a plate for Eddie and placing it in front of him.
"Gonna make me a plate, pretty girl?" Michael winked, his hand reaching forward to her wrist. She gulped and looked nervously at Eddie.
"Leave her alone." Eddie snapped
Michael put his hands up in surrender, making his own plate.
The three sat in silence.
~~~
Michael has been crashing on the couch for the past week, and every day he was getting on Eddie's last nerve.
Y/N worked from home and spent most of the day in her office, Eddie worked at a car dealership. He hated leaving for work and leaving her alone with Michael. He didn't trust Michael but Eddie's boss would also kick his ass for not showing up.
He kept his phone on him at all times, reminding Y/N to call the second she needed him to come home.
~~~
Michael said he found a friend to crash with and would be leaving shortly. Asking Y/N if she would help him clean his clothes and pack up his belongings. She honestly felt too scared to tell him no, silently scooping up his clothes and bringing them to the small laundry room. She excused herself to head into the shower. Eddie would be home within minutes so she felt safe to be in a vulnerable state, checking twice to make sure the door was locked.
~~~
Eddie pulled up in the driveway, bracing himself for another night of trying not to kill Michael with his bare hands. He walked in to see his house trashed, the cushion torn apart, and the cupboards all thrown open, he heard shuffling around in the bedroom. He raced to the noise to see Michael digging through their drawers.
"What the fuck? Are you trying to rob us?" Eddie asked in disbelief, Michael's backpack was filled with random items. Eddie yanked the bag out of his grip, dumping it all out on the bed.
He felt his blood boil when Y/N's ring fell out. But once his brain caught up with seeing the ring, his blood felt cold. She ONLY took it off when she was in the shower. Eddie turned his eyes to Michael, immediately shoving him against the wall.
"Where did you grab the ring?" He prayed with everything in him that she left it in the bedroom.
"She had it sitting on the bathroom counter, she couldn't see me with her back to me. Really hit the jackpot there, Eddie. Shes' smoking."
Eddie felt his stomach turn, he felt like he could throw up at any moment.
"You fucking pig. Don't talk about her." Eddie barked, twisting Michael's shirt in his grip.
"A really nice ass, I bet her tits ar-" But Eddie kicked Michael in the stomach before he could finish.
~~~
Y/N heard a commotion in the bedroom, fear in her stomach as she got covered herself in a towel and called Wayne. Racing out of the bathroom to see Eddie on top of Micahel, screaming and punching.
"OH MY GOD, EDDIE" She panicked, she knew getting in the way would put the baby in danger, but she has never seen Eddie so out of control.
The sound of her scream caused Eddie to freeze, and both men looked to see her.
"Eddie, stop," She said calmly. She placed her hand out, offering him to stand up. He took a deep breath and got off of Michael. Grabbing his bag and throwing it on him.
"You are out." Eddie snarled
Michael coughed as he tried to move his beaten-up body. Eddie rolled his eyes and dragged Michael to his feet.
"I have his clothes," Y/N said, quickly running out to the laundry room.
Michael smirked as Eddie looked over at him.
"What asshole?" Eddie asked.
"I see why you knocked her up. When she was bent over that washing machine." Michael groaned, rubbing himself over his jeans.
Eddie lost it again, immediately throwing his body on his.
Y/N came back with the clothes to see Michael unconscious, but the look in Eddie's eyes was unrecognizable.
She didn't fear him, but she was worried for him.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Wayne came through the door, yanking Eddie off of Micahel.
"Hey, hey, look at me," Wayne instructed, grabbing the sides of Eddie's face, forcing his eyes to look at him.
Eddie's body was shaking, his knuckles cut open, and his breathing was quick and harsh.
Eddie locked his eyes on Waynes, allowing himself to calm down.
"I'll take care of him, hug your wife and go clean up."
Eddie listened in seconds, turning around to throw himself in his wife's arms. Allowing her to hide in his neck. She rubbed his back and cooed in his ear.
She took him to the bathroom to clean up his hands. Kissing each knuckle as she cleaned the blood.
"I'm sorry I let him stay here." Eddie sighed, he couldn't believe he was that dumb. He watched Wayne do the same thing with Eddie's dad for years, and yet he did the same thing.
"Don't be. You wanted to help and that was sweet of you." She said, standing between his legs as he sat on the counter.
They heard the front door close, Wayne and Michael officially gone.
"I'm sorry my family is a mess, this I why I never wanted you to know them." He added. His hands reached down to rub her stomach.
"Wayne is your family, I'm your family, and she is your family. That's the only family I care to know. Wayne raised the man I love and he is the only one I need to know. I have the two best Munsons in my life." She said, leaning up to peck his lips.
"Well, I get to have three." He smiled, kissing her back and his hand stayed on her stomach.
This was his real family.
~~~
tags!
@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @slightlyvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @manyfandomsfanvergent @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila
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shawnxstyles · 1 year ago
Text
personal
DATE: JULY 24, 2023
summary: you and harry are best friends who tell each other everything. or so you thought. when harry finds out you’ve barely done anything sexual, he offers to change that. and then things get a little… personal.
song: Glitch- taylor swift (this song seems fitting)
words: 6.5k
warnings: SMUT (f- receiving [rubbing, fingering, nipple play, praise kink], mirror sex, cum tasting??, dirty talk), and language.
note: i literally wrote this in a few days i think. this idea is so basic, but who doesn’t love a cliché concept? PART 2
bestfriend!fratrry x inexperienced!reader (because i literally write no one else and fratrry is the love of my life)
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Harry had a lot of friends. People that he grew up with and some that he met along the way that just stayed. But you were his number one overall, and he told you everything. You told him everything too.
Well, almost everything.
It never really caught his attention that you guys never talked about sex. You guys have been friends for 15 years, since you were five, so you’d think it would have been brought up at least once. But now that Harry thinks about it, he can’t think of one time you’ve talked about the act.
He didn’t think it would be like this. And he didn’t think you’d answer like that.
You and Harry were casually hanging out on a free school day, just like you always do. And then you start talking about this date you went on and how the guy was great. Harry was happy for you, he really was. All he wanted was to see his best friend happier than happy. However, being the best friend he was, he was nagging and joking with you.
“Think he’s the one, eh?” Harry jokes, nudging your shoulder playfully on your couch.
“Oh, stop it. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” You roll your eyes and cross your arms. Yeah, Mike seemed like a decent guy and maybe you could have a relationship for a short time, but he was nowhere near “the one.”
You weren’t too desperate for a relationship, you liked whatever came to you. This cute guy asked you on a date a week ago and you weren’t going to say no. Because what if he was the one? He wasn’t, but what if?
“Imagine it, Doll,” Harry started. He began calling you Doll when you two were just kids. You loved to collect dolls of all sorts, but you never dared to take them out of the box. Harry thought it was silly, but also cool. “picket white fence, beautiful lake house. Kids runnin’ ‘round—”
He saw your face cringe at the word kids. He tilted his head in confusion, arm moving to rest behind you on the couch. He scoots closer to you and waits for you to respond.
“No kids for me,” You awkwardly chuckle. It seemed almost sad the way you sounded.
“What? Thought you wanted to be a mum?”
“Not anymore,” You breathed out with an awkward smile, “need a husband to do that.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout getting a husband. Shouldn’t stop you from wanting ‘em,” Harry smiled sincerely at you and you nodded while looking down.
“Plus, you could always just go out on the street and ask some good-lookin’ lad to be the father of your kids!” You socked Harry hard in the shoulder. He lets out a hearty laugh because he always ruins a sweet moment with a stupid joke. That’s just how you like it though.
“I’m not a prostitute!”
“Never said tha’.”
