#Please be sure to read the trigger warning this one gets (a little) intense

[whimsyvixen]

𝔼𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕪 𝔹𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕤

Silent Hill Fic Rating: 18+ Pairing: Pyramid Head x Female Reader Synopsis/Excerpt: His helmet had jerked your way, the sudden movement making your heart drop to your stomach. You couldn't look away from him, mouth agape at the towering menace. You didn't understand how, but you felt him peruse your form--nausea hitting you when he let out a guttural growl and headed straight for you. WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark fic, rape/noncon elements, extremely dubious consent, explicit content, blood play, heavy NSFW, teratophilia(?), monster/human, choking, dacryphilia, rough sex, unprotected sex, forced orgasm, tummy bulge, creampie, very obvious size difference. ⚠️ READ THE TAGS: Please be aware this work contains content that the reader may feel uncomfortable with or otherwise triggered by. DO NOT READ if bothered by tags (no minors). ⚠️

A/N: I had to make sure to finish this one before Halloween! Sorry for the long wait, you guys! I got no tricks with me so I'm just going to hand over this little treat right here ! 🍬

You hid beneath a large table, hands over your mouth to control your breathing as the floor shook. You could feel your heart beating intensely, the organ wanting to burst out of your chest as pure terror seized you when the footsteps paused near your hiding spot.

He was right in front of you. The only being you encountered in the desolate town of Silent Hill.

The monster. 

~

He had emerged out of an alley, swarmed by bugs as he trudged his way through, his massive frame freezing you in place. His head was encumbered by a steel frame, pyramid in its shape and heavy in appearance if his tortured groans were anything to go by. His scarred torso and bulging arms were bare, showcasing the immense power he held as he dragged a massive knife behind him.

You couldn't contain your gasp when you caught sight of it.

His helmet had jerked your way, the sudden movement making your heart drop to your stomach. You couldn't look away from him, mouth agape at the towering menace. You didn't understand how, but you felt him peruse your form--nausea hitting you when he let out a guttural growl and headed straight for you.

Fuck!

You bolted then, nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperation to get away from him. With the amount of blood soaking him and those unnerving growls, you weren't willing to take a chance and find out what he would do to you. Too afraid to look back, you continued running in the abandoned town, losing sight of where you were as you tried to find somewhere to hide. 

What buildings you could make out were old and rundown, their windows smashed and doors creaking ominously. They would not provide you with the cover you needed. You could faintly hear him behind you, breaking into a cold sweat when you turned your head and couldn't spot him in the dense fog. 

When you caught sight of the abandoned school, your lungs felt like bursting and your legs ached from overexerting yourself to run. Your body needed to rest before you collapsed from the fatigue. It was a large enough building that finding you would be a tasking ordeal for the monster. Perhaps he would give up his search for you and allow you to find a way out of this hellish place. You could only hope that you lost him earlier and he wouldn’t know where you crawled off to. 

Running up the steps to the entrance, you were met with the despairing sight of chains wrapped around the steel doors. 

“No, no, no…” you pleaded, grabbing onto the chains in hopes they were loose enough to open the doors. Luck was on your side, because they were– chains pulling taut around the doors, opening just enough to allow someone to squeeze through with some difficulty. Struggling to wiggle your way through, you pushed with all your might and breathed a sigh of relief when you fell inside. 

Taking deep breaths, you looked around and tried to make sense of your surroundings. Needing to squint your eyes to adjust seeing in the dark, you could see a narrow hallway with dirty and rusty lockers lined along the walls. It was an uncanny sight, the broken down doors of the classrooms and splintering wood of the floor making you realize how decrepit this place was. It was so unkempt and old that you flinched when the floorboards creaked with every step you took. You felt like dying every time the floor protested your weight and critters ran spooked by the noise.

The hall turned a sharp corner to the left, more lockers and doors appearing on either side of the walls as before. It was then you noticed the broken elevator, the metal frame twisted in sharp angles and torn cables dangling from tears in the ceiling. If there was an elevator here, then that must mean there was a way up! 

Not caring this time about the noise you made, you hurried to the end of the hall trying to see if you could find some way to get to the second floor. If you could just get there, you would have the advantage of viewing who (or what) was below you on the ground. Maybe even spot a route or path out of this place. Passing by the restrooms, you nearly gagged when a putrid stench hit your nose. The buzzing of flies and roaches in the area made you squeamish, your face scrunching into a disgusted grimace at the dirty facilities before continuing your trek forward.

Finding the stairs was a much harder task than you expected. Faced with multiple locked areas of the building, you were forced to backtrack and navigate through other sections of the building to find another way up. It seemed like a dead end everywhere you turned. 

Just when you were about to give up, you finally spotted stairs leading to the upper floor. 

“Finally,” you muttered in exasperation. Your turtle neck shirt was damp with your sweat, clinging to your body so uncomfortably that you would definitely need a shower soon. Placing a hand on the cracked wall nearest you, you took a breather, closing your eyes as you tried to get your energy back up again. 

“Just a little bit more. Don’t give up yet.” 

Forcing your aching feet to move, you headed tiredly towards the stairs. Once you reached them, you walked up to the landing, turning left to continue climbing forward when you noticed something. 

“You have got to be kidding me?!”

A disbelieving look crossed your face. In front of you was a dilemma that nearly made you scream in frustration. The only way to the upper floor was barricaded with chairs and tables, furniture piled up haphazardly along the second set of stairs as if to ensure no one could get by it. It effectively put a stop to your plans. 

Maybe you could climb over the obstruction? No, you couldn’t risk something falling out of place and crushing you with its weight, causing you harm in the end. You thought about using the railing to skip past the hurdle of furniture, but hearing the creak of the brittle handrail when you held it had you rethinking that idea. Placing your hands on your hips, you tried thinking of how to get past this obstacle. Maybe taking it apart little by little would help?

Seeing as you had no choice, you started dismantling the barricade one chair at a time. The tables were too heavy and had your arms shaking from the effort of pulling them so you left them for last. Once you piled up enough chairs to give you room to move one of the tables, you shook your hands to prepare them to take the brunt of the weight. 

While you were busy with this task, you didn’t know you damned yourself.

What you didn’t know was when you squeezed through the gap of the entrance, your sweater caught on an edge and tore a strip of the pink cloth. You didn’t know it was like a beacon, its vibrant color contrasting from the dull and bleak setting of the school. You didn’t know he held it in his bloodied hand, bringing it to his hidden face as if to smell you. You didn’t see the shudder that went through him. You also didn't see him bursting through the shackled entrance of the school, breaking the chain to pieces as the steel doors lay bent beneath his foot.

However, you did feel the building shake following a loud crash. 

Startled at the muffled explosion, you released the legs of the table you were holding, crouching as you looked around wildly. The echoed sounds of doors being forced open could then be heard even from a distance. Lockers were slammed and torn off the walls, the clash of metal producing an awful screeching sound that resonated across the empty building.

What?! What was that?! You panicked internally, palms sweating as you hid behind the railing. What could’ve made that thunderous sound? Was it him?! It couldn’t be, could it? Trembling with fear, you realized you were a sitting duck. You couldn't go back the way you came or you’ll risk facing what caused that loud commotion.

When you heard a familiar growl, you couldn’t stop the tiny sob escaping your lips. It was HIM! When his steps edged closer to your location, your eyes wandered desperately around your cornered space and spotted a clothed table at the bottom of the stairs. Running down the stairs, you all but crawled beneath the table, tucking your feet in as you tried to make yourself as small as possible. You didn’t have any other option. The cloth provided you with enough cover to pull off not being seen and you could only pray you weren't found.

Eyes wide with fear, you held your breath when he turned the corner, the floor trembling with every heavy step of his boots. You could also hear the scrape of the giant sword he dragged with him, the shrill sound hurting your ears. You nearly bolted when you heard the locker doors being opened one by one before getting slammed shut.

Oh God, please, don't let him find me. Please, please, please. You shut your eyes tightly, clasping your hands against your mouth as you tried to keep as quiet as you could. The corner of your eyes teared up, a lump in your throat wanting to give way to sobs of distress the closer he got.

~

His trudging steps slowed as he surveyed the area. 

Pyramid Head tilted his head curiously, his helmet creaking with the action. He didn’t know where you hid but he could sense you near. When he pressed that piece of fabric to his helmed head, your intoxicating aroma set his nerves of fire, twisting his mind into a lustful haze–the urge to pillage and kill you getting stronger by the minute. 

When he heard that soft gasp earlier in the alley, he was stunned by your feminine form mere meters away from him. You were a small thing compared to him, the top of your head not even reaching his chest. Whatever surprise he felt was momentary, desire quickly flooding his veins as he drank in your lovely shape. How long since a pretty thing like you entered this infernal domain? How easy would it be to subdue you and make you a slave to his lust? What sounds could he coax from those wet lips of yours? His member twitched to life beneath his withered skirt, the thought of possessing you clouding his mind with lascivious images of your naked body beneath him.

When he took a step towards you, you ran like a frightened lamb.

Watching you turn around to flee– the distance growing between you with every passing second– Pyramid Head gripped his weapon tightly, anger consuming him as he followed right after you. 

As if he would allow you to escape him. 

He would take you. Tarnish that soft flesh and desecrate your soul until you were nothing but a bloody heap beneath him. 

He just needed to catch you first. 

Opening the lockers one by one, he couldn’t suppress his frustrated grumbles when you weren’t there. Where were you? He shifted his attention to the familiar clutter of furniture on the staircase, noting how neatly some chairs were piled in a corner–knowing that the times he’s ventured here, the chairs were never tampered in such a way. 

Realizing how close he must be to capturing you, he started up the stairs, dropping his weapon without a care as he tore down the barricade in a frenzy to find you. 

When his search proved fruitless, the veins in his arms and neck became more prominent from his fury. WHERE WERE YOU? Blind with rage, he smashed his fists against the broken furniture and the rotting walls, tearing everything in his wake as he roared loud enough to make his helmet vibrate violently from the sound. It hurt enough to cause him to rupture something and bleed, trails of blood dripping down his neck to mix with the blood of his other victims.

As he stood breathing heavily on the landing of the stairs, trying to shake off the cloud of anger consuming him, a faint creak was heard downstairs. He twisted his body to look behind him, crazily observing the area where he heard it from. 

There was a lone table. The once white cloth adorning it was an ugly shade of brown, time not being kind to as it had torn holes ruining it. He could care less about the useless piece of cloth. What had his undivided attention was the dainty fingers that could be seen poking out beneath it. 

There was a moment of silence before he charged down the stairs. 

Gripping the sides of the table, he flung it across the hall, old wood shattering to pieces when it smacked against the railing of the stairs. He paid little mind to the destruction he created, his focus landing entirely on your meek figure below him. A look of horror crossed your face, mouth open in shock as you stared up at him. A rumble of contentment echoed within his helmet having finally found his prize, quickly dropping down to his knees to grab you and pin you between his legs.

It didn’t take much to overpower you, Pyramid Head sitting on your thighs to lessen your squirming. Bunching the pink fabric in his hands, he tore your sweater apart like paper, your startled scream doing little to deter him. His bloodied hands groped the exposed flesh hungrily, smudging your torso with the red substance as you shrieked in disgust. The way the softness of your tummy gave under his firm hands had him addicted. He loved how weak and pliant your flesh was.

Your mounds were a sight too, spilling off the cups of the small band around your chest. He tore that off easily too, your bust jiggling from the action and making him groan at the sight. Much to his pleasure, he saw your skin pebble with goosebumps, the cool air of the room turning your nipples into tight buds.

His hands moved, thick fingers stroking over your breasts to test the doughy texture. You gasped, arching from the pressure, unknowingly pushing your chest against his palms. Much to your chagrin, the rough pads of his fingers sent a fire bolt careening from your nipples and through your quivering belly to ignite heat into your core. You bit your lip, ignoring the sensation as you tried shoving his hands away with your feeble strength. When he tugged harshly on the tips of your breasts, you let out a pained whine, the kittenish sound sending a shock of pleasure down his spine. He wished to tear you apart, bathe in your essence as he drank up your tortured cries.

He was reluctant to pull his hands away from you, your body smeared in a beautiful canvas of blood, but his need to fully claim you could not be denied.  Pyramid Head removed his hands from your breasts with a final rough squeeze, shifting one to rub his erection to alleviate some of his need, while the other hand trailed down to caress your clothed hip possessively.

He was bewitched by you, reverently stroking your skin with bloodied hands to dirty your purity. Shielding your breasts from his view, you were a vision with your head turned to the side, choking on a sob as you realized that despite how your mind protested his brutish touches, your body betrayed you when slickness dripped between your thighs.

At war with yourself, you didn't pay attention when his attention turned to the last article of clothing preserving your modesty.

Easing up on his weight, he shifted his body down to tug at your black jeans. When the tight fabric stuck around your hips, he grew irritated at the minor inconvenience. Before you could voice out a protest, he roughly flipped you over onto your stomach, shock coursing through you when he tore the denim to shreds at your sides, dragging the rest of it down your legs and taking your panties and shoes with them.

You could feel the heat in your face at the state of your nudity. He caressed your ass then– forcing an undignified yelp from you at the offensive touch– squeezing the globes on either palm, his nails digging into the fat hard enough to leave lasting bruises on your unblemished skin. 

"N-no! You're hurting me!" 

You hissed between your teeth, sharp aches blossoming from where his fingers pressed on your ass. You shivered with disgust when the blood on his hands dirtied your globes, matching it with the mess of your front.

Brushing a calloused finger along your vulva, he was met with the heat of your pussy. It had your body jerking to attention, the blood draining from your face in an instant. When he tried to insert the bloody finger inside you, you shook erratically, your hands scrambling for purchase on the floor to get away from him. 

Tired of your antics, he twisted you to your back, uncaring of the yelp that left you when the back of your head hit the floor with a loud thud. Holding you down with one hand around your neck, he nearly choked you as he began pulling impatiently at the fastenings of his long skirt to jerk himself free with his other. His body shook with excitement, enticed by your naked flesh even as you begged sweetly under him. 

He paid little mind to your frantic scratching on his arm, the pain miniscule when compared to the hard throbbing of his cock— the twitching member pulsating so strongly that it had his mind blazing from the painful pressure, a groan of distress escaping him the longer it was kept confined. Pain that would only be soothed once he was encompassed by the tight walls of your pussy. 

~

The state of your mind went into a panic when you saw it. What lay between those muscled thighs was a monstrosity. It would bring you nothing but pure anguish and misery, the way it could barely spring upward with its heavy weight. Accompanied by an equally heavy set of balls and prominent veins lining the length of it– it was more of an instrument of pain than that of pleasure, meant to punish and brutalize those that fell victim to it. 

A whimper left you before you started thrashing in earnest, clawing away at his arm to get away from that. 

"LET GO OF ME! NO! Y-YOU CAN'T-!" 

You didn't care that he could snap your neck in a second, didn't care that he could rip you limb from limb or crush your head with his bare hands. Those were much better options than the alternative he was hellbent on pursuing. 