“Can we just watch some TV? You’re annoying me,” You roll your eyes as you reach for the remote. Harry continues to laugh as you switch the television on.
When you’re indecisive, you toss the remote to Harry and he shuffles through the stations. He lands on a random one, also indecisive. You guys were too similar sometimes.
“Look on your phone for somethin’ and then I’ll find it. I’m done searching.”
“You looked for like two seconds!” You laughed at his laziness. He shrugs with a smile, leaning into the couch. Again, you roll your eyes playfully before doing a bit of research on your phone.
Suddenly, a moan echoes throughout your living room and your whole body stiffens up. Harry notices and tears his eyes away from the screen, which was portraying the sexy noises. You don’t look at him even though you can feel his eyes burning into you.
“Alright?” he asked out of concern, peering at your rigidness. He’s only ever seen you get like that when you were anxious or scared, but nothing happened. Maybe you saw something scary on your phone?
“Uh, yeah,” You squeaked as the TV moaned again. Your face cringes and you force yourself to keep your eyes on your phone.
“Y/N, seriously,” Harry stares between you and the screen when she noisily moans again. The woman was being eaten out by the man and was being overly loud. Her back was arching and her breasts were on display. The movie was inappropriate, 18+ for sure, but it was nothing you hadn’t seen before. Right? You were both 21 years old.
“This… just makes me a tad uncomfortable is all,” You answered honestly, voice quiet as your legs tightened together. Harry’s eyebrows pursed together.
“Uncomfortable? Why?” he couldn’t help the question that slipped out of his mouth. He was too curious to know why a little movie made you stiff yet fidgety.
Unless… you were feeling something different than uncomfortable.
“No,” You shook your head and attempted to push yourself off the couch. Harry didn’t hesitate to grab your wrist and pull you back. He didn’t want you to run away and for you to feel like you couldn’t tell him something.
“Just tell me.”
“No,” You stood your ground, way too embarrassed to say something. Way too embarrassed to admit that you’ve never had sex before. Way too embarrassed to admit you’ve never done anything more than rub your own clit. Once. And it didn’t even feel that good.
Your skin was fiery and… tingly. Harry was much closer to you than he previously was because he pulled you closer to him. Your bare thighs were touching, warm on warm with a sudden spark. You didn’t know you weren’t breathing until you inhaled deeply at Harry’s hooking stare.
“Doll, you tell me everything, but you can’t tell me why a little porn makes you uncomfortable? Because I know it’s tha’.”
“Ugh,” You groaned between clenched teeth. You threw your head back until it hit the top of the couch. Harry’s grip on your wrist never left you. He squeezed it reassuringly, letting you know that he supports you in whatever you’re going to say.
Are you really about to say it?
“Y/N, just—”
“No.”
“I thought we were best friends—”
“Do not pull that card!”
“But—”
“I’ve never had sex before, okay?” You shouted over Harry’s pleading voice and the echoing moans from the television. You’d think by the time you had a whole argument they’d be done having sex, but nope.
Harry was cut off, so his mouth was slacked open. Once he realizes his jaw is on the floor, he blinks a few times to really process what you’ve said. If you had told anyone else, they would have harshly judged you. Harry wasn’t necessarily too different, but he was your best friend, and he was going to try his hardest not too. Harry was just more shocked if anything. He had a handful of different bodies, enough to give him a good amount of experience. So when he finds out you’ve done nothing, he’s beyond surprised to his core.
“But you’ve had so many dates,” Harry looks over at your face, which was looking down at your lap. Your wrist was still trapped in his hand, but you were twiddling your thumbs like you were in trouble. He starts rubbing reassuring circles with his thumb over your knuckle. Your skin was so hot, and Harry’s theory of you being turned on continued in his mind.
Did you even know what that meant? You were naive, right?
“So? That doesn’t mean anything,” Your attitude was shining through. But deep down, you were more embarrassed than anything. This was just your coping mechanism. And of course, Harry knew that.
“Surely you’ve done something else,” Harry suggests. You pin him with a knowing look and a long blink.
“I haven’t,” You answered before even hearing his question. He clearly doesn’t care about your reply because he’s asking you a series of interrogation questions.
“Have you had someone eat you out—” Harry points to the screen, but it was on a commercial break now. You got the point, but Harry clearly didn’t.
“No,” You grumbled.
“What about fingering—”
“No.”
“A toy?”
“Where would I even buy that?”
“Or—”
“No, Harry. Nothing.”
“Not even rubbing?” he asks. You stay quiet, unsure if you want to admit the one-time experiment you did.
Why does it even matter? You tried it and you realized you don’t like it, so you never have to do it again right?
“Not… really,” You hesitated. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion while your skin burned at boiling temperature.
“Humping?”
“No—I tried to…” You couldn’t get the words out. Not ever you’d think. But especially not with Harry so close to you. His body was warm, not as warm as yours, but it was eliciting something inside of you that you couldn’t comprehend. The way he nonchalantly said so many dirty things made you dizzy.
“Tried to what?” Harry was thinking of so many things you could say. He wanted to finish your sentence, just like how he wanted to finish you until you were crying his name and soaking him. But he wanted to hear you say it. He’s never thought of you in such an explicit way, but with the words and tension floating in the air it was hard not to.
“…do it myself.”
“And how did that work out, Doll?”
“Um,” You didn’t expect him to ask. Your neck and cheeks light up in small flames. Where did this come from? “I…”
“What? I thought you could tell me anything?” When your eyes flickered up to his, they were a dark, swirling green you’ve never seen on his face before. Your heart skipped a dangerous beat, frightened with anticipation.
“I know, I can. But this… it’s different.”
“How so?”
“It’s personal—”
“Best friends are personal.”
“But not like this. Best friends don’t do this,” You tried to get up again, nearly ripping yourself away from his grip. But you were in too deep now. Harry wasn’t going to let this one slide. His mind was thinking about one thing and one thing only.
You.
He yanks you back and twirls you around, releasing your wrist in the process. He grabs you by the hips and pulls you down to his lap. You couldn’t contain the slight gasp you let out at the feeling of his strong legs beneath you. Your legs were on either side of him, tempting to squeeze shut. Every movement you made Harry would feel in this position.
“Best friends can say anything. They can do anything too,” Harry’s hands caress your thighs. They’re comforting and inviting, but are also sending a field of goosebumps along your skin warning you to flee. It’s hard to focus on anything but his touch and the vibration of his words through the air. “Now, tell me, did you rub yourself?”
“Yes,” You stutter, trying to stop your hips from squirming on his lap. He notices and grips one side of your body to steady you. It only makes you want to shift more. His touch was almost overwhelming, but you wanted more of it.
Was it wrong to want more of your best friend’s touch?
“Did it feel good?”
“No,” A part inside of you was a bit disappointed that it felt so bland. You thought masturbation was this great thing, and that’s why people did it so frequently. You heard it was also a stress-reliever, but for you, it was just a stress-inducer. Harry could tell by your tone that you weren’t lying.
“Well, you probably weren’t doing it right,” Harry replies and you look up at him with a slightly startled expression and a scoff. You didn’t expect his response to be so straightforward, like he was a doctor diagnosing you with some disease.
“How could I do it wrong? Don’t I just rub…?”
“Baby, it’s much more than that,” Harry said sincerely. He’s never called you baby before, but the nickname had your heart jumping. “Were you even wet?”
“What? I—probably? I don’t remember…”
“You would remember.”
“The experience wasn’t very memorable,” You grumble with an eye roll.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His question had your head spiraling. He wanted to what? There is no way. There is no way those words just left Harry, your best friend’s, mouth.
“W-what? That’s way too personal!” Your eyes were wide and your skin was burning. You were nearly dizzy with this whole conversation and your stomach was tight. You thought you might need to lie down for a while.