What the hell?! How can he be that bi-!!? Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt monstrous hands grip your knees and pull them apart savagely, screaming at the painful ache in your pelvis following the rough motion. He knelt between your spread legs, his large thighs forcing you open and leaving you unable to close your legs.

"W-wait! Wait! Think about what you're doing, please?! It's not possi-?!" 

The blunt head of his cock tapped your entrance, the pearl of precum mixing with your wetness as he tried to nudge his way in. His size proved too much for your smaller frame, his dick sliding up your vulva in a failed attempt to penetrate you. The insistent push of his hips had you holding your breath, body freezing in place when the head of his cock threatened to breach your cunt only to slide along your labia once more. 

The rough motion had you panting, the repeated nudging on your clit causing your pelvis to twitch from the erotic stimulation. You couldn’t stop your body’s reaction to him, a pulsating heat shimmering beneath your skin. Taking a glance down, you shuddered at the sight of his cock sandwiched between your spread lips. It had your feminine channel burning for him despite your fear of him. Shame accompanied your arousal as you felt more of your natural fluids coating the underside of his dick and flowing down your ass in rivulets.

While you lay gasping at the dizzying sensation, you were ignorant to his growing agitation when he missed his mark again. He raised your hips higher, giving himself a better view of your leaking hole before grabbing his wet shaft with one hand and lining himself up once more. This time he was determined to properly defile you.

Your eyes fluttered open when he adjusted you, looking up at him in confusion as you tried to clear your mind. The momentary pleasure he had given you was obliterated in a second when you felt the press of his cock head stab its first inch inside your dripping pussy. 

Like a bucket of cold water hitting your face, you shrieked when the reality of your situation set in. Flinching from his touch, you tried twisting your hips away from him hoping to dislodge the stiff cock from its journey inside you. 

"No! You won't fit!"

Bucking your hips uselessly, you failed to realize that your swirling hips moved pleasantly around the tip, a dribble of cum shooting out of his cock to coat your insides– making you gasp when you felt it and him shudder strongly at the feel of your sweet cunt. Seeing how you were so lubricated for him, he repositioned himself above you, bracing a foot on the floor while keeping the other leg bent at the knee. Grabbing the back of your knees, he pushed them forward near your head, effectively placing you in a mating press of sorts.

Not giving you any time to protest, he thrusted half of himself in one diligent push.

You yelped at the sudden pain, eyes nearly popping out of your face as you felt your pussy stretch beyond its limit. Glimmer of tears rushed to your eyes, the pain making your mouth wobble as he pulled away– the drag of his cock against your inner walls nearly causing you to faint– only to cry out when he thrusted back in with more force. More of his cock violated your sore insides, rendering you a screaming mess as he continued to plunder your wrecked form. Too scared to look at the damage between your legs, you pushed against his firm stomach, pleading for him to stop or he'll kill you. 

A sharp jab into your swollen flesh had you crying out, arching your back as tears trailed down your face. No manner of preparation could’ve made his passage bearable, the stark difference between his gargantuan size and your regular size evident as you struggled to accommodate him.

He took you like a brute. Not caring about your distressed wails.

It hurt.

Maybe the pain was making you delirious, but beneath the agony, there was a thread of pleasure seeping through the cracks. You refused to believe it, the thought of your body betraying you in such a way nearly crumbling you.

…

…

 Then why were your hips moving timidly alongside his?

~

His hands bit into your sides, Pyramid Head lifting your lower body off the floor to smack against him, driving the rest of his cock inside your spasming pussy with a low groan.

It was a tight fit. 

Once the entirety of his throbbing cock was seathed inside your warm heat, he took the time to glance down at you. You were a sweaty mess of blood and tears, pained gasps emerging from your trembling lips as your body twitched uncontrollably from his claiming of you. Your entrance was stretched taut around his engorged cock, the blood smeared on your pelvis making him wonder if it was yours or from him. 

He was immune to your choked sobs, not feeling the least bit remorseful of his violent taking of you. Rather, he was pleased you survived. Many didn’t make it past this stage, but you proved to be a pleasant surprise. 

The snug walls of your cunt suddenly clenched around his dick, nearly making him cum on the spot. 

He pulled his hips back, hissing when your walls clamped down on him, making the task difficult before driving forward with purpose. Before long, your soaked entrance made his movements easier, his dick sliding much faster inside your straining pussy. Pained cries turned into soft mewls, your hips eventually moving in tandem with his with every brush of your clit. 

He paused midthrust to stare at the bulge in your tummy in fascination. It was a ghastly sight– the way your lower belly distended from his cock penetrating you. He pressed on the bump in an inquisitive manner, jolting in shock when your channel clenched around him erratically, a stream of fluid splashing on his lower belly following your loud shriek. 

The shock was momentary, Pyramid Head rubbing your secretion between his fingers to play with the strings. Bringing them beneath the helm of his helmet, he was overtaken with the smell of your lust. Even though you couldn’t meet his gaze, you could feel him staring at you in a hungry manner. He gave you little time to be embarrassed, hunching over you to place your legs above his elbows, spreading you further and spearing into you with brutal thrusts.

He couldn't stop the rapid succession of thrusts, driving into you faster and faster as his release built up with every plunge inside you.

~

You twisted helplessly, opening your mouth to voice out your pleasure as fire spread throughout your body. His fierce pace had you writhing wildly beneath him, shaking your head at the growing tension in your stomach– signaling another approaching orgasm. You didn’t want him to stop. Your womb clenched with every harsh jab of his monstrous dick against it, the pressure escalating with every second of your ruin.

“O-oh! Please, please, please–!!” You sobbed, not knowing if you wanted him to stop his rough onslaught on your poor body or begging for more as his hips collided violently between the juncture of your thighs. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed along the hall, your passionate cries and his low groans forever imprinted on your mind. Your legs grew tired, falling lax on either side of him, unable to keep up with his vigorous pace. 

He used you like nothing more than a cocksleeve, molding the shape of his cock in your tight pussy, his sac slapping lewdly against your ass.

It became too much. 

Your mind went blank when the knot in your belly finally snapped, letting out a scream of completion when intense heat spread throughout your shaking body. Your vaginal walls gripped him tightly, trying to milk him for all his worth, the sudden tightness forcing a growl to emerge from him. Tears escaped you, the painful pleasure driving you mad in his embrace.

White lights danced behind your eyelids, your orgasm turning you into a puddled mess of ecstasy even as he continued to ravage you.

The last thing you felt before closing your eyes in exhaustion was a scorching heat filling your insides, calloused fingers rubbing the bump in your tummy in wonder.

❣️🖤❣️Thank you for reading~! ❣️🖤❣️

I got another treat for my dear followers! You gotta know I'm posting NSFW Art to go with my fics as well~ (*^ ‿ <*)♡

🎃Happy Halloween, you guys! Stay safe out there!🎃

Full NSFW Art here ---> (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi��”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Permission Denied

Pairing: Dark Shouta "Eraserhead" Aizawa x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: You’re bored – stuck inside the house while it’s sunny and nice outside. Aizawa doesn’t care about that. 

WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Captivity.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊

--

From your spot on the couch, you steal a glance at the black-haired man that sits on the table, surrounded by piles of paper. Midterm exams, he said.  

It seems like a boring task, but Shouta doesn’t seem to mind. Unlike you, who’s getting restless by the minute. 

There’s nothing for you to do.

Your hobbies are fairly limited, only granted when Shouta is feeling generous enough to notice your boredom, which hasn’t been the case lately. 

He’s too busy between the Hero course class and patrols, which inevitably results in neglecting you. There are no new books for you to devour and the TV’s control remote is still “missing”. 

The kitchen is off limits, which means no cooking or baking.

There’s nothing to do!

Perhaps you’re not being as sneaky as you believe yourself to be because Shouta’s suddenly looks up to meet your gaze, catching you off guard. 

“If you have something to say, then spill it.” 

You look at him, eyes still round with surprise. 

“Well, I…” The words stammer when coming out and you tautly twist your hands. “I’m bored.” 

Shouta looks at you. 

“Yes, I have noticed.” 

It’s a bit disheartening when he goes back to marking papers, leaving you at that. 

“So…I don’t know. Maybe…I could go to the garden?” 

He pauses his scribbling, and you rush to add, “I wouldn’t be alone, of course! You’d be there too, you could grade the papers on the outside table, right?”

His eyes are sharp when he looks back at you, the neutral expression on his face making it harder for you to decipher his true thoughts. 

“I could.” 

Your heart positively jumps at that, and almost fool yourself into believing that you’ve successfully convinced Shouta to do something for you. You’re wrong.   

“But I won’t.” he denies your request just like that, barely batting an eye as he crushes down your hopes. 

Feeling so upset over it makes you feel stupid, but then again, you haven’t left the four walls of Shouta’s home in weeks.

You’re so tired of being here, trapped in the bland ugly house. Tired of him and his insensitivity. Tired of the obnoxious boring routine that has been forced upon you. Tired of everything.  

“Why not?” you burst, even if it comes out more as a demand. 

Shouta’s eyebrows raise at the intensity of your words, and you inhale a small breath, calming yourself down. 

“Why can’t I go outside?” 

“Because at this moment I have a task at hand. I’m sure you can see that.” 

"But I’ve been good. You said that yourself.” your nails leave half-moons in your palms, an attempt to keep your anger at bay. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over these past months is that Shouta doesn’t appreciate hysterical displays of frivolous emotions.

Useless and energy-consuming – that’s how he calls them. 

“You have.” he pauses for a moment, tone slightly softer as he sets the pen down. “I’m not denying that. You have been exemplary these past weeks.” 

Even when you don’t ask it, the question lingers in the tense air. Then why?

Aizawa answers it.

“It’s got nothing to do with your present behavior.” his reassurance does little to soothe your bubbling frustration. Aizawa seems to sense it, semblant turning somber and stern as he stares at you.

“However, my priority is your safety, not your happiness. Perhaps you still remember the last time you were allowed outside? Or of the … incident that occurred?”

He grimaces at that and so do you. 

The incident meant the one-single time Aizawa took you on a late evening walk, where you ended up bumping into one of his neighbours – an overly enthusiastic blonde man – and in the moment of heat, you ended up taking the poor decision to reveal your hostage situation, hoping for help.

Only for said neighbour to turn out to be Aizawa’s close friend, someone Shouta had asked to test you. 

Needless to say that you failed his loyalty test. Hence the house arrest. 

You glance away from him, opting to ignore his question. Aizawa sighs, taking his sweet time cracking his neck from side to side. 

“Like I was saying,” he resumes the conversation, “I’d prefer to reduce that sort of risk from the root. Perhaps one day, if your behavior remains ideal, we can have this discussion again – in a few months.”

Aizawa looks at you with red-streaked eyes, taking notice of your well-concealed frustration as well as blatantly ignoring it.

Picking up the pen, he continues to correct the papers, marking the end of your little discussion and leaving no space for argument. 

Leaving you back in the reign of boredom. 

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 4

summary: you never would've snuck out of bed last night if you had known it would lead to this—becoming a pawn in joel's sick, depraved game, playing the role of both victim and accomplice. how can the sparing of your life feel so much like a death sentence? how can you ever forgive yourself when your hands are as soaked in innocent blood as his are? how can the kind, gentle man you thought you loved, turn out to be such a monster?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, !!GRAPHIC!! DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND BLOOD, NON-CON PIV (gonna say rape just in case, reader does not verbally consent), JOEL IS A SICK FREAK WHO GETS OFF ON KILLING, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, stalking, heavy dose of Joel POV, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, breathplay, degrading language used in an unsexy way, consumption of blood, Joel comes on your face, brief mention of somnophilia, reader has hair long enough to grab, reader can be carried by joel, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 11.5k

a/n: this is a dark one, folks. if i haven't lost you already, i might lose you after this one. if this is the stop you get off on, i'm okay with that :) thanks for coming along for the ride. we've still got places to go from here, i'll be glad if you do decide to stick around. i feel very fortunate that the conversation around this story has been positive and respectful and i look forward to keeping it that way <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

The office looks so different in the daylight.

The key to the room you’ve been staying in is still the only one missing from the corkboard, but the previously empty coffee pot is now half-full of this morning’s brew, and the ominous ticking of the clock is now mostly drowned out by the sounds of an afternoon football game, playing loudly on the television in the little lounge. 

Joel has only let go of your hand twice since you left town—once to help you up into the truck, and once to help you climb back down. Your fingers have remained interlocked otherwise, even while he was driving, even right now, as you stand in front of the desk and wait for somebody to respond to the sharp sound of the little golden bell reverberating throughout the room. Joel hits his fingers against the top of it again, with a little more agitated force this time, but still, no answer.

“I know this ain’t a five star joint or nothin’, but goddamn…” Joel grumbles, leaning around to peer into the room where, by the sounds of it, a touchdown has just been made. “Hey, buddy! Lil’ help in here?” He shouts, and the sudden intensity of his voice makes you jump. The volume of the game diminishes almost immediately, and a scrawny-looking teenage boy emerges from the lounge, wiping Cheeto dust onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sir. Eagles game, you know?” the boy tries to jest, but Joel only hums in response. “Anyway, what can I help you guys with?”

“Was wonderin’ if you might know anythin’ about a girl named Chrissy who was workin’ the night shift in here last night?”

“Chrissy? Sure, she’s pretty new around here, but I’ve worked the mornings after her a few times… Why do you ask? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

Not yet, she isn’t. 

“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Joel reassures, then maneuvers you to stand in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. She helped my lil’ girl out last night when she wasn’t feelin’ too well. We’re awfully grateful to her, ain’t we, sweetheart?” He prompts, nudging you in the back. 

You nod, but keep your head down, fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

“Oh! That’s right. She, uh, left a note on the coffee table in there, saying something about keeping an eye on the girl staying here, and the, um…” You flick your eyes upwards as the boy’s sentence trails off, and watch him look Joel up and down once, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just the girl. Guess that was you, huh?” You avert your gaze again quickly when he addresses you, feeling your pulse quicken in panic.

“Mhm, sure was,” Joel answers for you. “That was awfully… kind of her, bein’ so concerned like that. Anyway, we just thought we’d stop by, see if she was around so we could give her a proper ‘thank you’, but I take it she ain’t here anymore? Any idea where she might be this time o’ day?”

The boy expels a sigh, tapping his fingers on top of the counter while he thinks. “I mean, I don’t know her too well… But I know she’s got another job at this bar down the road, The Rattler Room. I think she trades her nights between that place and here, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a shift there later tonight.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Joel says, clapping his hands on either one of your upper arms. “Guess we know what we’re doin’ about dinner tonight, don’t we, sweetheart?” Goosebumps raise on your skin even in the warmth of the office, and a nauseous feeling swirls in the pit of your belly. You feel somewhat fortunate that Joel wasn’t actually looking for a response from you, because if you were to open your mouth right now, you can’t guarantee that the minimal contents of your stomach wouldn’t come spilling out all over the muddy-colored carpeting. You would’ve never gotten out of bed last night, never tiptoed into this suffocating little room and asked the friendly-looking freckle-faced girl for help with your stupid idea—or hers, as Joel seems to think—if you had known that you would be putting more than just your own life at risk. You know what’s coming next, why Joel wants to hunt her down and stalk her like the predator that he is, and it’s all your fault.

“Let’s get goin’ now, baby. Thanks for your help, son, ‘s much appreciated.” Joel grabs hold of your hand again as he leads you out the door, and you nearly trip over the threshold as he tugs you across it.

He has a sick kind of spring in his step as he drags you back to the room, licking his chops and wearing an amused expression as he shucks off his boots and collapses onto the bed with a groan. You stand at the foot of the bed, frozen, as he grabs the remote off the bedside table and flicks the little square television to life. 

“Whaddyou wanna watch, babydoll, huh? Signal’s kinda spotty out here, but one’a these channels has gotta be playin’ an old Western or somethin’...” You just blink at him, dumbfounded, watching him surf through the staticky channels as if the previous five minutes had never happened. Joel had just started the countdown on the remainder of Chrissy’s life right before your eyes, and all he wants to do now is… kick his feet up and watch some fucking TV? 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I wanna watch’?” You ask, unable to hide the disconcerted edge in your voice.

“Baby, it ain’t a difficult question. Gotta kill time somehow, don’t we?” Joel turns his head in your direction as he addresses you, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the television screen, which now seems to be stuck on a snowy channel filling the room with loud, unsettling white noise. “God—dammit,” he curses, smacking the remote against the palm of his hand a few times. Your stomach churns both at the way he beats the inanimate object for its disobedience, and at his ironic choice of idiom.

“Kill time until… what?” 

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes, halfway rolling his eyes at you before giving up on his endeavor altogether and clicking the TV screen into darkness again. “Did you think I was just makin’ shit up last night? You’re gonna bring her to me. Not right now, ‘course. Later, when the sun goes down, we’ll head on over to that bar. I’ll buy you some dinner or whatever kinda shitty food they have, but dessert’s on you, you get me?”

Your vision starts to go a little dark around the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet as the grim reality sets in that he wasn’t just prattling off some depraved fantasy to you last night, he wants to make it real. He wants to spear a hook through your abdomen and cast you out to sea, dangle you in front of something empathetic and pretty and fragile and lure her straight into his gaping jaw. You can hardly live with yourself as it is, the way you’ve already been so consumed with survivor’s guilt for the past twenty four hours that you can feel the physical weight of it on your soul. But actually being responsible for adding another girl to his collection, your hands just as soaked in her blood as his would be? It will fucking break you. It won’t just be the images of the polaroids that will haunt you, it’ll be the shattering sounds of their screams, the metallic scent of their blood, the nauseating visions of their contorted bodies that will be your own tangible memories now, seared onto the backs of your eyelids because you were there. You’ll never get a decent night’s sleep for the rest of your life, and you won’t deserve one.

“But… you—we can’t take her. It can’t be her.”

Joel sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms, like he wants to see where you’re going with this. “No? Why not, babydoll?”

You cross your arms back at him, widening your stance in order to look more sure of yourself. “Well… That kid. He saw our faces, right? When Chrissy doesn’t show up here again tomorrow night, the police will question him, and he’ll tell them that we were asking about her. They’ll know we had something to do with it.” 

Joel scoffs. “Yeah? Well, maybe they will. Then what’re they gonna do about it, hm? Two of us’ll be long gone by the time tomorrow night rolls around.” He knocks down your logic as easily as he would a house of cards, and you can’t think of anything else to say that might be able to convince him not to do this. The thought of it alone is like a drop of blood in the water, and once he’s gotten a whiff of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop the frenzy. 

“B-but—”

“But what, sweetheart? How long d’you think I’ve been doin’ this, hm? Think I don’t know the rules of the game by now?”

He has a point. Joel has managed to evade capture for this long, surely he isn’t going to start slipping up now. He probably has his ritual down to a science, knowing exactly which type of girl to take, the right place to get the job done, and how long he can stick around for afterwards before his face shows up as a crude drawing on the evening news. The only thing on his mind now is the exciting prospect of being able to get his rocks off in just a few hours, while yours is running a mile a minute thinking about the lifetime of trauma and guilt you’ll be setting yourself up for if you do this, how many different ways it can go wrong, and what could happen to you if it does. 

“Here, c’mere, baby,” Joel beckons, spreading his legs and patting his hand on the mattress between them. “You’re thinkin’ too much about this. Lemme show you how easy it’s gonna be, hm?”

He raises his brows at you when you don’t obey immediately, and you reluctantly crawl onto the creaky bed toward where Joel’s toned arms are reaching out to you. He grabs onto your waist when you get close enough and pulls you against him, situating you so that your back is pressed against his front. He wraps his arms around your middle, and rests his scruffy chin on your shoulder.

“You remember passin’ that bar on our way into town today, don’t you, babydoll? Had a big ol’ neon sign out front, a bright green rattlesnake waggin’ its tail back ‘n forth?”

“Um…” You close your eyes, trying your best to sift through the memories of everything you had seen during the drive. But it’s proving difficult, especially with the way one of Joel’s rough hands is sliding down your belly, finding its way underneath your dress and settling overtop of your panties. He begins to circle his middle finger around your clothed bud, and you hate the way it makes your breath hitch.

“C’mon, think for me, sweetheart. You remember, don’t you?” Joel prompts, a condescendingly teasing lilt in his voice.

A blur of neon green streaks across the backs of your eyelids, and you do remember, kind of. A divey looking place with a few motorcycles and pickup trucks parked out front, relatively isolated and unassuming aside from its kitschy signage.

“Mhm,” you hum, and it comes out more like a whimper. “I… I remember.”

Joel’s swirling finger picks up its pace, increasing the pressure against your clit as he continues to quiz you. “Yeah… And a few miles down past it, there was that abandoned lookin’ lil’ neighborhood, right? Houses were ‘bout fallin’ apart, all the yards were real overgrown… You remember?”

This, you can picture more clearly. It had reminded you of your own starved out hometown, every street lined with boxy two-story houses covered in peeling paint and climbing vines. Some of the homes so decrepit-looking, with their crumbling foundations and boarded up windows, and yet still with an assortment of sun-bleached children’s toys littering the front porch, a wind-chime still singing even if nobody was around to hear it anymore.

All you can do is nod in conformation, too afraid to make any more noises that might sound like you’re actually enjoying this, like it feels good, like you want him to keep going. Fuck.

“That’s where we’re gonna do it, baby. So you gotta listen real carefully, okay? Gonna tell you the plan, ‘n I want you to repeat it back to me, alright? Can you do that, babydoll?” Joel tugs your panties to the side as he questions you, exposing your damp core to the air conditioned room. “Fuck, look at that…” He muses, now using two of his fingers to spread your puffy lips apart and admire the way they glisten.

“Uh huh, I… I can,” you confirm breathily. 

Joe’s fingers travel downwards, focusing their ministrations around the rim of your leaky hole instead. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart… Gonna head down there, park the truck ‘round the side. I’ll give ya some cash to go sit up at the bar, ‘n I’ll hang around in the back, keep an eye on you… You’re gonna chat up lil’ miss Chrissy, tell her all about how I snatched you up, made you mine, won’t let you leave my side… You’re gonna use your manners all pretty ‘n nice, and ask her to please, please take you back home, help you get away from that big, scary, mean old man who hurts you so bad—“ He presses a thick finger inside your opening, and you can’t help but moan at the burning intrusion. “Just don’t tell her how much you like it, huh, babydoll?” 

“Y-you… You want me to tell h-her… All of that?” You ask, confused that Joel would instruct you to tell her the truth, when so far, he’s been hellbent on hiding from the world who he truly is, only bearing his teeth when provoked, like a caged animal.

“Mhm, want you to tell her the truth, sweetheart, everything. Not like she’ll be able to do anythin’ about it later, hm?” Joel grabs onto your chin with his unoccupied hand, and shakes your head for you. “No, she won’t. Tha’s right, baby…” He laughs darkly, and you understand his intent now—to taunt you with an opportunity to finally be able to ask for help, to force you to pantomime what could be a real chance at escape, knowing that nothing will come of it. Joel begins to piston his finger in and out of you, and he holds you tightly against him as you squirm and sob.

“You’re gonna work your magic on her, and she’ll take such pity on you, sweet lil’ lamb that you are, of course she’ll take you back home… You’re gonna give her directions to that row of houses, have her take you all the way down to the one at the very end of the street, ‘n I’ll be followin’ close behind in the truck the whole time. Two of you’ll get outta the car, and then—” He sinks a second finger into your warmth alongside the other one, and you make a pained little noise at the stretch, arching your back against him. “Then I get to have my fun,” he snarls into your ear.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been holding in your body until now, until Joel had begun using his skillful fingers to render it all down, along with any rational thought you’d had left. You want to fight, want to spit and bite and scratch and push yourself away from him and never let him touch you there again, but you can’t. Your limbs feel weaker and weaker as the muscles in your abdomen draw tighter and tighter, and all you can do is melt against him, let him siphon out all that worry and pain and trauma and replace it with pleasure, at least just for a little while. You’ll grapple with yourself about it later.

You can feel the rumble of Joel’s voice against the skin of your neck, but you don’t register what he says, too consumed by your own pleasure to hear him. You just continue to mindlessly buck into the movements of his fingers, until he yanks them free from your walls and issues a sharp slap to your aching cunt.

“I said, repeat it,” Joel hisses, and you yelp at the sting, your hips stuttering as they continue to chase after nothing.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry, Joel, please—” You pant.

“You want me to keep goin’? You wanna come? Then repeat it back to me, babydoll, all of it, or I ain’t givin’ you shit. Need to know that you understand, that I can send you out there to bring me some fresh meat and you ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

“Okay, okay, okay, um… Fuck—” you curse as Joel slowly reinserts his fingers, resuming their beckoning motion against that spongey spot deep inside that makes you dizzy. “I-I’m gonna… Tell her… About you…”

“Uh huh, tha’s right… What about me, baby?” He encourages, his fingers working their way back up to the pace they had been moving at before he had deprived you of them.

You try to wade through the dense cloud of fog in your mind, your ability to think slowing down as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with each rhythmic thrust. “T-that you, um… That you took me, you h-hurt me. And I’m gonna ask her to… To take me home—” “Good, good girl…” Joel praises. “Doin’ such a good job, almost there, babydoll. What comes next, hm?”

You take in a shuddering breath, closing your eyes tightly as you force your brain to recall the steps he had just walked you through. “I make her d-drive me to, um… To that house—”

“Which one, baby? Lots’a houses on that street, which one did I say?” Joel stills his movements, holding your pleasure hostage while he waits for your answer. You try desperately to twist around in his hold and continue to chase after your high, but his grip around your jaw remains ironclad. 

“The one on the… The corner?”

Slap.

“Ain’t what I fuckin’ said. You think I want everybody drivin’ by to be able to hear her fuckin’ screams? Try again.”

You cry out, your abused little hole constricting around nothing. You dredge the depths of your short term memory, desperate to come up with the right answer.

“At the end! T-the one at the end,” you shout, and you’re rewarded with the replacement of his fingers, petting against your walls with just the right amount of speed and force that he knows will have you seeing stars with just a few more strokes.

“There we go… And what’s the last thing I said, sweetheart, hm? Last thing I need you to do…”

You draw a blank, your head filled with nothing other than almost there, keep going, please, please, please. You whine, bracing yourself for another swat to your sensitive cunt as you force yourself to admit, “I-I don’t… Don’t remember.”

Slap.

A debauched, animalistic cry leaves your lips, one that you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed of at the moment. “Yes you do, baby. Not gonna let you gush all over my fuckin’ fingers ‘less you tell me. Think. Can’t do shit if the two’a you get to the house and just twiddle your thumbs in the car, can I?”

“N-no, I gotta… Get her out of the car… Right? Is that it?” You’re heaving, completely breathless and covered in the dampness of your own sweat and arousal. At this point, you think you’ll say whatever the fuck he wants to hear if it means he’ll reinsert his fingers and finally let you fall over the edge.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” The hand that was gripped onto your jaw migrates downwards, wrapping itself around your neck. He presses his thumb and forefinger into either one of your pulse points, and you feel like you’re floating as he resumes the movements of his soaked fingers, drawing your orgasm closer and closer to the surface again. “One last thing… Tell me what I’m gonna do to her, hm? Then you can come, baby,” Joel growls, and you can feel him pressing his hard length into your back as he does. 

His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater, but it resonates clearly enough for you to understand what he’s commanding of you. A whine forces its way through your constricted throat as you plead, “D-don’t make me, please just—” “Say it, or you’re gonna be watchin’ me do it with an achy, unsatisfied cunt leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. ‘S that what you want?”

You don’t want to watch him do it at all. A more sensible part of your brain knows that this is all so wrong, that it’s sick and horrifying and completely deplorable, but the pleasure-seeking part of it doesn’t really care right now. Joel is playing with you like a doll, pulling your strings and posing your limbs as he molds you into his perfect victim. He’s breaking you down, slowly but surely, and although you can feel it happening in real time, he’s proven to you time and time again how defenseless you are to his manipulation, how just a few gentle words and swirls of his fingertips can have you falling apart against him, so that he can put you back together just a little bit differently than you were before. 

“N-no,” you whimper ashamedly.

“Then say it.”

You swallow, and you can feel the cartilage at the front of your throat moving against his hand as you do. “You’re gonna… Kill her,” you rasp through half-full lungs, the words hardly meaning anything to you at all with how close your release is, being dangled in front of you just barely out of reach.

“Sure fuckin’ am,” Joel growls through gritted teeth. “Gonna enjoy every second of it, too, ‘s been so goddamn long. ‘M fuckin’ starvin’ for it, babydoll, you got no idea… Can’t wait to watch that lil’ bitch bleed.”

You ignore his perverted rambling to the best of your ability, the rocking of your hips becoming more spastic as the movements of Joel’s fingers increase in intensity, alongside his own excitement.

“C-can I… Please, Joel—” you beg hoarsely, your own voice sounding distorted and far away as you fuck yourself on his hand. 

“Yeah, babydoll, come for me, such a perfect fuckin’ girl…”

Both of Joel’s hands maintain their pressure as the knot in your belly tightens, then unravels all at once. You come undone on his fingers, the motel room filling with the obscene sounds of your wetness and your pathetic mewling as you drench Joel’s hand. He shushes and praises you through your climax, his fingers only ceasing their onslaught once your twitching body finally relaxes and slumps against his broad form. 

Your skin feels cool, tingly all over as the blood rushes back into your head. Joel pulls you into his lap, bending your knees close to your body so that he can cradle you like a child. You must be crying again, because he’s using his knuckle to wipe moisture from underneath your eyes as you shudder against him, reality coming crashing down around you again all at once.