Maybe you were sick. Yeah, that’s it.
“Best friends are personal, Doll. Just let me show you, yeah? And then we never have to talk about it again. If y’don’t want. Please,” Harry’s charm was convincing you. Everything about him was luring you in, completely different than ever before. The way his eyes was dark and his touch was warm made you feel wanted and needed, which was contrary to your past dates. They didn’t look at you this way, nearly beg for you this way. They didn’t show you anything. They wanted you because they wanted to get their dick wet, but they hated the idea of a virgin.
And Harry’s familiar. He’s safe. You don’t have to be afraid when you’re with him. But then why are you so nervous?
Harry was willing to teach you how to do the one thing you’ve been curious about your whole life, and you’re going to pass up the opportunity, why? Because he’s your best friend?
Isn’t that supposed to make it better?
“Okay, fine,” You inhaled as your hands gripped onto his T-shirt on his shoulders. You had convinced yourself to let the words slip out. “Show me.”
You were agreeing almost as if this wasn’t a big deal for you. But to Harry, it was. He would take your firsts, and something about that filled him with pride. A smirk slowly rides up on his lips, “Now?”
A blush cascades through your body. Of course he didn’t mean right now!
“I-I thought you meant—”
“Shh, relax, Doll. I was just makin’ sure,” he smirks again, pulling you closer to him. He loved watching you get all squirmy and flustered more than he thought. You could feel his body heat more than ever now, and you’re surprised you lasted this long on his lap without dying. “I’m going to give you a few options, okay?”
With anxiousness, you nodded and swallowed.
“When we do this, you have to talk. So use your words, Y/N,” You knew he was being serious when he said your name, so you replied with yes and then he was giving you your options.
“So, I can lay you down right here on the couch and show you how to rub your little clit,” his explicit words were making your privates ache, but it wasn’t painful. It kind of felt… good? You felt a foreign liquid dampen your underwear, and you can only assume that’s the wetness Harry was talking about. “Or, you can do it yourself on m’thigh with my help. Which one sounds like something y’want to do?”
“The first one,” You answered, painfully desperate to squeeze your legs together to stop this ache. “But how will I see what you’re doing?”
Harry thought for a moment. You made a good point. How were you supposed to learn simply from feeling? Harry knew you were a bit of a visual learner, so he wanted to make sure you saw how to pleasure yourself correctly. And he knew the perfect way to do that.
“I actually have a third option. But s’not really a choice anymore,” Harry doesn’t say anything after, he just lifts himself and you off the couch without warning. You wrap your arms and legs around his body like a koala, making sure you don’t fall. His warmth encompasses you back and you wish you could just stay there forever.
Familiar. Safe.
When your head peers up from his shoulder, you’re in his bathroom. Your eyebrows pinch together, curious as to what his third choice was.
He sets you down on the floor until your feet are planted. You unwrap your arms from him, still confused.
“Do you trust me, Y/N?” Harry’s eyes were still dark, and you wondered if they would ever go back to the strong, emerald green they used to be.
“Yes, of course,” You didn’t hesitate to answer. There was no one that you trusted more than Harry that wasn’t in your bloodline.
“Okay,” Harry breathes, “Strip f’me. Keep your bra and underwear on.”
You nearly questioned him in shock. But then you remembered what the whole goal of this was. He was going to show you how and you were going to listen, right? So you did.
Carefully, you stripped yourself of your clothes. He’s seen you in bathing suits before, and some were revealing, so this can’t be as bad, right? Harry didn’t peel his eyes away although you wanted him to. He hasn’t seen you naked since you two were little kids, and even though you weren’t naked, it felt like you were with his burning gaze. Obviously, there were some changes too. Like height, hair, breasts, ass… the whole thing. Harry doesn’t say anything until you’re in your undergarments.
A swimsuit is definitely different.
“Good. Now, c’mere,” Harry sits down on the floor, a few feet away from his full-body mirror. His body was up against the bathtub wall to keep himself steady. You slowly lowered yourself to the floor, wondering what was going on through his head.
He pulls you between his legs until you’re pressed against his body. His warmth radiated through you far better with less clothes on and your body ached some more. Your legs closed to squeeze it away.
“Nuh uh,” he declines. Harry grips your thighs with his ringed fingers and yanks them apart. You gasp at the extreme vulnerability and the coolness that waves over your privates. He throws your legs over his and bends them slightly, making you unable to move at all. “Keep them open, yeah?”
You nodded, but that’s not what he told you to do.
“Words.”
“Yes. Keep them open.”
“Good girl. You’re learning,” Harry smiled and looked towards the mirror. His eyes instantly zoomed in on the growing wet patch on the front of your cotton panties, and he couldn’t help but smirk. He saw and felt your body squirming similarly like how you were on his lap. He’s had a rock-hard cock since this conversation started, so he’s not surprised if you can feel his hard-on poking your back through his shorts.
His hands rested on your knees as you watched him in the mirror. The entirety of it all was extremely erotic, like something that would be on TV.
“If you like something, tell me. If you hate something, tell me. It’s important that you do so, okay? It helps both of us learn.”
“Okay,” You were nearly shaking with anticipation. You were so nervous, but why? It’s just Harry. It’s just Harry. “I kind of like when you say I’m doing a good job. Makes me feel… nice.”
“Yeah?” Harry tried to conceal the smirk that threatened to rise on his lips. Of course his best friend, who happened to be the most innocent person in the world, had a praise kink. It just made too much sense. “Like when I call you a good girl?”
You sighed and nodded, but Harry didn’t say anything this time. He just kept going.
One of his hands rested on your knee, tracing delicate circles. He stayed in the same spot, for god knows how long, and you wondered when he would do something. He seemed to be in a trance. He was hyper-focusing on every centimeter with those circles, and although you were getting impatient, you felt cared for.
One of his hands snakes to your chest and rubs your nipple through your bra. Just when you were about to protest, his fingers moved a tad lower. The roughness of his pads tickled your skin just right and caused your thighs to squirm. It was entertaining for Harry to watch you get all squirrely from such a simple touch.
He’s going to have fun with you.
“It… tickles,” You observe as your eyes look down at his fingers, very gradually moving closer to that ache in between your legs. You felt like a kid exploring a new world for the first time; naive and curious.
“What does?”
“Your fingers,” You stare at him in the mirror almost as if he’s stupid. What else would tickle?
“Does this tickle?” Harry’s knuckle brushes the inside of your thighs, lower than he’s been. You inhale at the subtle sensitivity.
“Not much,” You answer, and his knuckle continues to sway leisurely. Your breath picks up, rising faster at his hand’s proximity.
“What about this?” His index finger traces the hem of your panties with purpose. You gasp when he gets deep in between your legs, outlining your cunt with ease. Your legs attempt to shut with a shake, shying away from the vulnerability, but it’s impossible with his strong legs prying you open.
“A-a little.”
“And this?”
As if his touch could be anymore teasing, he finally dances along your clothed cunt, tracing your lips with curiosity of how you’d react. A mix of a sigh and a moan wavers out of you unintentionally, hips pushing closer towards his finger. Your mind blanks, light and fuzzy. Your face immediately falls to gaze at his movements, attracted to the air-headed feeling.
“Eyes on the mirror,” Harry demands while delicately caressing you. It was ironic, really. His voice was so rough and stoic while his touch was ever so gentle. With a few blinks, you're focusing in on the mirror, obeying his command. “How does this feel? Does it tickle?”
“Good, and yes,” You swallow your moan as his finger keeps petting you lightly. You were almost getting used to it, but you wanted more. “Is this what I was supposed to do?”
“Sort of. This is called foreplay. Heard of tha’?”
“I think so?” You were breathless.
“S’basically where I get you all wet and ready f’me. You like that?”
“L-love and hate relationship right now,” You pant as his finger rises away from your weeping, covered hole and travels up to your clit. You choke out a gasp as he strokes it nonchalantly.
“Oh,” Your hand drops to his thigh, gripping it strongly as your body begins to tingle. You strain your neck to keep your eyes on the mirror ahead of you, trying to watch how he does it.
His familiar smirk never fades from his face, cheeks a tad rosy from the heat waving between you two. His wrist is probably sore from the tedious, repeated movements he does. His thick fingers delicately circle your covered clit, applying generous pressure until you’re panting.
“More. I think I need more,” You suggest when his pace stays a consistent speed. You needed to feel his fingers on your bare skin. If he was going to touch you, you wanted him to just do it already.
“Y’think?” Harry’s tone was taunting yet serious. He wanted you to be firm with what you wanted. He didn’t want you to second-guess your own pleasure. If you needed more, you needed to tell him that. The best way for that to happen was for him to train you. “Beg for it.”
As your head becomes floaty with the stimulation, you don’t even hesitate to throw out pleads.
“Please, Harry. I-I need it, need more,” Your head slowly falls back onto his shoulder before his touch is gone. “Wha—”
Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to see you. All of you. He needed to see what he did to you, and if you were really as desperate as you seemed. As shocking as this all may be to you, it was just as shocking to Harry. He couldn’t believe he was this turned on from his best friend’s inexperience. He’s always liked when a girl knew what she was doing and knew how to reciprocate. But something about Harry teaching you and showing you the ropes just fills him with a kind of power and pride that he can’t get from anywhere else. And he’s feasting off of it.
“M’gonna take these off, alright?”
“Everything? O-okay,” He unclipped your bra as you slowly slid down your panties. The tile beneath you was colder than before, but Harry’s warm body behind you kept you comforted.
“Have you heard of the traffic light system?” he asks, hands resting gently on your bare shoulders. He gets straight into the safety part first. It also distracts him from ogling your naked figure against him. He could feel his cock twitch in his briefs at your fluttering pussy and peaked nipples.
“I assume you don’t mean the ones used for driving?” You both chuckle and break some of the swollen tension in the room. It was a nice little reminder that it’s just Harry.
“No, Doll. The one for safety and consent,” he chuckled.
“Yeah, no, I’ve never heard of it.”
“If you say red, I’ll stop instantly and ask what made y’red. Communication is key. If y’say yellow, I’ll slow down and ask you again. And then we can either continue or stop, whatever y’want. But if your color is green, I’ll keep going. Understand, love?”
There was a lot of information, but you were able to keep up. It was actually similar to the traffic light system, which makes the name very fitting. You reply with a firm yes to note that you understand.
All while he was talking and explaining everything, you were getting used to looking at yourself in the mirror. You weren’t always confident in your body, but staring at it in between Harry’s made you feel safe and sexy somehow.
Before your mind can wander too far, Harry’s hands are falling down until they’re at your nipples. His rough fingers lightly pinch the already-hard buds until you’re pushing up into his touch. The warmth and the nakedness made you overly flushed all over. He gropes your breasts with care, slyly sliding another hand down lower.
Throughout this entire process, you’ve been soaking; in your underwear, in your shorts, and now on his bathroom tile. Your lower body has been throbbing in desire to be aided, and Harry seems to know just what you need.
His fingers hover right above your mound that’s screaming for him to go lower. Your heart rams against your chest in anticipation of his bare hands on your bare body, on your most sacred and vulnerable parts. No one has ever touched you beside yourself. A small part inside of you was glad that the first person was Harry because you knew you wouldn’t regret it.
Right?
“Stop thinking s’much,” he says, rubbing a warm palm over your belly. His face moves your head, so his lips can kiss your temple reassuringly. You slightly arch your back, so maybe he could see how desperate you are. Your legs were still spread by his, so you know he can see your wetness. If you can see it, so can he. “Just let me show you how it’s done.”
“Okay, Mr. Cocky,” You roll your eyes as he shifts your hair behind your ear, “What if I don’t even like it?”
“The name is very fitting. But that’s for a different day,” he says with a cocky smirk on his face. Now that sounds like something Harry would say. But your entire face gets warm and your head gets a little fuzzy when you actually imagine it. “and you will. Trust me.”
You take a deep breath. You weren’t sure how far you guys were going to go, but you’ve never felt more ready and more safe. With the system Harry told you about and all his reassurance, it was clear that even if he was teaching you, you were the one that had all the control.
“Now watch me.”
With those words his hand turns into just one finger and resumes on your clit. You gasp into the air as your body jolts. The roughness of his thumb paints your arousal over and over on your skin.
“This little thing is important. Don’t neglect it.”
His rhythm is slow and tedious as he circles the nub. You see and feel him dip down to collect some more of your wetness as he continues stroking you.
“How’s this? Color?” he gruffs in your ear while staring at you darkly in the mirror. You could barely understand him because you were panting embarrassingly and trying your hardest to focus on the reflecting glass in front of you.
“Good! Wait—green,” You corrected yourself as a moan elicited from you, his touch feeling even better each second.
“Good girl.”
“Fuck,” You feel yourself clench around nothing but your own wetness at his words. You both watch as the liquid quenches out of your dripping hole, making Harry groan from behind you.
“Do y’think you can handle one finger? Hm?” his voice rolls perfectly into your ear as he twists your peaked nipple. You couldn’t control your moans at the pleasure. His voice sounded just as good as the feeling of his hands.
“Yes, yes. Harry, please,” You nearly cried from how bad you needed it. You didn’t even know you needed it this bad. You thought you were going to hate this feeling, but you’re far from it.
“So submissive, so responsive,” Harry’s middle finger pushes against your hole, teasing the opening. You hold your breath as he makes you wait. “Breathe, Doll. Relax.”
Your eyes close for a moment. You breathe deep and feel your limbs lose their sudden tenseness. Before you can open them again, Harry’s finger is slotting inside of you easily. A gasp falls from your mouth as your hand grips on his meaty thigh for support.
“O-oh.” The feeling was insane. Intense. Nearly overwhelming. You clenched around his digit, consuming and caging it like it would fade away.
You’re so tight around him, he swears his finger might fall off. Harry’s cock is pulsing and pleading behind your back, but you don’t seem to notice. He’s making sure he doesn’t rut into you, but it’s so difficult when you’re all spread out and submissive for him.
He’s never thought of you like this, but fuck, now he can’t think of you any other way.
“Color, Doll?” Harry grumbles in your ear, voice low and breathy as it fans over your skin warmly.
“Green. What’s more than green? B-blue? Just–don’t stop–God,” Your squeaky voice rambled as his finger pumped in and out slowly. You can hear his smile behind your screwed eyes. The pad of his thumb rubbed delicate circles over your throbbing clit to escalate the pleasure.
Your chest was beating fast when your legs started to shake. Your hips bucked closer to his hands, needing more as you chase the glorious feeling.
“Look at you, takin’ me so well,” Harry praises, subtly curling his finger as your back arches. You know that one finger isn’t a lot, barely anything, but you were melting at the praise that Harry gave you. His constant encouragement is what made you putty in his hands. Literally.
“Harry,” You moaned into the heated air, causing Harry to groan desperately behind you. And you’re not too stupid to deflect that Harry might be turned on from the scene unfolding. If you knew more, if you knew better, you would have offered to help him after. But you were inexperienced, and you assumed he wouldn’t want someone to give him head who could possibly bite his dick off.
“Are you close, baby? Hm? Gonna come for the first time on my hand?”
“Y-yes! Please,” You begged as you climbed your high, wondering what the top would feel like if the chase was this blissful.