“You’re so good for me, baby, such a good girl… It’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see. It’ll get easier every time we do this, won’t seem so scary anymore…” Joel rubs your back and kisses the top of your head, and you let him believe that you are crying for fear of the brutality you’ll have to bear witness to tonight, and not because you’ve dared to feel pleasure at the hands of the person who will be doing the brutalizing. You feel so fucking ashamed in your post-orgasmic state, but you’re so dehydrated and exhausted that you don’t really have enough energy to scold yourself right now. 

Joel holds you close as he rocks your curled-up form, and you feel too weak to resist the way your eyes begin to flutter closed, the release of tension making way for your poor night’s sleep to finally catch up with you. 

“Get some rest, babydoll, gonna need it. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go,” is the last thing you hear before you allow yourself to succumb to the temptation of sleep. 

—

You were never supposed to find those polaroids. 

Could Joel have taken the precaution of dumping his box of jerkoff material into a ditch somewhere before you could ever get the chance to find it on your own? Of course. But he didn’t know if he might need it again, if he might someday find himself with another itch that only his little collection of keepsakes could scratch. He had kept them hidden from you for a reason, tried to toss them in the trash and convince you that they weren’t worth getting curious about for a reason—because things were going perfectly well, better than it had gone with any of them. Joel had never planned on adding your photo to the pile.

He had known you were different, that you were the one, from that very first night you’d spent together. You’d been nothing but polite, grateful, and appreciative, even when he’d slid beside you in bed and stolen a taste of all that sweetness you were made of. 

His whole life, Joel has searched for someone like you—someone to submit to him, to rely on him, to need him. That latter trait is the most important one, and the one that all the others seemed to be lacking. They liked feeling cared for and protected, liked bleeding his wallet dry while they spent a few weeks using him as some kind of rebellious experiment to piss off their parents one last time before they moved out of the house. But none of them ever made it very long before they decided that they didn’t really need him after all, that the fling was over, that the spark was gone, that they missed the shitty town he had picked them up from and wanted to be taken back. Ungrateful brats, they all fucking deserved it. And now they never get to go home, they get to rot in the fucking ground where their families will never find them, and he gets to keep their pretty pictures all to himself, asserting his control over them even in death. See how much they fucking need him now, when he is the one thing standing in between a cold case and a funeral.

Joel had known you wouldn’t end up like them, because you do need him. You have nobody, whether you’ll ever be able to admit it to yourself or not. You have no friends, no future, and no family, or at least not any left alive that actually care about you. You have no choice but to rely on him. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t stumbled upon you that night, looking so weak and lost and vulnerable and alone? There are much worse men than Joel out there, men who rape and kill just for the sick pleasure of it alone. At least Joel has some method behind his madness. It’s not like he’d invite a girl into his truck and immediately begin to fantasize about what her windpipe might feel like collapsing underneath his fingers.

Or, he didn’t used to. Not when he first started taking them. 

He’d thought the desire had just disappeared on its own, once he’d found you, his perfect little doll. Joel had meant what he said when he told you that he was going to be done after the last one. But then… Then he’d had you pinned underneath him last night, starving your lungs of air, your eyes red and watery as you’d begged for your life, and he’d realized that he missed it. He craved it. Needed it. The itch was still there after all, demanding to be scratched. But no matter how aggravating and persistent it may get, Joel had decided a long time ago that he’ll never use you to make it go away. It’ll never be you. Even when he’d had his hands wrapped around your throat, he’d never planned on finishing the job. After all, how could he ever live without you when he’d spent so long trying to find you?

And this is the one thing he needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go. Joel had thought he’d gotten it through to you well enough last night, when he’d given you a taste of the consequences the others had suffered when they’d tried escaping. But you must be stronger than he’s been giving your credit for, judging by the way you still decided to fucking act up today with that dumbass little letter of yours. That’s okay, though. He can handle it. It just means you’ll take a little more effort to break down than he’d previously thought. If he can’t convince you that the only version of your life you were ever destined to live is the one with him in it, then he’ll just have to make you think that it’s your own idea to stay, to submit. He seems to have made some pretty good progress chipping away at your resolve today already. At this rate, he’ll have it whittled down to nothing in no time at all, and you’ll be right back to the pliant little babydoll he fell in love with all that time ago. The one who needs him.

You’ll come back around soon enough, when you finally realize that you don’t have any other choice.

So, maybe Joel is a little glad you found the polaroids. He wouldn’t have ended up here if you hadn’t, skulking around the pool table in the back of the Rattler Room, practically vibrating with anticipation and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He flicks his gaze between the end of his pool cue and where you’re perched at the bar on a cracked leather stool, occasionally catching your eyes when you look back at him nervously. Joel just gives you a nod and a wink every time, and it’s enough to make you turn back around and take another sip of your drink to quell your anxiety. 

You’re probably getting antsy because the two of you have been hanging around here for the better part of an hour, and Chrissy still hasn’t shown yet. But this is just one rule of the game—waiting. Patience. A predator doesn’t go in for the kill the second they lay eyes on their prey, do they? They have to study their movements, make sure they’ve got the little creature right where they want them, with their belly up or their neck exposed or their back turned, and then they pounce. You’ll learn the rules soon enough. With each of these little hunts that you accompany him on, you’ll learn. There may even come a time when you pick out the girls yourself, because you see it as an act of service, of love, satiating his hunger like this. 

The next time you look back at Joel, you move like you’re about to get up from your seat and walk over to him, but he gives you a stern look that says “Stay put.” He jerks his chin upwards, toward where his pretty piece of meat is now emerging from behind the bar. Joel wonders if you believe the web of lies he’d spun about her today, if they were enough to convince you that Chrissy had taken advantage of you, that she’d manipulated you, that she deserves this. He hopes that you do, so that her death might weigh a little less on your conscience, so that you’ll put up a little less fight the next time his itch needs scratching. 

God, that slender neck of hers is just begging for Joel’s blade. His upper lip twitches as he imagines the sight of her deep crimson blood dripping down her ivory-colored skin, her face becoming impossibly paler as her heart flutters out its last few beats before stopping altogether. Joel usually saves his knife for special occasions, when he needs the execution done quick and dirty before her screams wake up the entire fucking neighborhood, or in instances like his last girl, when she just needed to be put out of her fucking misery. But he might use it tonight, just because. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s so fucking hard he doesn’t think he can make himself suffer through the amount of time it takes to strangle a girl. 

Joel watches from the shadows as Chrissy seems to recognize you right away, reaching for your hands across the bar as she says something to you that he can’t make out. Judging by the pitied expression she wears, the way she leans into you, he guesses it’s something like, “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Do you need me to save you from that big horrible monster who’s making your life so miserable?” Joel rolls his eyes at the imagined conversation. He sets his pool cue back on the rack and takes a seat at a small corner table, keeping his head low as he sips his beer, adjusting himself while he watches the way the tendons in Chrissy’s neck tighten and flex as she speaks. He can practically see her carotid artery pulsing underneath her skin, can already taste the iron on his tongue from the flecks of blood that will inevitably splatter onto his lips when he slices it open.

Calm the fuck down, Miller. It’ll be playtime soon enough.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, and Joel gathers that you must be reciting the lines he’d taken such care to teach you today. Chrissy’s brows furrow, her lips part, and she places one of her small hands over her chest as she listens, as if your rehearsed little sob story is just too much to bear, so tragic and devastating that it’s actually causing her physical pain to hear. She retrieves a paper napkin from underneath the bar, and hands it to you so that you can use it to dab underneath your eyes. Jesus, are you crying? You’re even better at this than he thought you’d be. 

Your shoulders shudder as you finish drying your tears, and Chrissy glances behind her at the clock on the wall, pausing to think for a moment before she turns back to you. Whatever she’s saying, she looks sure of herself, determined, and you nod your head on just about every other word. “Okay?” is the only one he can read on Chrissy’s lips, the last one she says to you before she begins serving the other patrons sitting at the bar. You continue to sip at your drink with your head hung low until she disappears into the back again, and when you swivel around in your stool, Joel is already staring at you. He makes a beckoning motion with two of his fingers, and you hop down from your seat, scurrying over to him as if he were whistling at a dog to come.

“She, um…” You start, checking behind you once to make sure Chrissy is still out of sight. “She said she’ll take her first break early, in an hour or so, and then… Then she’ll drive me home.”

A satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Joel’s mouth. “Alright, ‘nother hour it is, then. That wasn’t so hard, baby, was it?”

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact while you swirl your finger around the condensation from Joel’s beer bottle that’s collected on the lacquered table. You open your mouth like you want to say something else, but close it again quickly, seeming to think better of it.

“What is it, sweetheart, hm?” Joel prompts, curling a rough hand around the back of your bare thigh.

“I just… Wish it didn’t have to be her. She’s really nice.”

So were the rest of them, Joel thinks, until they tossed him aside like a chewed piece of gum. “Nice” doesn’t mean shit to him. Lots of girls are nice. And pretty. But they all fucking sound the same when they’re begging him to stop.

Joel bites his tongue, despite his supply of faux sympathy running dangerously low, and musters up what little there is left of it in order to give you the last little push that you need. “Oh, babydoll… You shouldn’t feel bad about somebody who did you wrong sufferin’ the consequences of their actions. I know she seems nice, but she ain’t a good person, baby, I told you that already—”

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. It’s already been done, sweetheart, you gotta stop thinkin’ about it so hard. Just get back up there, hm? Be over before you know it.” 

Joel uses his grip on your thigh to spin you around, and sends you back up to the bar with a lewd swat to your ass. He stares at the way it bounces underneath the too-short skirt of your dress, and leans back in his chair as he takes another sip out of his sweating bottle. 

The next “hour or so” passes at such an excruciatingly slow pace, he’s stopped himself nearly a dozen times from flagging down a waitress and requesting another beer. He’ll have to make do with just the one, if he wants to be sharp, present, so that he’ll be able to savor every moment of both the hunt and the slaughter. Joel had forgotten how exhilarating the entire process is, how arousing it is to lurk quietly in the shadows, without the little thing having any idea that he’s there, until it’s too late. 

He bides most of the time by just sitting, staring, thinking. About if Chrissy will be more of a begger or a screamer, if she’ll waste any of her breath trying to plead with him and change his mind, or if she’ll just cry herself hoarse in hopes that somebody will hear her pathetic wailing and come to her rescue. Joel chuckles to himself when he remembers the one who kept insisting that “I have a boyfriend, you know. I bet he’s been looking for me, he’ll be here any minute now and he’ll fucking kill you.” Joel had doubled over laughing as he gestured around to the isolated patch of woods he’d dragged her out to, nearly pitch black and dead silent, save for the pale light of the waning moon and the sounds of her heaving sobs. “Oh, you got a boyfriend, do you? Tight lil’ virgin cunt was tellin’ me otherwise, but nice try, sweetheart,” Joel had taunted. Her photo was one of his favorites—a neck-down view of her kneeling form, featuring her chained together wrists and her filthy hands and knees, dirt-stained from how he’d taken her on the ground one last time.

Well, her first time. Whoops.

He’s got a white-knuckled grip around the neck of his empty bottle by the time he’s pulled out of his trance, the movement of two bodies up at the bar distracting him. Joel’s eyes refocus in time to see Chrissy draping her coat over your shoulders, ushering you out the back door after giving the room a once over. Not a very thorough one, considering she had basically looked right at him and didn’t seem to recognize him, but that’s more situational awareness than he can give most of the others credit for.

Too bad it won’t do her any good.

Joel feels like he’s got an electrical current pulsing through his bloodstream as he gets up from his seat, allowing the two of you a few paces’ head start before following in pursuit. He spots the flame of Chrissy’s red hair as she hurriedly helps you into the passenger side of her shitty Pinto, the door’s rusty hinges squealing loudly into the night. The back parking lot of the bar is poorly lit in contrast to the neon illumination from the rattlesnake out front, allowing Joel to slink behind Chrissy’s car and over to his own truck undetected. He situates himself behind the wheel, making sure to keep an eye on his rearview mirror as he rummages through his backpack and sets the tools he’ll need on the side of the bench seat that you usually occupy—his knife, a length of rope, and his camera.

Just like Joel had promised you earlier, he pulls out of the parking lot just behind the two of you, and keeps a close—but not suspiciously so—distance as he chugs down the poorly paved road, maintaining a speed-limit obeying pace and keeping his headlights off for good measure. He even refrains from having any music playing as he chases after you, the choice partly because he’s too dialed in to bother futzing with the tape player, and partly because he doesn’t want to risk making any noise that would raise even a modicum of suspicion, aiming to disappear into the shadows altogether for the next couple of miles.

Joel is nothing but a ghost, Death himself riding his pale horse into the silent dark, in pursuit of yet another sacrificial lamb to add to his flock. He’s lost count of just how many he has in his possession now, but he never gets tired of the way they bleat and cry and thrash as they struggle to escape his scythe. None of them ever seem to understand that they were each promised to him a long, long time ago, when Joel was already grown but they had only just been conceived. They’d been born onto a path that would eventually lead them directly into his waiting arms, where he would show them love and affection and pleasure and ecstasy and whether they were to reject his offerings or not, Joel would always take what was rightfully his, in the end. 

Joel holds his breath as Chrissy’s car approaches the intersection of the rundown neighborhood, but releases it when she makes the sharp left turn that you must have directed her to take. Good girl. He turns his own wheel more slowly, creeping carefully down the road until he finds a large, overgrown shrub to tuck his truck behind, out of sight from the two little creatures now exiting the Pinto and crushing mounds of dried grass under their tentatively stepping hooves. Joel kills the truck’s engine, his teeth chattering in anticipation as he swipes his tools from the seat beside him and slides himself out from behind the wheel. He reaches behind him to slot his knife underneath his belt, then begins his prowl towards the house with the rope and camera clutched in either hand. 

“No offense, but… You live here? Are you sure?” Joel hears Chrissy ask you, bending over to peer into a hole near the house’s foundation where some of the siding has rotted away. 

That’s right, stay down, just like that.

Joel is only a few paces away now. 

“W-well, it’s um… I h-haven’t really been here in a while, to be honest,” you respond, stuttering your way through the first lie you could think of in order to keep the charade going. You sound like you’re making it up as you say it, but that’s okay. Joel is closing in on his target now, it doesn’t matter if your trembling voice had set off the trap or not. Chrissy is already caught in it.

He’s so close he can smell the redhead’s rosy perfume that she had applied before her shift, can practically see the fine hairs raise on the back of her neck when she hears the snap of a dead tree limb coming from behind her. She lets out a little gasp, and whips her head around just in time to see Joel’s icy expression as he shoves a filthy boot into the back of her knee, making her yelp as she collapses onto all fours. Her hands scramble desperately for purchase in the thicket of dead foliage, but Joel is on her before she can regain her balance.

“Yeah, tha’s right… Down, bitch,” Joel spits, straddling her back and using his weight to push her body flat against the ground. “Hold onto this, babydoll, will ya?” He passes his camera off to you, not taking his eyes off Chrissy’s squirming form as you accept it quietly.

Joel grabs hold of Chrissy’s flailing wrists and wrenches them behind her back, squeezing her abdomen hard between his thighs as he does. “Hold fuckin’ still, ‘less you want me to break some bones while I’m at it,” he barks, but it does nothing to deter her futile efforts. She kicks and bucks and thrashes underneath him, making pathetic struggling noises as he winds the length of rope around her wrists, binding them together. 

“Get the fuck off me! Help me, get him off!” She pleads with you as she yanks against the rope and writhes around in the dirt. All you do is look at her with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving as you clutch his camera in both of your small, shaking hands. “Are you with him or something? What the fuck is this? Help me, please!” Chrissy shouts, her voice terrified and guttural. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel growls into her ear, before pushing himself up off the ground and using his grip around the rope to pull her up with him. He wraps one arm tightly around Chrissy’s middle, and clamps the hand of the other one over her mouth. “She ain’t gonna help you, she knows better ‘n that... Did such a good job for me, sweetheart, such a good fuckin’ girl… Open the door for me so I can get her inside, now.” Joel watches the muscles in your throat constrict as you swallow hard, your eyes shifting from Chrissy’s terror-stricken ones up to Joel’s as you process his command. He smirks to himself when you do obey, the ribbons in your hair fluttering behind you as you scuttle up the stairs and wrench the door open. 

Chrissy is still shrieking incessantly into the meat of Joel’s hand as he shoves her up the creaking steps, and he supposes that he has the answer now to the pondering he was doing back at the bar—screamer it is. They piss him the fuck off the most, are probably most of the reason why his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, and why he ends up using his knife more often than he’d like. Strangling is his preferred method—it’s more intimate, more hands on in nature, and makes less of a mess—but sometimes the cleanup is worth it if it means he can get them to shut the fuck up and quit shattering his eardrums with all their annoying fucking screeching that they know won’t do them any good. He’d made a good choice, sharpening his knife earlier while you were still asleep back at the motel this afternoon. Joel wonders when you’ll notice that you’re wearing a different pair of panties than the ones he’d made you come in, having tested the sharpness of his blade by slicing them off of you before cleaning up the mess you’d made with his tongue. 

Joel wrestles Chrissy inside the house, kicking broken glass and sloughed off sheets of yellowed wallpaper out of his path as he walks her into the living room. He turns his head as he instructs you to shut the door, and Chrissy uses the opportunity to bite into Joel’s palm and slam the back of her skull into his temple, hard enough to break the skin.

“Ah!—Fuckin’ bitch,” Joel hisses, forcibly shoving her onto the decaying hardwood floor. Chrissy tries to get up, but he presses the tread of his boot into her chest, keeping her down. He touches a finger to the side of his head, bringing it in front of his eyes to examine the droplet of blood that came with it, along with the indents in the flesh of his hand that are beginning to sprout little crimson beads. “Just fuckin’ askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

Joel looks over at you again, to where you’re standing with your back against the door and wearing the same deer-in-the-headlights expression as when he’d handed the camera to you. You have it clutched against your heaving chest, your eyes impossibly wide as you stare at the scene unfolding before you. He can practically see the gears turning in your brain as it cycles through the options of fight, flight, fight, flight, seeming to have landed on freeze instead. Joel observes you for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if one of your shaking hands will eventually snake its way back to the doorknob, but it doesn’t. Since you know what’s good for you, and all.

“C’mere, babydoll, where I can see you,” Joel orders, jerking his head into the room. Your eyes flutter out a few rapid blinks as you seem to shake yourself free of your petrified state, but your feet remain planted firmly underneath you. You’re standing so rigidly, with your knees locked in place, Joel is surprised you haven’t passed out yet.

“Can’t I just… wait in the truck or something? I’ll stay right there, I promise—”

“You know damn well I can’t take you up on any of your lil’ promises anymore, sweetheart. Besides, seemed awfully interested in how I do things last night, why the sudden change of heart, hm?”

You shift your weight, trying to come up with some excuse while you watch Chrissy try and fail to wriggle herself out from underneath the weight of Joel’s boot compressing her ribcage. “Just don’t do very well around b-blood, is all,” you squeak out pitifully.

Joel rolls his eyes, frustrated at the precious seconds you’re wasting by suddenly complaining about being a little squeamish. 

“Well frankly, baby, I don’t really fuckin’ care. You’re gonna have to learn to get the fuck used to it, I ain’t doin’ this with you every time. Get in here. You can face the goddamn wall, but you’re stayin’ put until this is over, are we clear?”

“Y-yes, Joel, thank you,” you concede shakily. Joel’s eyes follow you as you flit across the room, nearly tripping over chunks of fallen drywall before tucking yourself into a little alcove behind the fireplace and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Alright… Where was I?” Joel ponders aloud, removing his foot from Chrissy’s chest and crouching down to her level. He grabs a fistful of her shirt collar and yanks her back up to a sitting position, looking down at his bleeding hand and sighing before harshly slapping Chrissy across the face with it. Her head whips to the side from the impact, and he grips onto her bloodied face with his injured hand to turn it back towards him again. “Y’know, I don’t take too fuckin’ kindly to feisty things like you who don’t know their goddamn place. Ain't so gentle with bratty lil’ cunts who think it’s a good idea to fight back, leave their marks on me. Am I, babydoll?” He says the latter part a little louder than the rest, brushing the forefinger of his unoccupied hand across the scar on the bridge of his nose as he speaks. You don’t respond, but he can tell that you hear him, that you know what—who—he’s referring to. “Yeah, she knows… One of her lil’ friends gave me this pretty thing, can you believe that? Suppose she gave me that pretty thing, too.” Joel chuckles to himself at his own double entendre, gesturing to where you’re cowering in the corner. “Poor thing had a friend go missin’ a while back, never knew what’d happened to her. Trail was cold, but she decided to follow it anyway. And Lord, am I glad she did, ‘cause it led her straight to me…”

Joel turns Chrissy’s head this way and that in his grip, enjoying the way she squeezes her eyes tight and flinches as she braces for another impact. She whines and whimpers as his fingernails dig into her freckled cheeks, now smeared with his orange-red fingerprints. “W-why me, then? Why not h-her, how come she gets to live? J-just take her, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy sobs through her teeth, hardly able to move her jaw in Joel’s firm hold. He reaches behind himself and slides his blade out from under his belt, raising it up in front of her face. Her eyes go wide as she lets out a horrified noise, thrashing against him and crying while he examines the way the sharp edge glints in the moonlight coming in from the broken windows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Joel muses, turning over the blade in his hand a few times before looking up at Chrissy’s terrified face, his expression shifting from something wistful to something sinister, cold. “It ain’t ever gonna be her.”

Joel cranks her jaw upwards and slides his knife across her throat before she can even expel an entire scream from her lungs, the piercing tone of her voice becoming wet and garbled in just a few seconds as she chokes on her own blood. It sprays through the slit in her skin, some of it splattering across Joel’s face and landing on his lips, before coming out as a steadier stream that spills down her pale neck and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. Joel watches on as she convulses and gags, her eyes rolling back into her skull before becoming dead weight in Joel’s grip, and she collapses onto her side when he finally lets go of her jaw, still agape with a silent wail. Her muscles spasm as she bleeds out, the ruby-colored liquid pooling underneath her head and saturating the ends of her auburn hair. Joel licks his lips clean as her wound pulses in time with the beating of her heart, the rhythm becoming slower and slower before fizzling out altogether. It only takes a minute or so for her body to still completely, her gurgling breaths eventually morphing into the death rattle that he’s come to recognize so well. Joel swipes his bloodied blade across his tongue before sheathing it under his belt again, glancing over to where you’re now rocking back and forth, your spine hitting against the fireplace’s stone structure with dull little thumps.

He stalks over to you, ignoring the startled yelp you make as he grips onto your upper arm and drags you to where Chrissy’s cooling corpse is lying in the center of the room. Just like he had done to her earlier, he pushes you onto your stomach and straddles your hips. Only this time, he rucks up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties to the side, swiftly freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans and slotting into you with nothing more than a mouthful of his own saliva to help him ease inside. “Oh, f-fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moans, gripping one hand onto your hip and using the other—the one with a still-bleeding bite mark—to press the side of your head into the filthy hardwood, so that you’re facing Chrissy’s glazed-over expression while he takes and takes and takes. He doesn’t have it in him to be gentle with you, blinded by adrenaline and arousal as he uses you to get himself off. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight when you’re scared,” Joel snarls, snapping his hips into your backside with such force that the clap of skin-on-skin echoes loudly throughout the empty house, nearly drowning out the sounds of your cries. You’ve got your hands splayed out on either side of your head, having dropped Joel’s camera when he’d forced you into a prone position. You make a disgusted gagging noise when the expanding pool of Chrissy’s blood reaches your fingertips, but you can’t pull away with Joel’s body weight holding you in place. You shut your eyes tightly as you sputter and sob, but Joel won’t allow that. He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing you against him and prying your eyes open as he holds your head up by a fistful of your hair. “No, no hidin’ from this, babydoll. You fuckin’ look at her… I do this for you, baby, you see? So that it won’t be you. I just get so fuckin’ hungry, I can’t help myself. I can’t fuckin’ stop. But as long as I live, I swear it’ll never be you. That’s why it’s them instead. You understand, sweetheart? I love you, babydoll, I love you so fuckin’ much.” Joel mumbles the last bit into the supple skin of your neck, sloppily kissing and biting into your flesh, until he isn’t sure to whom the iron taste that fills his mouth belongs anymore.

He gropes and grabs all over your pliant body, grunting curses into your wet skin while he uses your tight, warm hole like a toy. He’s practically been edging himself for the past several hours, starting from when he’d rubbed circles around your swollen clit and used the reward of your own pleasure to manipulate you into doing his dirty work. Joel is surprised he didn’t cream his jeans before now, the release of finally pouncing on his prey and the taste of her blood on his tongue almost enough to make him come untouched. His hips begin to stutter only a handful of thrusts later, but instead of allowing himself to spill inside you like he had last night, he slides himself free of your walls and maneuvers you onto your back, reaching for his camera.

“Smile pretty for me, babydoll,” Joel says, holding the viewfinder up to his eye while he jerks himself off over your used body, his knees planted on either side of your ribcage. The dazed expression you wear looks enough like a smile to satisfy him, and he snaps a photo as he paints your face with his come. Thick white ropes splatter against your skin, already smeared with the blood from his hand and the filth from the neglected floorboards, and you look like the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen—his perfect doll, his fallen angel, his most precious and favorite lamb, the love of his fucking life. “Startin’ a new collection today, darlin’, since I got rid of the other one… This’ll be the perfect one to start it out.” Joel removes the blank polaroid from the slot, and sets it back down along with the camera to give the image time to develop. He sits back on his haunches as he catches his breath, running his bloodied hands through his damp hair and zipping his spent cock back inside his jeans. Joel stares down at you while you blink slowly, looking ruined with your tangled hair spread out on the floor and your hands resting up by your ears in surrender. Your breathing is slow, shallow, and he trusts that he can leave you there to come back into yourself while he takes care of Chrissy’s body. 

Joel pushes himself back up to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking and aching in protest, and he walks around the first level of the house, peeking into different rooms until he finds one that used to function as a bedroom. There isn’t much left inside, but the wrought iron bed frame still has a moldy sheet draped haphazardly over the mattress. He yanks it free and bunches it up in his arms, carrying it back into the living room and spreading it out on the ground beside the corpse. Joel rips the top hem of the bedsheet from its seams, and wraps it around his injured hand before tying it off with his teeth. He rolls Chrissy’s stiffening figure onto the now-frayed edge of the fabric, tucking it under one of her arms to hold it in place before tumbling her down the remaining length of the linen. He performs the task monotonously and with little strain, as if he’s done so a dozen times, because he has. It doesn’t take very much effort to lift her onto his shoulder; she was already a wisp of a thing to begin with, weighing even less now that nearly her entire blood volume is soaking into the wood beneath where she had been laying.

Joel navigates to the back door of the house, kicking it open with his boot and letting it slam behind him. He walks several yards into the overgrowth behind the house, dodging low-hanging branches and stepping over fallen logs until he reaches a small clearing. He deposits Chrissy’s body onto an area of dried, yellowing grass, before returning to the backyard where he had noticed a dilapidated shed, nearly completely fallen over from several years’ worth of dry rot. Joel grunts as he pries the doors open, and yanks on a rusted metal chain hanging from the ceiling. A single light bulb illuminates the contents of the shed—a decades-old lawn mower, a few bags of grass seed, and some basic gardening tools, including exactly the one he was looking for. He brushes several thick spiderwebs out of the way before grabbing hold of the shovel, and lets it drag behind him as he treks back to Chrissy’s soon-to-be makeshift burial site. Joel digs a shallow grave, not wanting to take the time to complete the entire six feet with you still on your own inside the house, and uses his boot to send her cloth-wrapped body tumbling into the hole, where it lands with a dull thud. He stares down at her bloodied chrysalis, exhaling a shuddering breath as he revels in the final stage of his ritual.

Over the course of his life, Joel has done a lot of thinking about what exactly it is about the slaughter that he finds so titillating. On a particularly sleepless night several years ago, he’d finally landed on the transformation being what arouses him so. Taking a life is not unlike the procedure of sex, he’d realized—there is a start and an end, a before and an after, and an intangible, in between state, where the soul of the other person is slightly separated from their body, placed into the palms of his hands to do with as he pleases. There’s a reason the French came up with that clever little phrase—la petite mort—because sex and death are inexplicably intertwined, at least for Joel. He experiences such a rush, such a release, from taking part in the gruesome metamorphosis in which a girl is transformed into a body, that he can’t help but chase that high again and again and again, even though he always seems to forget that as much as there is the before and the during, there is also the after. 

That troublesome, uncomfortable after.

Joel shakes himself out of his stupor, tossing the shovel in after the body and doing a half-assed job of kicking the dirt he’d excavated back inside the pit. He scatters some fistfuls of grass and a few dead branches on top of the pile for extra camouflage, and then trudges his way back through the woods.

When Joel returns to the house, you’re in the exact same position he’d left you in, just as he’d thought you’d be. He approaches you slowly, crouching beside you and brushing some of your knotted hair away from your soiled face. Your eyes are frozen, as if still looking into Chrissy’s own glassy ones, and you don’t even so much as twitch when Joel pulls a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arousal and as much of the blood as he can manage off of your skin. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You with me?” Joel asks you, his voice barely above a whisper, as if trying not to spook a small animal. You look almost… shell shocked. Traumatized. Out of your own body. “Talk to me, babydoll, please.” He rakes his fingers through your hair for another silent minute or so, during which time you continue to lie perfectly still. Unblinking. Unflinching. A husk of a girl.