Your head falls restlessly on his shoulder while his right hand keeps focusing on your cunt. It was covered in your arousal as his pace picked up. The stimulation was almost too much, your body wanted to push away. But your mind was pleading to feel a release you know your body needed.
“Is it gonna h-hurt?” You groaned as your cunt clenched around him again, stomach tensing. A strong rush you assumed could only be an orgasm was approaching you all too fast.
“No, Doll. It’s gonna feel real good,” He twisted your nipple again, pushing you over the edge. You felt his thumb and index pinch your clit, causing you to scream his name against his chest. “Look in the mirror. Watch yourself fall apart f’me. Watch and make sure this time is memorable.”
You always thought Harry had a way with words. You never thought that about dirty talking though. His hands were as skillful as can be, and maybe one day you’ll be able to make yourself feel as good as he made you feel. But his words are something that you’ll never be able to treat yourself with. You don’t think you’ll ever meet another person whose voice is as fitting as Harry’s.
With his demanding tone, you came right over the edge. An overwhelming ripple of pleasure ceased through your body, shaking your legs to the max. Soundless moans and clawing nails were all you were capable of as you came on his large hand. Although you were straining, you never took your eyes off of the mirror. He told you to look at yourself as you came, but you were only staring at the glaring green eyes reflecting back at you. He rubbed all of your orgasm until you were trembling from overstimulation.
Just when you thought he was done, he raised his ringed hand to his mouth and tasted you. You thought that was something that they only did porn or movies. You swallowed intensely as his hum vibrated through you.
“Do you always… taste it?”
“If I think it’ll taste good,” he smirked as you scooted forward to grab your shirt. As you throw it over your head, you just had to ask.
“Did mine taste any good?” You slightly cringed as you asked the question. Does cum usually taste good? What does it even taste like?
His smirk widens, a hint of evilness rising, “do you want to find out?”
Your skin flushes even against the chilling tile. Your heart skips a beat at trying yourself. You hadn’t ever thought of it before. But you’ve come (literally) this far tonight, so why not just take it a little further?
“O-okay,” You slowly lift up your shirt, revealing your fucked-out cunt to him again. “So I just…?”
“May I?” he suggests.
“Yes.”
Two of Harry’s fingers swipe over your cunt, which was still covered in a mix of your arousal and cum. You jolted from the stimulation, tensing quickly before his touch was gone.
“Open,” and without thinking, you do. Your mouth falls open as his fingers lay flat on your tongue. Salty and creamy, it spreads over your tastebuds. You hummed around his fingers just like he did because it tasted good. Yeah, it was a bit odd, but once you got past that, you realized how erotic and sexy it was. “How’s it taste?”
After a bit of suckling on his digits, he puts them out way too soon for your liking. “Good, actually.” You creak from your dry throat.
“I think so too. Let’s clean you up real quick.”
Still sitting on the floor, a warm, wet towel soothes your sensitiveness as he wipes away all of your liquids. A smile broke out on his face when he finished before his hand landed on top of your head. He shook your hair like crazy until it was already wilder than it was. The action was childlike and friendly, almost as if everything between you guys never happened and you were back to square one. It was better that way, though. Right? To just go back to how everything used to be?
Harry grabs the small hand towel and exits his bathroom. You assume he went to discard it and add it to his laundry, but you just sat there in oblivion. You already missed his touch, longing for something you should’ve never even had in the first place. He was the one that offered himself to teach you, but now you’ve been taught, so where do you guys go now? Are you really supposed to just go back to the way it was?
He saw you in ways that no one else has before. You always thought that you would be intimate and have your groups of firsts with someone that you were dating, someone that you loved. Because of this, you realized that Harry was the safe option. Doing this with Harry changed your views on everything, and your body, heart, and mind couldn’t keep up with the rapid reversal.
You knew that Harry had a few notches in his belt. But were they all from relationships or just one-night stands? You didn’t know because you two rarely ever discussed the topic. Was it easy for Harry to go from girl to girl? Or did he get attached like you?
If there was one thing you always feared from sex and sexual doings, it was the intense attachment. You had heard about the infamous addiction intimacy laces within your veins that makes you crave a person. Now that you’ve been with Harry, that won’t happen to you, right?
You’ve known Harry forever, yet you’ve never craved him. He’s your best friend, and you’ve never seen him as more than that. If it was anyone else, you’d probably lose all control because you have no significant relationship with them. It would be easy to latch onto anybody because it would be easy to lose them too. Harry, on the other hand, was not easy to lose.
The last thing you want is to convince yourself of anything. You don’t want to “crave” Harry just because you saw something about an article online about “sexual chemicals fusing.” You couldn’t. No, it was too risky.
You’ve known Harry forever, so you couldn’t lose him forever too.
“I think I found a good movie to watch!” Harry’s voice echoes from his living room and all the way into the bathroom where you haven’t moved a muscle. Your overthinking was louder than it’s ever been. With a shaky breath, you rise from the tiles and stare at your disheveled appearance in the mirror. The same mirror you watched Harry finger fuck you with.
“Be out there in a second!” You shout back as your heart beats rapidly from his heartwarming voice laughing loudly at something. You clutched your chest, wondering why the fuck you were feeling the organ lurch for him in a way that wasn’t meant for him.
You knew that it was way too fucking personal.
thanks for reading angels 😙 part 2
taglist: @crybabyddl @tiaamberxx @alwaysclassyeagle @bisexual-desi @littlenatilda @raajali3
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endless-ineffabilities · 9 months ago
Text
The Bolter (part two)
Steve Rogers x f!reader
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synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?
in this chapter : Steve tries to settle into his life in the 50s, and we get a glimpse of the days when Steve and the reader were getting to know each other post Civil War.
themes/warnings : pining, unrequited love, Steve beginning to regret his decision (he just won't admit it yet), the NSFW stuff won't happen until after a whiiiile, this is a slow burn (y'all can blame Steve!!)
word count : <2k
main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist
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The 1950s, one month after Steve's arrival
Peggy knows about you. It doesn't take her long to figure it out. What started out as the mystery figure her partner seems to be so wistful over - as time passes, the idea of you becomes stronger.
It takes shape, like you are not just a memory to be gotten over.
You're there, in their very walls, but you're not. Of all the people Steve left behind, your shadow looms the strongest over him.
"She must have been special, Steve. She sounded like a very dear friend," Peggy expresses, one morning over breakfast when they were going through the people in Steve's future.
Past, to be more apt. All those people are no longer going to be a part of Steve's days. You no longer will be.
He thought he would be fine with it all, treating it like the end of a book. This is his fresh start with Peggy, a chance to simply live his life without constant threat of impending doom.
That apple pie, white picket fence, American dream. He wants to have a son and a daughter. Maybe he'll even name them after you and James.
The two most important people in his life then, reflected in the children whom will be his reason for existence.
Everything should be just perfect.
So why isn't it?
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2017, eight months after the Avengers' Civil War
Being on the run was brutal, but familiar.
A year ago, you were made to choose between the two sides in the Sokovia accords, after your old friend Natasha pulled you out of your over extended holiday.
She wanted you to join her side, Tony's side. They could use all the help they can get to fight Captain America who apparently had gone rogue.
Little did she know that you would end up fighting with him instead, after you found out what his motivations were.
After the war, yourself and all those who acted against the accords were branded enemies of the state. Incidentally, this included Nat, who also had a change of heart.
Captain America - Steve - broke you out of a maximum security prison, and you all branched out in different parts of the world to go into hiding.
At first, you and Nat went to her safehouse in Budapest. Then to one of your apartments in Malta. Eventually, you had to separate to keep the trail cold, and to confuse anyone at your tail.
Which is how you ended up in some remote cabin in Alaska with none other than Steve himself.
And you got to know each other really well.
He was closed off at first, maintaining a sense of cordiality that must come as second nature to him. It was evident that the Civil War took a toll on him. He had an anger, a resentment about him that wasn't there when you first came across him in Romania. When you decided to cross over and aid in his cause.
For the first few weeks, he kept his distance, merely keeping up with what's required of a fellow lodger on the run. He made sure there was hot coffee left for you when he brewed a fresh batch. He was always quiet in his room across the hall. He would say his polite good mornings, his how are yous, before taking his daily walk in the woods, scouting the area for any potential anomalies.
It took a while before he stopped being just Captain America in your eyes, but inevitably, you grew to know Steve Rogers.
And you came to fall in love with him. But you didn't admit this until much, much later.
You're not sure which one of you broke first, but eventually the polite, little greetings turned into breakfast conversations, eventually incorporating comfortable inside jokes.
You discovered that he had a myriad of questions about your chosen life, how you ended up working for The Agency. Much like the Red Room but without any ties to a particular government, The Agency specialized in producing highly-skilled individuals when it comes to combat and covert operations.
For a while, it was your MO to make sure that the widows were unsuccessful in their missions which involved civilian casualties. So you first encountered Nat when the Red Room gave her the task to take you out, but you were too wily and evaded her at every turn.
At some point, and to both yours and her surprise, you actually ended up becoming friends.
You could tell that Steve was holding back in commenting on your choice of profession, but he wasn't really in any position to judge - America's former poster boy turned into their number one fugitive. He wanted to suggest that perhaps there was a better life out there suited for you, one that didn't require you to constantly look behind your shoulder.
But how could he? You were there because of him. In a way, his rebellion pulled you out of your momentary pocket of paradise.
You told him you had retired before Nat called you in, but of course that wouldn't have lasted long. One way or another, you always found yourself back in.
Like you were craving it, almost. Or because you had nothing else but this life. This was your normal.
"What do you think it would look like, if you actually had a shot at normal?" he asked, the glowing embers of the fireplace dancing shadows across his face.
You observed him, and you couldn't help but note how impossibly good he still looked even with his facial hair unkempt and grown out. "What I think it would really look like, or what I would want it to be?"
The corner of his lips raise at your statement. You were right. For both you and him, what you want is almost never what you can get. "Either way," he shrugged.
"Well," you paused. You knew you were stalling, but you didn't really know what to say. "I guess... there was a time when I used to want the normal life. You know - a partner, kids, a lakeside house with a nice backyard, maybe a dog."
"What kind of dog?" he asked suddenly, distracting you.
"Oh, uhm, I like German Shepherds."
He smiled, "I like them too."
That one remark was enough to make your imagination run wild. He likes them too, he said. What must it be like to be with Steve, to live in a lakeside house with him? Enough, you quickly reminded yourself, stop before you get hurt.
You must have been staring at him then, because he casted a gentle glance at you, saying, "Keep going."
You found yourself continuing with more ease, "I never really had a whole family. Only lived with my parents for a time, didn't have any siblings. So when - if, and that's a big if - I do have kids, I'd want more than one. So they would always have each other, you see."
When you looked back at him, his blue eyes were arresting, almost like they're boring right into you. Captain America is trying to get a good read on you, and you feel like you're laid bare before him. But it's not a discomforting feeling.
Maybe it's just the effect Steve has on people. Or maybe it's you. You weren't ready to accept just how much you already took a liking to the Captain America. You just knew - it would not end well.
These things never do.
But then he said, "When you do manage to have all of that, will you send me a postcard? Let me know how you are?"
Your smile widened at his sincerity. He wasn't just playing along, indulging in what you think are just delusions. He actually meant it. "Steve, you'll always be welcome at our lakeside house, you know."
"Our?" he smirked.
"Yeah, well," you leaned back at his implication, but his expression is enough to warm you all over. "I... I meant, mine and my partner's or... mine and my dog's, I don't really know - "
He laughed lowly, the sound hearty and deep in his chest. "I understand what you mean," he said, before adding, "although, I definitely wouldn't mind sharing a lakeside house with you."
"And my dog," you added jokingly, but your pulse had already quickened.
He nodded, but he wasn't finished. "Could be my dog, too." You don't know whether to be grateful or disappointed that he didn't say, and our kids. Grateful, you decided. It had to be that. You were getting too ahead of yourself.
You agreed, playing along, "As long as I get to name him."
"Of course, doll."
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The 1950s, two months after Steve's arrival
Steve decides that he would get a dog.
It's about time, he believes. He's always wanted to do so anyway, and what better time than now, when he is settled in a good home base with a lot of backyard space for the dog to roam around.
He wants to get a German Shepherd, and it's fine, because Peggy does not really have a preference.
It is the evening before he is scheduled to visit the animal shelter, when Peggy asks him if he has decided on a name for the dog.
He startles at that, looking up from his plate. He barely registers her hand that has been caressing his own throughout dinner. Steve, being Steve, immediately feels ashamed at how he doesn't seem to be present and appreciating the moment.
"Have you thought of a name?" Peggy tries again.
A name, he ponders. No, he always thought he would leave it up to you.
"I'll figure it out," he says after a while, taking Peggy's hand and bringing it to his lips.
Everything will be perfect.
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Read part three here.
taglist: @vicmc624 @littleliyah16 @babezawa @klammykayla @justsebstan
caution: this is will be the slowest burn, and even MORE angsty when things come to a head.
the next chapter will be from the reader's POV and how she's coping...
Are all of these dog shenanigans alluding to how the reader will walk Stevie boy like a dog??? *evil, maniacal laugh*
Taglist still open!
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reiding-writing · 10 months ago
Note
i LOVE your angsts
you can write something about the reader and spencer being apart after a conflict, being childish and sarcastic towards each other afterwards, and then, one of the cases ends in an explosion and, or, fire in which one of the two is trapped and alone, and the other takes risks to save him
who knows, maybe one of the two in the hospital is still delirious and asking to marry the other? anyway, you choose
basically two idiots in love and proud who can't bear the thought of losing each other
thanks 🥺🫶🏻
commitment [ s.r ]
You love Spencer Reid more than anything in the world, but committing to someone for life was not something to be considered lightly. A life or death situation might speed up the decision process a little.
spencer reid x gn!reader || angst || 4.0k ll masterlist!!
WARNINGS: commitment issues, fire, major character injury, miscommunication, happy ending
a/n: happy 29th of february? is that something to be celebrated? anyway, kinda took this one on a rollercoaster ride, enjoy :)
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Spencer Reid wanted a family.
He wanted to get married, have 2.5 kids and live in a house with two cars and a white picket fence.
But he didn’t just want that with anybody, he wanted that with you.
You weren’t sure.
You loved Spencer with your whole heart, you really did, but after your parents’ failed marriage and your negative experiences with romantic relationships in the past, the fact that you’d even been in a committed relationship with Spencer for the last four years was an achievement in itself.
You’d talked about it a few times, but you’d always come to opposite decisions. Spencer wanted to settle down with you, and you were afraid to do so.
Your most recent conversation on the subject ended less as a conversation and more as an argument.
“So you don’t really love me then?” You could see the betrayal in his eyes at you again shutting down the idea, his tone carrying more upsetness than accusation.
“No Spencer of course I love you what are you talking about?” You can feel yourself nearing tears at his question. He was quite literally the person you loved most in the world, and to have him shut down your feelings because you didn’t see eye to eye with him broke your heart.
You spent the next few days staying with Garcia.
You tried to not let your disagreement with Spencer influence your work, but the fact that you wouldn’t so much as spare a glance at each other during office hours tipped off the rest of the team about your situation immediately.