Joel sighs, reaching across your body to grab his camera and the now-developed polaroid. He shoves the latter into his jacket pocket, deciding that he’ll examine the image later, once he reconciles with the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach—something like remorse, he thinks. 

He slides his hands underneath your body, cradling you in his arms and carrying you bridal style across the living room, over the threshold, down the steps, and along the stretch of fractured asphalt until he reaches the truck. Joel sets you down on your feet so that he can open the passenger-side door, but your knees buckle underneath you almost immediately, requiring him to support your weight while he fumbles with the handle. He lifts you up onto your seat once he gets it open and buckles you in, and you don’t look anywhere except directly in front of you the entire time. Joel smooths out the skirt of your dress, now stained with dirt and blood, and shoves his camera into the backpack sitting at your feet before shutting you in. He crosses in front of the hood and retakes his place behind the wheel, taking a long look at where you sit nearly comatose beside him. You’re here, but you’re not. He doesn’t know where you are, or how to pull you back from it, back to him.

Joel fidgets with his keys, jingling them in his hand in an effort to fill the cabin with something other than a silence so loud it’s making his ears ring. “It’ll feel better in the mornin’. You’ll get used to it, after a few more of ‘em, I promise.” He places his linen-wrapped hand on the side of your head, pulling you closer to him so that he can plant a whiskery kiss in your hair. Joel lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in your scent, inhaling a stuttering breath. If remorse is truly what he feels, then that would warrant an apology, he supposes. But it would also require taking action to rectify the wrongdoing that warranted the apology in the first place, to make sure that it never happens again. And that, he cannot promise.

He pulls away from you, licking his thumb once to wipe a dried smear of blood from your temple. “You wanna get that old map outta the glovebox, babydoll? Decide where we’re headed to next?” Joel prompts.

Silence.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want, darlin’. Long as they got hot coffee and color TV,” he chuckles.

Stillness.

“Well… Alright, then. Next state over it is.” Joel sniffles, feeling around in the dark for the truck’s ignition cylinder, the engine finally sputtering to life after a few misses of the key. Your head falls against the window as the tires begin to rumble over the uneven pavement, and you don’t bother to reposition yourself, even though the sensation of your skull rattling against the glass must be uncomfortable.

Joel doesn’t steer the truck in any particular direction, just away. Away from here, toward the life together in California that he’d promised you, hoping that he can collect all your broken pieces and put you back together along the way.

As it turns out, there are two things that Joel needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go, and that he will never be able to stop himself. As instinctually as Joel needs to blink, breathe, sleep, he needs to kill. He needs to spill blood and feel it underneath his fingernails and taste it on his tongue, needs to bite into the soft pink skin beneath white wool and feel the precise moment when a creature becomes nothing more than flesh and fur.

And he needs you. Joel cannot live without either one, he’s decided, and so he must be in possession of both.

He regrets the way in which he’s broken you tonight, but not the way that you will be reassembled in his image. 

Transformed.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @atjlovverr @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 @alex-does-art-things (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fools Rush In 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, naivety, horny Jake, body insecurity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Jake Jensen

Summary: you marry your online boyfriend only to find that IRL is much more intense. (plus!reader)

Note: another one i didn't expect!

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You hold back a giggle as you stare at the screen. Even through webcam, Jake looks nervous. His cheeks are red as he recites the line after the officiant, his eyelashes flickering as if he can’t focus. Your own heat is racing. 

“...see no impediment to why I should not be wed...” He continues. 

Your eyes almost cross as your cheeks bulb. It’s not every little girl’s dream wedding but that’s never been something you cared about. You didn’t want to be let down if it never happened. This is perfect though. You’re marrying him. Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who listens. 

He finishes the same avowal you gave and officiant squints as the read through their script. You fix your pearl head band, glad your fidgeting hands are out of frame. Jensen wipes his forehead as the final line comes. 

“I now declare you husband and wife from this day forth,” he proclaims. 

You give a giddy shimmy and Jake blows a kiss before bashfully looking away. The officiant congratulates you and you thank him. They leave the call and screen comes up in the app confirming your marriage is complete. You blink. 

“That’s... it?” You murmur. 

“Ha, yeah, I guess we’re married,” Jake chuckles.  

You smile at the lens, yeah. I’m sorry... sorry I couldn’t come down sooner. It’s expensive right now.” 

“You know I’ll wait,” he assures you. “I have.” 

“Oh, I know, Jakey.” 

He grins, “I love it when you call me that.” He rubs his eyes. “I love being able to see you.” 

“It would be nicer in person,” you say. He nods and deflates just a little. His eyes narrow. “What?” 

“You’re just so pretty,” he says. “I married the most beautiful woman on earth. Wow.” 

“J,” you chide, “please, you’re so lame.” 

“Lame and your husband,” he teases. 

You chitter again and cup your cheeks as your smile aches, “Jake...” 

“Yes, honey,” he says. 

“I do have a surprise...” You bite your lip, “for the wedding night.” 

“You do?” His eyes round. You nod. 

“Can I show you?” 

“Yes, honey,” he utters, once more brushing the brims of his eyes. 

You get up and back away. Your puffy dress clouds out around you. The layers are short enough that they don’t make you feel too big. You sway and clutch the skirt above your thigh. 

“Close your eyes!” You command. 

He covers his face and chuckles. You notice his bow tie, a bright green with a little charm in the middle. He’s got his own style but so do you. You love that he just doesn’t care. 

You reach back to tug down the zipper. It’s a bit off a struggle but you manage to get it halfway. You wiggle free of the layers and step out. You look up to make sure he’s not watching. 

You check the little image of you in the corner, not too closely. The lacy one-piece linger is high-cut on your pelvis and lifts your chest so it jiggles with each breath. You pose and let out a nervous puff. 

“Jakey?” You say, “you can look.” 

He drops his hands and his mouth falls open. He leans in and blinks. You burn with self-consciousness. 

“I-I-I—honey! Oh! My!” He stammers as his eyes look ready to roll back, “that’s... you’re so hot!” 

“Really?” You squeal and shimmy. You gasp as your tits threaten to spill over and you catch the top of your chest. 

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” he covers his mouth. 

“You really like it?” 

He peels his hand away, “God, yes.” 

You tilt your head and drag your hands down the lace. He groans and shifts. 

“Can I see the back?” He asks. 

You make a face. You couldn’t find anything that wasn’t a thong. It’s supposed to be sexy but you would feel better with a bit more. 

You turn and he growls. You look over your shoulder as he bites his fist. You give a sheepish grin. 

“It’s okay?” 

“Spec-tacular,” he chokes on the word. 

“Yeah?” You face him. 

“Baby, what are you doing?” He groans. “I want to touch you so bad. I need to.” 

“Me too,” you coo and near the computer. “One day. I wish... I wish it wasn’t like this.” 

“I wouldn’t change a thing as long as I got you,” he grits. He stares, hesitant as he searches the screen. “Can we... have some fun?” 

“Oh, uh, I... sure,” you can’t say no. It is your wedding day. 

“Why don’t you tell me what we’ll do, huh? When we meet.” 

“Um, oh,” you bat your lashes, “I don’t...” 

“Can you back up again?” He interrupts. “So I can see all of you?” 

“Oh, sure,” you obey and back up, pulling the chair with you to sit. 

“Open your legs,” he snarls. 

A thrill rolls through you and you obey. You watch him as he reaches down and his chest strains. You gulp. 

“Well, I’ll wear this,” you begin, “and... I’ll kiss you.” 

“Mmm,” he hums, “what else?” 

“And I’ll hug you and er, touch you all over.” 

He purrs again as his arm moves slowly. You realise he’s touching himself off-screen. You shudder. 

“And then, um, um...” 

“Will you get on top?” He rasps, “or do you want me on you?” He grunts and pushes his head back,  “tell me how you want it, baby.” 

You’ve never been good at the dirty talk. It makes you nervous. You’re still not sure if he knows you really don’t know what to do. 

“Yeah, you could... be on top.” 

“Can I see your tits?” He asks suddenly. 

You bat your lashes and another raze of fire spreads over you. You nod and bring your hands up to the straps of the bodysuit. You shiver as he bites his lip. 

“Come on, baby, I bet they’re just as gorgeous as the rest of you,” he coaxes. “Mmm, I’m almost there, please?” 

You pull the straps down and fold the cups over. Your tits spill out and you squeak. His neck strains and he growls. 

“Mm, yes, and they’re all mine. You’re all mine,” he drones as his image shakes, “my wife.” 

[reneeslvt]

How Stupid.

A Regina George x Masc!Reader fic

Summary: Reader and Regina are oddly drawn to eachother on the night of the Spring Fling, leading to some events that might change their lives

Warnings: Vomiting/Nausea, Mild Language, Implied Emotional Distress, Complicated/Emotionally Charged Interactions, Questionable Power Dynamics, Toxic Behaviour, Unresolved Romantic Tension

1.6k words

(Notes: kind of nervous, this is my first ever fic I’ve posted! if you read this, thank you so much! I hope you love this as much as I do.)

======================================

The Spring Fling was the highlight of the year for most students at your school. Not because of the dance itself or the snack table, everyone obsessed over the crowning of Spring Fling king and queen. Months before, nominees are announced then a few weeks later voting opens and the school turns into a hostile environment.. Cool, right?

You had never really cared for the Spring Fling that much anyways, you found the lights were too bright and it smelt of body odor, cologne, and hairspray. But when your stupid garage band was asked by the music teacher, Ms. Daniels, to play at the dance, suddenly you had a reason to care—a tiny, annoying reason wrapped in the promise of a fifteen minute set and a free pizza from the teachers lounge.

So there you were, clammy hands gripping your drumsticks ever so tightly. Backstage with your band mates, in the middle of a conversation that you weren’t included in. As the drummer you were a little more secluded from the rest of the band, you played more to the back of the stage since you needed the room to fit all of the parts to it. After all, you chose the drums because you liked being alone. So you didn’t mind being secluded from the conversation.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the loud feedback of the microphone. Tap tap tap you heard, most likely from one of the teachers.

Ms. Daniel’s cleared her throat, pulling a small piece of paper out of her back pocket. “Tonight we have a treat for you, please welcome North Shores very own.. Pure Valley!” She exclaimed, overly excited for no reason. Only a few cheers came from the audience, you were sure it was sarcasm.

You then walked out with the rest of your band, sitting behind your drum kit. The lead singer, Claudia, began to ramble on about what you were performing and why. The band proceeded to play their rendition of “Come As You Are” by Nirvana and “Scar Tissue” by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

As you were playing your drums you caught eye of Regina in the crowd, donning her famous “I don’t care” look as her friends Gretchen and Karen stood beside her, their dresses lavender, while Regina’s was a shiny dress and greenish-blue. You didn’t understand why they let her rip them apart, after all you didn’t understand many things about Regina George. Like why everyone was scared of her, or why she never let anyone else sit at her lunch table, or why she was just so rude all of the time.

Distraction caught up and you hit the snare drum on accident. You internally face palmed yourself for letting someone you hated so much distract you and take up space in your head! She must’ve noticed because she seemed to have chuckled to herself while looking at you. Shit, of course she’s getting a kick out of this. She’s always loved to aggravate people.

After what seemed like an eternity, your set finally wrapped up. You walked off the stage dripping sweat from the intense, bright, headache inducing stage lights. Thankfully there were face cloths backstage. In all honesty you played great, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid you were to let Regina distract you.

Anger boiled within you, so you chose to excuse yourself to the teachers lounge for something to eat.

You entered the empty school hallway, your echoing footsteps only further triggering your headache. All you could focus on was your inner turmoil and how hungry you were. When you turned the corner you were met with an open door to the teachers lounge.

You spotted some food on a table. A Pizza Hut box with a huge grease stain on the top. You opened the box, taking a slice of the cheese pizza inside. It was cold, and had a weird texture going down your throat. You helped yourself to a water bottle from the staff fridge to help wash it down. After you finished your pizza, you sat down in a fold up chair.

A little bit after you finished that piece of pizza, you felt something brewing in you stomach. Then, you felt nauseous. Jesus Christ.. it was getting bad now. Were you going to.. oh no!

You sprinted through the hallways while holding back your puke and trying to find the nearest bathroom. Once you found one, you pounced into the nearest stall and..

Once you finished throwing up, you felt more coming right as you heard the door open. Letting it come up uncontrollably, panting softly afterward. You then turned around to see Regina. Great timing.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” She asked. Although she seemed genuinely concerned for you, she looked amused at the situation. “Like oh my god dude.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Yeah.. I just ate something bad.” A groan escaped your lips. Rustling came from Regina, then she handed you a Gravol. You swallowed the pill without water. “Thanks.” You sighed.

She leaned on the frame of the stall, her arms crossed. She looked insanely bored, just leave you thought, but she was here for a reason.

“I didn’t know you played the drums.” Her voice startled you, your head continuing to pound.

You sighed, putting your head in your hands. “Yeah, it’s just a side hobby type-thing.” Shrugging, you couldn’t care for a conversation, your main focus was getting home.

A moment of silence passed between you two, the only sound was the sound of your breathing.

Regina’s eyes scanned you slowly, like she was trying to figure something out. “You don’t really seem like the band type,” she said, her voice lighter this time, almost teasing.

You cracked a weak smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“No, I mean—” she paused, clearly trying to choose her words. “You’re just… quiet. I didn’t expect you to be up there, doing that.”

You shrugged, slumping back against the stall wall. “It’s easier when you’re behind something. Nobody really looks at the drummer anyway.”

She tilted her head. “I did.”

You looked up at her. She was still wearing that unreadable expression—half boredom, half something else. Curiosity, maybe.

“You don’t actually seem that sick,” she added, squinting a little. “Is this like, performance anxiety? Or do you just really hate school dances?”

You scoffed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Can it not be both?”

Regina smiled faintly, then pulled a mini bottle of hand sanitizer from her clutch and handed it to you. Of course she had hand sanitizer. “You’re kind of weird,” she said matter-of-factly.

She squeezed some into your hands, with you rubbing them together. You gave her a tired look. “And you’re kind of still here.”

She didn’t respond right away, just leaned further into the doorframe, playing with one of her rings. The mood had shifted—it wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t sharp either.

Then, finally, she asked, “Do you need a ride home?”

You shrugged, “Sure.. that’d be great.” Getting up and walking out with her to her car in the parking lot.

Once you were outside, you immediately spotted her Orange Jeep. She unlocked the doors, the car beeping twice, echoing through the foggy environment. You climbed into the passenger seat, leaning your head against the window, the coolness helping your head.

Regina hopped in a few seconds after you, turning the ignition on and the car coming alive. The soft hum of the engine was sleep-inducing, but it felt wrong to fall asleep in her car—so your forced your eyes open.

She looked over at you, chuckling to herself, you looked over at her. “What’s so funny?” You asked tiredly. “You look like shit, like actual dogshit that was stepped on and—“

“Okay, I get it.” You cut her off, as she pulled out of the parking lot. Regina had a problem with insults, she didn’t know when to stop.

She sighed, “Sorry.”