“So,” Morgan leaned his hip against the counter of the kitchenette as you fixed yourself a cup of coffee, neglecting Spencer’s mug on the shelf instead of making both cups at once like you’d usually do.
“So?” You raise an eyebrow at his incomplete sentence.
“What’s going on between you and pretty boy?”
You sigh before he even finishes the question. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,”
“Your lover’s quarrel is ruining the vibes, it is most definitely something for me to worry about,” You roll your eyes at his response. Trust Morgan to find the most unserious way to express his concern for the two of you.
Logically you knew it was because he wanted to tread lightly, but that didn’t make it any less eye-roll inducing.
“So,” He leans forwards a little. “What’s going on? Did you disagree on whether Star Trek or Star Wars was better or something?”
You give him a deadpan stare and he immediately surrenders, raising up his hands as he concedes.
“What else do you have to argue about? You guys are like the most boring couple I know,” Morgan shrugs nonchalantly, and you halt the stirring of your teaspoon in your drink.
Boring? You weren’t boring. Were you? Did Spencer think you were boring? Did he think your relationship was boring? Maybe he only wanted to tie the knot in the hope that it would ‘reignite the spark’ or whatever people said.
“Hey.” Morgan snapped his fingers in front of your face, effectively pulling you out of your internal spiral.
“Hm?”
“I asked if it was serious, Garcia told me you’ve been staying with her the last few days,”
Curse Garcia and Morgan’s no filter relationship.
“Everything’s fine, we both just need time to cool off,”
“You’re sure?”
You have to consciously suppress a sigh at his continued questioning. Morgan was great, but god did he push.
“Yes Morgan, everything’s fine,” You spoke with enough conviction that you managed to convince him of your truth, although whether you believed it yourself was another question.
“Good, because if you two ever broke up I’m pretty sure the whole team would fall apart,” His tone tells you his joking, as does his expression as he leaves you to your coffee, but your brain isn’t as kind as to just let the comment fly over your head, and you’re sent into another spiral as you make your way back over to your desk.
Do the whole team really think of your relationship with Spencer as a vital part of its inner workings? What if it really didn’t work out? What would happen then?
Would the whole team fall into chaos?
You didn’t want to break off your relationship with Spencer. But what if it did happen?
Your thoughts leak into your body language, your shoulders tense as you sit down and your eyes not quite focused on the papers on your desk.
It didn’t help that Spencer sat directly opposite you either. It was like the world was trying to rub your conflict in your face every time you saw his hair in your peripheral vision.
You could feel his eyes boring into the top of your head, but you knew he wouldn’t say anything. It was one of the faults in his character, and yours you suppose, because even if he did ask you what was wrong you’d probably blow him off anyway.
The tension between the two of you was enough for Emily and Morgan to share a glance across the bullpen to each other, although they didn’t have enough time to corner you into asking what was actually going on as Hotch called the team into the conference room.
The silent feud between the two of you continued into the meeting, sitting on opposite ends of the table like you were two negative magnets being forced away from each other by an insurmountable pressure.
It was a little silly you think, to be so removed from each other after a single argument, but when Spencer put his foot down about something, he held his ground under any circumstance.
And so the two of you were destined to lie in a stalemate, sat seething in silent frustration with each other until one of you eventually caved under the pressure.
It wasn’t going to happen.
It was another fault of the two of you. You were both too damn stubborn for your own good, and it was beginning to affect your ability to work together.
You were supposed to be two sides of the same coin. Two gears intertwined and seamlessly rolling off of each other in perfect unison. Instead, you couldn’t even decide on the importance of a half-burned diary found at the scene of the last scene you’d arrived at, the fourth building set ablaze in Fallon in the last five days.
“This guy is clearly dealing with marital struggles, that could be our trigger,”
Of course he had marital struggles, because you couldn’t escape your own issues even when you were two-thousand miles across the country.
“We don’t even know if that diary belongs to our unsub,” You sigh exasperatedly as you slump back in your chair.
“It was a grocery store. Who brings a diary to a grocery store unless it’s something extremely important to them? It has to belong to our unsub.”
“Spencer-”
“You know that I’m more likely to be right about this,”
You can’t help but scoff at his statement, discarding your coffee mug on the round table and causing small brown droplets to coat the surface of the wood from the force. “You’re really pulling the intelligence card? Seriously?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Spencer shrugs his shoulders with a furrowed expression. “My intelligence is what got me here and it’s telling me that this diary belongs to our unsub,”
“And my experience is telling me that you’re fixating on this goddamn diary instead of looking for things that could be actually useful to finding this guy because you want to feel sorry for yourself by living through his struggles.” You gesture exasperatedly to the book in his hands, becoming increasingly frustrated with Spencer’s attitude towards you.
He might be smart, but you had almost half a decade on him in terms of experience. He had zero right to speak to you like that mid-feud or not.
“You’re angry at me, I get it. Don’t let it cloud your judgement.” You push yourself up from the table with a scowl, leaving your chair pushed out as you exit the station with the door slamming shut behind you.
“You’re sure this is the right place?” Morgan furrows his eyebrows as you approach the house, clearly run-down and looking as though no-one had lived in it in several years.
“I’m sure,” Spencer gave a determined nod as he un-holstered his gun, following the team into the house to sweep it for the suspect.
Despite your argument about the importance of the diary, Spencer had continues to fixate on it completely, leading to a partial name that Garcia had managed to identify and ultimately the house you were now running into.
You feel under-appreciated sometimes. Hotch always ended up going with Spencer’s choices, experience didn’t matter. It was like he had a tattoo across his forehead that read ‘I’m always right’ and everyone else took it as law.
But you’re not going to disobey direct orders, even if you did want to throw all of Spencer’s favourite books into a filled bathtub and watch him mourn over the ruined pages.
“Clear!”
You sweep the house room by room, you, Hotch, and Emily in charge of the ground floor whilst Morgan and Spencer went upstairs.
It was a complete ghost house. There was no electricity, no running water, smashed windows and moulded wallpaper, the furniture looked decades old and above all it just smelled horrific, a mix of leaking waste pipes and faulty gas lines. Were you seriously supposed to believe someone was living here?
“All clear up here,” Morgan emerged at the top of the stairwell with a shrug. “We got nothing,”
“Of course we don’t,” You mutter the words to yourself with a roll of your eyes, silently confirming your own victory at the obvious lack of human presence in the house Spencer was so sure belonged to the unsub.
“Alright, regroup outside,” Hotch called up to the two, gaining a nod from Morgan as he went to retrieve Spencer and bring him down as you exited the building.
“Nothing?” JJ tilted her head slightly as the three of you emerged, met with Emily shaking her head with a slightly awkward expression as she met your gaze.
“Nope, gross, but nothing,”
“Gross is right, it smelled like shit in there-” You clear your throat into your elbow like you’d managed to infest your lungs from the smell.
“Where’s Spence and Morgan?” You shrug your shoulders at JJ’s question heading back to the SUV to grab a bottle of water.
“Knowing Reid he’ll be over-analysing something,” Emily chuckles slightly, patting JJ on the shoulder as she follows you past her. “Morgan’ll get bored soon enough,”
“Are we going or what?” You call out from where you’re leaning against the car, water bottle being waved around in your hand as you gesture your impatience.
“Morgan and Reid are-” Emily stops as she spots Morgan walking out of the front door. “—Reid is still inside,”
“Of course he is,” You grumble to yourself with a roll of your eyes.
“He’s refusing to leave until he’s found something,” Morgan shrugs as he reaches Hotch’s side. “He’s adamant that there’s something to be found in there,”
“God seriously?” You groan out your words as you rejoin the group. “It’s an abandoned shit hole, there’s nothing to be found—”
A loud crash from the house interrupts your complaint.
Loud crashes are never good.
Neither is the bright orange flicker of light you can see through the front door. Definitely not when you’re working an arson case and Spencer Reid is still inside the house.
It’s like all the hours of you pondering how best to make Spencer suffer for his actions completely disappear as soon as the flames are in sight.
You couldn’t be angry at Spencer if he was dead.
The way the wooden beams of the door frame collapsed under the heat really cemented that thought in your mind.
“Spencer—”
Your attempt at running inside is promptly stopped by an outstretched arm that collides against your waist, winding you slightly and causing your expression to turn from fear to anger at the person who’d interrupted your attempt to vacate Spencer from the building.
“What are you doing?!” You push Morgan’s arm away from you harshly as you attempt to bypass him, but you don’t even get two steps forward before his arm is again blocking you from running into the burning building. “Get off me!”
“You can’t just run into a fire-” You continue to struggle against Morgan’s grip as he pleads his case to you, causing his voice to strain from the exertion of trying to keep you in one place.
“Morgan if you don’t let me go right now I swear to god-” Morgan withstands your threats with his strength, and you’re becoming increasingly resentful at just how much effort he’d gone through to stay physically fit.
“The fire department are on their way-” JJ’s voice is soaked in concern as she speaks, both hands clenched tightly around her phone as she stares into the open door of the house and the yellow-orange light that is quickly enveloping anything visible inside it. “They’re four minutes out,”
“Four minutes isn’t fast enough-”
“Hey-” Morgan continues to struggle against your writhing, planting both of his hands firmly against your shoulders and shaking them slightly in attempt to get your attention. “He’s going to be fine.” The uncertainty in his gaze tells you the opposite.
By the time you hear the sirens of fire engines rounding the street-corner, you don’t have the mental energy to feel relieved. All you can do is stare into the raging inferno that encapsulates the entire ground floor of the house and pray desperately that it didn’t manage to climb up the stairs. You know you’re being too optimistic.
You barely compute the obvious when a stretcher is prepared in front of the entrance, only coming to when you hear a worried gasp emanate from Emily at your side as Spencer is laid down on it after being recovered from the house’s master bedroom, very clearly unconscious and less clearly still breathing.
“Breathing is shallow, pulse is weak, we need to get him on oxygen,” The EMTs converse between themselves as they rush the stretcher into the fire ambulance, leaving you and your team to stand idly on the sidelines as both the fire and Spencer are taken care of by the firefighters on the scene.
You pace the waiting room on your heels, the sharp contact of your feet on the marbled floor leaving small shock waves to shoot up your legs as you walk. You couldn’t just sit down, you weren’t going to relax in a chair whilst the love of your life was possibly dying of asphyxiation. You were worried, terrified, and you had to release that nervous energy somehow.
If Spencer was here right now you’re sure he’d reprimand you for your nervous habit, rattling on about how heel-striking is dangerous for the health of your legs as it compresses your entire weight into a single point that can have bad impacts on your bones. Thinking about it just makes you feel worse, making you pace more and ultimately creating a self-fulfilling cycle where the more you thought about what he’d say the worse your actions would get.
At least you were actually in the hospital waiting and not back in the station waiting for a call. God knows you’d be more of a burden to the rest of the team than a help right now.
“Visitors for… Spencer Reid?” The nurse checks the clipboard in her hands as she speaks, and the second you hear the first syllable of his name you’re diverting your pacing to walk straight up to the nurse’s side.
“He’s awake but dreary, and he’s refusing any medication to help with the pain in his esophagus,” The nurse explains his conditions to you as she leads you down the hallway, shrugging her shoulders slightly at the mention of his refusal of pain medication.
“He can’t take narcotics, do you have any substitutes? NSAIDs?”
The nurse nods slightly at your explanation, checking her clipboard once more as she stops you at a wooden door. “I’ll have a look and see what I can find,”
“Thank you,” You give her a small nod and a smile as she leaves you at the door, suddenly even more nervous than you were in the waiting room. Not only was Spencer now in recovery for smoke inhalation and minor burns, the last ‘conversation’ the two of you had was an argument. A stupid, petty argument because you were both stubborn assholes who couldn’t agree to disagree on anything.
What if he didn’t want to see you? You were probably the last person he wanted at his bedside right now after everything that’d happened. Maybe you shouldn’t go in and see him.
Your hand is already opening the door. Okay, well, too late to second guess things now.
“Hey Spencer…” Your voice is barely a whisper as you enter the room, door shutting seamlessly behind you as you walk towards his hospital bed, fingers ringing together as a work around to release all of the nervous tension in your body without bursting into tears. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I ate a campfire-”
His words are enough to break the small tension between you, and you laugh softly in a mix of relief and worry. At least he was alright enough to be able to speak properly. The burn on his arm looked pretty bad though.
“You look like you ate a campfire,” You approach his hospital bed slowly, taking a seat on the plastic chair at his side and gazing over him with an entirely pitiful look in your eyes.
“I’m okay…” It was like he could read your mind, then again your sure that most people would be able to see how distraught you were right now, but Spencer was always the first to notice, and he languishly reached his hand out to rest against your knee.
You started crying the minute his fingers made contact with your slacks.
“I’m so sorry-” It felt a little silly to be crying in front of someone who’d just been trapped in a burning building and was probably experiencing an insane amount of pain from the lack of medication, but emotions don’t always follow logical boundaries. “I’ve been so- horrible to you and you didn’t deserve it at all-”
You’re sure you look like an absolute mess by now, tears staining your cheeks from your crying, a blotchy complexion from your stress, wrinkled clothes and ruined hair from constantly messing with them to try and find a release for all of your anxiety, but the way Spencer looks at you would have you assuming you’d stepped right off a runway.
“You don’t have anything to apologise for,”
“But-”
“Nothing.” Spencer shakes his head to the best of his ability as he shuts down your rebuttal, and he shifts his hand upwards to lie over your two hands clasped in your lap. “I shouldn’t have tried to pressure you into something that you’re not ready for, that was my fault, and for that I’m the one who needs to be saying sorry,”
“No I get it-”
“I made you uncomfortable and upset and that was never my intention,” Spencer continues to cut off your attempts to speak, something he’d usually rather die than do to you - or anyone for that matter - but deemed a necessity to stop you from lumping all of the blame on yourself when you had done nothing more than establish a boundary. A boundary that Spencer didn’t respect.
“I love you, and I want to spend every waking hour I have in your presence, I want to sleep with you in my arms and wake with you by my side. I want to experience every up and down with you and keep you safe and loved at every instance,” Spencer gives your hand a small squeeze as he looks at you, your reflection in his eyes one of pure beauty and perfection. “I didn’t do that for you in our last disagreement, and I can only hope that you’ll forgive me and allow me to make up for that moving forward,”
Spencer’s fingers ghost over the back of your hand, pressing small circles into the dips between your fingers and gently massaging your skin. “I want to do nothing more than love you, and a piece of paper and a pair of rings won’t change that either way.”
You swear that you melt with every word that leaves the boy’s mouth, and if he wasn’t currently hospital bound you’d smother his face in kisses until he couldn’t breathe anymore.
In respect for his condition you turn you affections to his hand instead, holding it up to your face and pressing deft kisses against the curve of each of his knuckles, silent tears still sliding down your cheeks. Tears of a different trajectory this time, filled no longer with guilt and frustration and instead replaced with the realisation of just how much you mean to Spencer Reid.
“I love you so much,” Your lips brush the back of his hand as you speak, his fingers dampening with the lingering moisture of your tears as you hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. “So much.”
The smile that breaks out on Spencer’s face could cure any ailment in your mind within seconds. “I love you too,”
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