“What did you say?” You leaned closer to her, “Did I just hear Regina George say sorry? And it was a very sincere apology.”

Regina laughed, “Don’t get used to it, okay?”

======================================

You were had already fell asleep when she pulled up to your house, and you didn’t know how long you had been stopped there until she woke you up.

She shook you gently, “(Y/N), (Y/N), wake up.”

Rubbing your eyes, you groaned and stretched. “We’re already here?”

“Yeah, get up dude.” She asked, sounding slightly annoyed with you already. Your presence might’ve been draining enough for her that she unbuckled your seatbelt for you.

Her car doors unlocked. You grabbed the door handle, but her hand placed on yours stopped you from opening the door. You looked up at Regina, her eyes boring into yours.

“Wait-“ She said, basically pleading.

She leaned in slightly to you.. what is happening? You thought, internally panicking.

Your faces got closer, and you couldn’t stop yourself wanting to feel what her lips felt like.

But why? You absolutely despised Regina! Why were you in her car? Why were you having a normal conversation? Why do you want to kiss her!

It was going to happen, but the sound of a car passing infront of you startled Regina and made her hesitate.

“I think you should go now.” Regina remarked, looking a bit disgusted. Maybe with herself? But how could you know, she never opens up.

You swallowed, nodding in agreement with her. “Yeah, I agree.” You conceded, stepping out of the car. Running up to your door with tears welling in your eyes. While you heard Regina’s car speeding off.

How stupid.

======================================

Part 2?

[escapismbook]

ESCAPISM

CHAPTER TWO | NEW MOON

→ Pairing: Jimin x Reader (female)

→ AUs: non idol!au

→ Genre(s): dark romance, smut, mature, mafia

→ Trope(s): club owner, sugar daddy, forbidden romance, dark, slow-burn, seductive, mafia,

→ Rating: mature/explicit(this is mature/explicit content, so you have been warned.)

→ Word count: 5.6K

→ warnings + triggers: OC is drunk, rebellious and desperate and Jimin is cold, but desperate for her.

→ Author's note:

Escapism is a dark romance-intense, poetic, and deeply atmospheric. It explores desire, deception, and the pull of the forbidden.

This story contains mature themes, including:

Drug use, Strong language, Explicit scenes, Mentions of S.A, Violence, Dark Themes, Crime Elements, Alcohol, Club setting, Obsession, Possessive, Protective Love, Emotional. ⁠ This story is also written by two authors. Both working on the two couple. Please read with caution. For those who stay, welcome to a world where love and darkness intertwine.

He leaned back in his leather chair, his index finger pressed lazily against the side of his temple as he watched the club's security feed on the large monitor in front of him. There was a dozen different angles of Kitty Gang—the dance floor, the bar, the VIP lounge and other areas as well—but his attention homed in on the entrance.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched her from the comfort of his private lounge. She wasn't like the other women who flocked to the club. No, she was different. He'd seen plenty of girls try to get into VIP before—flirt their way in, flash a little skin, bat their lashes—but not this one.

She stood in front of the bouncer, her confidence unwavering, despite the fact that the ticket she had in her hand wasn't hers. Jimin knew it the second he saw her flash it—VIP entry, black card, but the name? The name didn't match. The bodyguard, a hulking man named Hyun, shook his head and crossed his arms. "Your name is not on the list."

The girl tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Are you sure? Maybe you're just not looking properly."

Jimin chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink, watching her play the game. Brave girl. But Hyun wasn't the type to be swayed by a pretty face—not unless Jimin wanted him to be. And right now? Jimin was intrigued.

He reached for the button on the table and pressed down. His voice spoke through the bouncer's earpiace, smooth and low. "Let her in."

A pause. Hyun blinked, touching his own earpiece. "But sir- "

"Did I stutter?" Jimin sighed like he was bored. Then, with a curt nod, the bouncer stepped aside.

The girl grinned, slipping past the velvet ropes like she owned the place, the fabric of her dress hugging every curve as she disappeared into the pulsating lights of the club.

Jimin leaned back in his leather chair, his gaze following her on the monitors as she moved through the crowd, completely unaware of the fact that she was being watched.

It seemed like this night had just got a whole lot more interesting.

When Moon entered the bar, everything and everyone was unfamiliar. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of alcohol, bodies moving in sync with the heavy bass that reverberated through the walls. She wasn't used to this—this reckless abandon—but that was precisely why she was here. She wanted to escape.

She strode to the bar, ordered a drink, and downed it in one go before moving to the corner to dance. The music wrapped around her, intoxicating her as much as the liquor now settling in her veins. Her body swayed, eyes closed, lost in the moment.

Then, she felt it—an intense gaze cutting through the crowd, making her skin prickle.

A masked man stood in front of her, his dark, piercing eyes locked onto hers. The mask obscured most of his face, leaving only his lips visible—plump, teasing, and dangerously enticing. He looked like a siren, and she felt like she was sinking. He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

The scent of his cologne—musky, rich, devastatingly masculine—swirled around her as he leaned in. His lips brushed against her ear as he murmured something low, but the words were lost in the pounding of her heart. A shiver danced down her spine as he tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch both possessive and teasing.

Moon's breath hitched. Her mind raced. Had she been caught? Her entrance hadn't exactly been... legal. Panic bubbled beneath her surface, but she kept her expression neutral, masking any sign of distress.

"Oh fuck," she muttered under her breath.

His smirk deepened, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Later," he said smoothly. "For now, a thank you would do."

The music was loud, drowning out most of his words. Moon blinked up at him, frowning slightly. "What?"

He leaned in again, voice edged with something teasing, something dark. "I let you in."

Moon tilted her head, lips parting as she held a thumbs up. "Good for you!" she shot back, not quite catching his words over the pulsing bass.

His smirk didn't falter. "I said—I let you in." This time, he took a step closer, but before he could reach her, she was already backing into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of bodies. Just before she vanished from his sight, she glanced over her shoulder, a playful glint in her eye.

"I can't hear you!" she called out before melting into the throng of dancers.

Jimin exhaled sharply, watching her go. His amusement lingered, but so did something else. Curiosity.

Moon smiled, raising her glass in a silent toast before sauntering away, feeling the weight of his gaze burning into her back. She knew he was watching, and she liked it. The way her dress hugged her curves, the way her body moved to the music—she knew she had his attention.

As the night wore on, Moon let the alcohol take full control. She felt light, reckless. The bar began to empty, but she remained, lost in her own world. Somehow, she found herself where the strippers danced, climbing onto a table, completely uninhibited.

A man in front of her smirked, tossing cash at her feet. Moon grinned, ready to put on a show, but before she could, strong hands gripped her waist and hoisted her down.

Moon smiled at him and raised her glass as if toasting and started walking. The man started to watch her. He thought about how well the dress she was wearing suited her and how it showed off all the curves on her body. As he watched her, he realized something was emerging inside him. He watched Moon dance all night long, he could see how the men looked at her with hungry eyes. As the hours passed, Moon was completely out of control, the alcohol had completely taken over her body .As the night wore on, Moon let the alcohol take full control. She felt light, reckless. The bar began to empty, but she remained, lost in her own world. Somehow, she found herself where the strippers danced, climbing onto a table, completely uninhibited.

Later that night she found herself in other part of the club. It was a lounge-area with a catwalk down the center. The bar in this room was starting to empty but Moon was dancing alone. She climbed up on the table by holding onto the chair and was dancing without caring about anything. There was a man sitting on the leather seats in front of her sipping on his drink. He reached inside hiz blazer and throw money at her. Moon noticed this and wanted to show him a special dance show.

She reached for the straps on her dress, about to take off her clothes, when the masked man appeared once again and lifted her up on his shoulders. He brought her down to the ground. Even though he had a mask on, it was obvious how angry he was.

Jimin took a deep breath and reached for his mask, ready to take it off but he stopped and looked at Moon. She could not stand, she was swaying in place and leaned against the table. He reached for her arm and waist, taking her outside

The cool air kissed her skin, making her suck in a deep breath. Moon kneeled down and sitting on side-walk, her eyes looking around with a bright red face. She was not herself.

Jimin reached inside his jacker, taking out a stack of fresh bills and held it out in front of her face. "Will you be able to get home?" He asked her, waiting for her to take the stack of money from him.

Moon looked up at the money, she didn't know how much there was, but clearly this man didn't know that she could buy a plane ticket there and back with the amount he was waving in front of her. "I have money," she pushed his wrist away. "I don't your money."

"Clearly," Jimin scoffed coldly as he tucked the money back into his pocket. "And the show you put on for that man?"

She stood up, stumbling, but held her balance. "I liked that he was watching me."

His brain malfuntioned at her words. She 'liked' that she was being watched? Something inside him bubbled.

"Do...you like when people use you?"

"Yes."

'Fffuck,' that's all he could think. He didn't like the idea of another man watching her. Hell, even if it was a woman watching her. There was something about her that he didn't want to share. He didn't know what it was, but it was there and it made him inhale deeply.

"You shouldn't let people use you, baby" his voice came out soft, but also like a warning.

Moon sighed as she leaned forward, her chest pressed agsint his. He could see her clevage just perfectly from this angle. His eyes moved to her face, and his breath hitched. Greek Gods must have carved her featurs. She was beautiful, but he could have sworn he saw those eyes somewhere, but where?

One of the workers brought the car keys and opened the door. Jimin looked at his watch, it was three-am. Taxis at this hour were hard to come by, and also this was Seoul. He knew just how dangerous it was to sit in a taxi at this hour. Especielly if a young woman was as beautuiful as this one.

He threw her arm around the back of his neck and then picked her up and placed her in the passanger seat of the car. Her body was limp and she didn't prostest either. He walked to the driver's seat and drove.

"Where do you live?" he asked. Moon reached her hand out, her index finger positioned in a pointing gesture and she pointed it at his chest. Jimin rolled his eyes while she laughed.

"You're not going to tell me?" he asked, and she only laughed again. This was going to be along night.

He thought about taking her to a hotel, but he would have to fill out a few things and then wait for the room to be prepered if they didn't have it ready. It was too much work. He sighed and made a turn at the lane, driving to his house.

He glanced her way, and found her sleeping. He reached for the back of his mask and pulled at the ribbon holding it in place before he tossed the mask in the backseat of the car. He ran a hand through his hair, and then turned to look back at the young woman next to him. He squeezed the steering wheel and cursed silently as he drove. He couldn't remember the last time he was this impressed by a woman.

A while later the car came to a stop, and he shut the engain off.  "Wake up," he touched her shoulder gently.

Moon waved her wrist in a lazy motion. "Nooo," her lips pouted as she shifted in the passenger seat.

He sighed, his shoulders falling in the process as he thought about how he was going to get her out of the car. He pressed his lips together as he thought, his eyes roaming over her figure. He took in a deep breath and got out of the car and walked around to her side. He opened the door and undone the seatbelt holding her body in place and scooped her up in his arms. Moon's head lolled against his shoulder as he carried her inside, her breath warm against his neck

He laid her down onto the black silk sheets of his bed, her long, raven hair spilling over the pillow. She shifted slightly, and a quiet moan escaped her lips. He blinked, his face inches from her as he looked down at her. Something in his chest tightened, something raw and unfamiliar. Fuck. That sound—soft, breathy—shot through his veins like a drug. Fuck it sounded so sexy and soft. He watched as she moved again, shifting her body to lay on her back as she turned her head. He reached a hand out, his fingertips brushed against her skin, moving her raven locks away from her face.

Her eyes opened, and for the first time in his life he left like he had no oxygen in his lungs. Her eyes were soft as she looked up at him. Sleepy and soft. They were still so close— faces inches apart and he could smell her perfume. "I don't want to see you here when you wake up in the morning," he said in a low and velvety voice.

She tilted her head to the side, a soft and sleepy smile in the corner of her lips as she spoke. "Then why did you bring me here?" She asked. "I could have taken a taxi."

"I wasn't going to let you take a taxi at this hour," Jimin said, attempting to keep his tone even. "Especially in Seoul."

She shrugged lazily and turned onto her side. Another soft moan slipped past her lips as she curled into the sheets. "I'd be safer in a taxi." Her voice was a whisper now, fading into sleep.

Something about the way she said it stirred something deep inside him, something he didn't understand. And he hated it.

His face was inches from hers, his mind warring between reason and impulse. Without thinking, he reached for her face, forcing her to sit up slightly.

Fuck. She was even more tempting like this, half-lidded eyes staring up at him, curiosity glimmering behind the haze of intoxication.

He could see the moment recognition dawned on her. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.

She grabbed a pillow and hugged it close, rolling onto her back. "Mmm," she hummed. "Comfy."

"You'll be gone in the morning," Jimin said firmly.

She pouted dramatically. "Why?" Then, teasingly, "Also, what's your name? Should I call you 'masked man' or 'alley cat'?"

Something about the way she spoke, so nonchalant, so unbothered, made his irritation rise. "Jimin," he bit out. "Now sleep."

"Where are you going to sleep?" she asked, voice laced with mischief. "Come here. Cuddle with me."Jimin rolled his eyes, moving to sit at the edge of the bed. He watched her as she clutched the pillow, one leg peeking out from beneath the blanket, completely at ease in his space.

He hated how much he wanted to pull her against him.

She pouted again. "Are you scared? Don't worry, I won't bite."

He clenched his jaw. "Good night," he muttered, yanking the pillow from her grasp and tossing it onto the couch. He lay down, draping a blanket over himself. His arm rested over his eyes as he tried to will away the thoughts swarming his mind.

But it was useless.

What was this feeling? And what the hell was this girl doing to him? He was going to stay away from her. He had to. But how was he when he already had seen her? How was he going to stay away? It was too late. He couldn't even if he wanted to.

He removed his arm from his eyes and sighed as he stared up at the ceiling. And he could still smell her perfume. He looked over to the door that led to his room, and he could see her sleeping.

He groaned softly and got up from the sofa.

The lights were still off, only a few LED lights were lighting up parts of three house. He walked to the kitchen, the cold air from the fridge washed over him as he reached for the colf beer.

He raised the can to his lips, savouring the drink, although, truly, he was thirsty for something else. Her. The young woman who had taken over his bed. He took another sip, his mind consumed by her. Fuck, he wanted to know what she tasted like. To hear her moan his name over and over again. There was a slight twitch in his head as he closed his head and shook his head. He raised the can to his lips and took another sip before going back to the sofa.

The next morning he walked out of the shower, his hair ruffled from drying it with a towel. He wore grey sweatpants, which almost hung on his torse, and no T-shirt.

He walked into the kitchen, when he heard a voice behind him.

"I know you."

He nearly chocked on his water.

He turned around and saw her standing in the entrance of the kitchen. The girl from last night.

Her raven hair was tousled, and the bright morning light lit up her delicate features, making her look a godess. But the he look in what she was wearing, one of his shirts, a dark purple one. It was massive on her, reaching to her thighs and one side fell down her shoulder, revialing her soft fair skin.

"You're the guy I spoke to on Halloween," she continued.

His brows pulled together slightly. He would remember if he spoke to her. She was a sight he wouldn't forget. "You were suppoused to leave," he said, his focus low and commanding.

She tilted her head to the side and smiled. Her hair followed, and fell slightly in her eyes. She approached him, leaning forward against the kitchen island ad she stood opposite him. He could see the outline of her breasts from how the buttons on the shirt were buttoned, and it was driving his fucking insane.

"You were like, 'you are so beautiful. Please dont skip me. Talk to me.'"

He left as if a cold bucket of water had been poured on him. His eyes widened as he looked at her.

 || Flashback 05:13 am sevenminutes ( online chat ) || Jimin was restless. He had just come home from the club, unsatisfied. The night had been loud, full of smoke, bodies, and sweat—but none of it touched him. Not in the way he craved. He had a woman in his bed earlier, and yet here he was, alone. Awake. Still hungry. Sinking into his chair, he cracked his neck, one hand sliding through his hair. Fuck it. The concept was simple—chat with someone for seven minutes. If you wanted more, you had to pay. He skipped past face after face—nothing caught his attention. Not until— Her. A black Playboy mask. Long ears. Red lips. Lace top. Jimin stilled. 'well, fuck.' His tongue swept over his bottom lip as his gaze raked over her—slow, unhurried. Now, this was interesting. She hovered over the 'skip' button, teasing. Holding all the power. Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. "Shit," Jimin blurted, eyes locking onto hers. "Please don't skip me." "Hmmm," She smirked, tilting her head. "Already begging, huh?" "If you want me to, baby," he murmured, "I can get on my knees." She inhaled, just barely. But he noticed. Her lips parted, but she caught herself quickly, crossing her arms under her chest—pushing up her lace-covered curves. Deliberate. Calculated. Fucking dangerous. Jimin let out a soft chuckle, eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Cute," he smiled. Her brows lifted. "What is?" "You." He tilted his head. "Trying to get a rise out of me." "Oh?" She hummed. "And is it working?" Jimin exhaled, slow and deep. His fingers lazily trailed over his lower lip. "Baby," he said smoothly, "if I stood up right now, I think you'd have your answer." She laughed, a sultry little sound that licked over his skin like fire. 3:00 minutes remaining. "Mm," she mused, trailing a finger along the lace strap on her shoulder. "I don't know. I think you talk a big game." Jimin grinned, all dimpled charm. "And I think you like it." "Mmmm," She hummed, not denying it. He let the moment stretch, watching her—watching him. She was baiting him. Testing him. 2:00 minutes remaining. "Give me your number," Jimin said, voice dropping into something lower, richer. More dangerous. She laughed, slow and syrupy. "Do I look like the kind of girl who gives her number to strangers online? Jimin's tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. "No." He let his gaze drift down, then back up. "You look like the kind of girl who makes men suffer." Her smirk widened. "And you look like the kind of man who likes it." Jimin exhaled sharply, laughing. "Fuck." He dragged a hand through his hair. She was good. "Smart girl." 1:30 minutes remaining. She tapped a manicured finger against her lips. "I'll make you a deal." Jimin raised a brow, intrigued. "Yeah?" "Take off your shirt." Jimin chuckled, tilting his head. "Why?" She smirked. "Because I don't give my number to strangers... but I might give it to a man who is buff." His tongue clicked against his teeth. Bold. He liked that. "Mm," he mused. He leaned back, hands sliding up the hem of his shirt. He paused, smirking. "You first." Her brows lifted. "Excuse me?" "The mask, baby." His voice was a purr. "Take it off." She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think. Then—she leaned in. Jimin held his breath. Her lips were close to the camera, so close he could almost taste them. 1:00 minute remaining. "Seven minutes isn't long enough for that," she said.  Jimin's jaw ticked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. 0:30 seconds remaining. "You know," he murmured, "I could make it long enough." "Mmm," She smirked. "I bet you could." 0:15 seconds. "Then prove it." 0:05 seconds. His pulse spiked. His lips parted, ready to fire back— And then— She was gone. || end of flashback ||

Back in the present, Jimin stared at Moon, realization hitting him like a freight train. "Fuck," he muttered.

She grinned. "Took you all long enough." Moon stepped into the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the cool marble floor. The morining light casted a clear view, carving out the sharp angles of Jimin's face as he stood by the counter with a bottle of water in his hand. He barely looked at her at first, but she could feel it—the weight of his gaze, the battle between restraint and temptation playing out in the rigid set of his shoulders.

She leaned against the island, crossing her arms. "You keep looking at me like you're seeing a ghost."

His eyes fell to her cleavage, and his jaw tensed. He needed so,mething stronger and colder to drink. He leaned agaisnt the counter, on hand in his pocket as he sat the bottle down behind him. "What's your name?" he asked.

She tilted her head, lips curling with quiet amusement. "Moon."

Jimin exhaled slowly, as if the name alone had stolen the breath from his lungs. It suited her too well—pale skin that glowed in the morning light, full lips naturally stained a provocative shade of red, hair as dark as a raven's wing. A contradiction of innocence and sin. "Moon," he echoed, rolling the name over his tongue like a forbidden indulgence. "Hmm, fitting."

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak. Just watched him with that same unreadable expression, as if she already knew the effect she had on him. And he hated it. Hated the way his pulse betrayed him, hammering in his throat. Hated the fire crawling up his spine, the way his fingers twitched, aching to trace the curve of her waist instead.

"You know..." Moon broke the silence, her voice featherlight yet intoxicating. "It's a shame the timer ran out that time." Jimin's gaze darkened and she smirked. "Disappointing, am I right?"

A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and knowing. "Not in the slightest."

Moon arched a perfect brow as the corner of her mouth curled into a sheepish smile. "You wanna know what I think?" she whispered. "Bullshit."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "You think so, huh?"

"Oh, I know so," she ran the tip of her black nails along the island as she walked aroud it until she was staning right in front of him. Her raven fell to her wasit, but the shorter strads framed her face, and all he wanted was brush them out of her face. "We could have had some fun," she continuted.

Jimin clenched his jaw. She was too perceptive. Too bold. And he was losing the battle against himself far too quickly. His grip tightened agasint the edge of the counter, a feeble attempt at grounding himself.

"Leave," he said, but the words lacked conviction. It sounded more like he was trying to convice himself than her.

"Hmm," Moon hummed, moving closer to him. "Do you really want me to go, or are you just trying to convince yourself?"

His grip tightened on the counter only futher. She was playing with him, pushing him closer to the edge. And he was letting her.

Her black nails brushed against his wrist—light, fleeting. He should move away. He should stop this before it went too far.

But he didn't.

His gaze dipped to her lips, soft and inviting, a breath away from his own. He could hear her breathing—uneven, expectant. His own chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, as if he still had the strength to fight this.

"Moon," he warned, voice rough.

She smiled. Slow. Knowing. A silent dare. "Jimin."

Something inside him snapped.

Before he could think better of it, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her throat—not tightly, but firm enough to feel the delicate thrum of her pulse beneath his palm.

Moon let out a soft breath, but instead of pulling away, she smiled.

And that smile unraveled him.

His grip flexed, not in warning, but in something deeper. Possessive. Testing. "You think this is a game?" he muttered, his voice low, dangerous.

"Mmm," Her lashes fluttered slightly, but she didn't look away. "I think you like it."

Jimin inhaled sharply, his patience running on a thin, fraying thread. She was baiting him, pulling him in, dragging him under. And he was drowning willingly.

His thumb brushed against the column of her throat, slow and deliberate. He could feel her pulse quicken beneath his touch. He could feel the way her body leaned in instead of away, and he could feel her body press against him.

And then, finally, he gave in.

His lips met hers—not rushed, not desperate, but slow, claiming. He wanted to savor it, to let it ruin him, to let himself fall apart in the taste of her.

Moon sighed softly against him, her hands slipping into his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he deepened the kiss, fingers tightening just slightly around her throat before sliding down to her waist, pulling her against him.

The kiss burned—slow and intense, each second unraveling him more than the last.

He hated it.

He craved it.

He reached down, his hand still hold from the cold bottle of water he held moment ago and he hoisted her up, sitting her on the kitchen island. He stood between her legs, pulling her against him. His hands roamed her body, one tangeling in her raven hair and the other went under his shirt  until his finger brushed just below her bra.

And yet, somehow, he found the strength to pull away.

He couldn't do this. If he would take her right here, right now there would be no going back. A kiss was a kiss, but going beyond that would make him worship the group she walked. His forehead rested against hers, his breaths uneven. "No sex," he rasped. "That's the rule."

Moon's lips curled, her smile slow, teasing. "No sex?"

He nodded, swallowing hard. "I'll give you everything else. Money, designer clothes, a house, a car—whatever you want. But not that."

Her smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something wicked. "A car?"

Jimin narrowed his gaze. "A car?"

She shrugged, trailing a single finger down his chest. "Range Rover. Black."

"I'll do you one better," he sighed. "You can get your car, clothes and all that other girl-bullshit, plus, you get to come to the club whenever you want. Unlimited access."

"Hmm," she pursed her lips like she was teasing him. "And what do you get out of it, sir?"

Jimin sucked in his bottom lip between his teeth. He rubbed his chin and smirked. He leaned in just enough to make her feel the weight of his presence. His gaze never wavered. "Oh, baby, you'll owe me something deeper," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't just want your body, Moon. I want your loyalty. Your trust. I want you to come when I call, you'll be where I need you to be, and you'll answer to me, without question."

She tilted her head, studying him carefully, her lips pressing together in thought. "And if I refuse?"

Jimin's smile was a razor's edge. "Then you get nothing. No car. No clothes. No club access. You walk away empty-handed, and you'll never get what you really want from me. You think you can find someone else to give you what I can without sex? You won't."

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers, voice quiet but heavy with intent. "You won't find anyone who can control you the way I can. Not without paying a price."

Moon's eyes flickered, a mixture of curiosity and defiance simmering beneath the surface. "Control me, huh?" she said, lips curving into a slow smirk. "You really think you can do that?"

His smile tightened, his voice almost a low growl. "I don't think. I know. You're already starting to bend, Moon. All it takes is one slip—one moment—and you'll realize it yourself."

Moon leaned in slightly, her face inches from his, eyes glinting with something dark and daring. "And what do you get out of it, Jimin? What's your reward?"

Jimin's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze. "I get the satisfaction of knowing you're mine in ways that matter more than just sex." His voice dropped even lower, the words charged with meaning. "You'll be my shadow. My pawn. My choice, in every sense."

Moon didn't break his gaze, the tension palpable between them. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice soft but teasing. "And if I accept... what happens next?"

Jimin exhaled slowly, a dark smile tugging at his lips. "Then you'll learn exactly how far you're willing to go. And how much you're willing to give up... just to stay in my world." He could see the ticking in her eyes, before she finally nodded, and even that caught him by surprise. He was not expecting her to agree.

He stepped away from her, running a hand through his hair as he reached for the home phone on the kitchen table. "Get the car and a driver around," he said before placing the phone back.

"Someone will take you home," he said, and pulled open one of the draws, finding a pen and paper. He placed it down on the kitchen island where she was still sitting, but did not look at her. "Write your adress down, get dressed and go."

Moon sighed as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She reached for the pen and wrote down her dress on the paper, before she jumped off the island and walked towards Jimin. She held the paper between her middle and index finger, looking up at him.

Jimin didn't even bother glacing her way. He reached for the paper and only heard her footsteps fad away.

Later that day Moon stood in front of her mirror, adjusting her hair. She reached for the house keys and her bag before opening the front door. She was going to the convinent store to get some snacks.

But her path was blocked by a black box and a black rose sitting on her doorstep. She stood in the doorway like a statue. She blinked as if snapping out of her trance before she reached down for the box and rose. She had never been given flowers before, and the first time she did it just happened to be a black rose. She humed and opened the box.

Range Rover. Black.As requested, baby.Jimin x

She looked at the black car keys in her hand, and pressed the unlock button. Not but a few cars down the headlights flashed for a moment. She exhaled a laugh of disbelif. She didn't acturly believe he would get her a car. And this quick too.

She locked the door to her house and approched the car. It was beautiful.

She reached for the door and sat in the driver's seat.

[cozy-cinnamon-roll]

A Princess' Guide to Interrogating a Radio Demon (Part II)

(read Part I here!)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Charlie, Ler!Vaggie, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, interrogation (in the most playful sense). If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige.

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

First: MAJOR thank you for all the sweet notes and feedback on Part 1 of this fic! I was not expecting such an enthusiastic response, and it really made my week! So grateful to be part of this lovely community 💕

As promised, here is part 2... This one gets a little more intense than the last, but it's still all for fun (and Al can handle it 🤭) So excited to share it with you all!

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Vaggie is never quite sure what she's going to find when she hears a commotion elsewhere in the hotel - especially when it's coming from the direction of Alastor's room.

But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her girlfriend pinning the most powerful overlord in Hell to the floor, tickling him to hysterics.

"Uhhhh..... Sweetie?"

"He won't tell me where he hid it!"

Vaggie just takes it in for a second. "So you're tickling him?"

"How else am I supposed to get it outta him?!"

"That's an... unconventional method, babe."

Charlie pauses her assault to shoot her girlfriend a deadpan look over her victim (who merely remains sprawled out on the floor beneath her, using his reprieve to take in as much precious oxygen as possible).

"You think I'm stupid enough to threaten real harm on The Radio Demon?"

That remark draws a maniacal little chuckle from the crumpled heap.

"Doesn't sound very effective," Vaggie observes.

But Charlie is too busy growling taunts at her victim again, tazing him in the sides. "Sorry, did I say something funny, giggles? Huh?! Did I?"

Vaggie can't help but smile herself at how hard it is for her girlfriend to keep a straight face during her "interrogation." She pokes and prods and scribbles all over the poor man, until his distinctive cackle echoes from the ceiling. And then she sits back on her heels, practically beaming with delight as he continues to shake with residual giggles.

At one point Charlie flashes her girlfriend a goofy grin. "I really think I'm wearing him down."

"Oh yeah. Absolutely, babe." Vaggie leans back against the doorframe with a smirk. "He really looks like he hates this, doesn't he."

As Charlie goes after his ribs again, Vaggie tilts her head. "He's lost his weird radio buzz."

"Oh!" Charlie abruptly clasps her hands to her chest, eyes wide with sudden worry. "Are you okay, Al?"

"Heh - yes, yes, of course..." While he is indeed too drunk on laughter maintain his usual tinny radio filter, the tiniest hint of a wheeze still edges his voice - which surprises Alastor himself more than anyone. His evil cackle is, after all, one of his signature intimidation techniques, and it's never affected his voice before.

But the uncontrolled, helpless hysterics Charlie's had him clutched in is very different from what he's used to. For all his practice intimidating his victims with a well-timed chortle, it appears his genuine laughter is rather rusty.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Still breathless, Alastor can't help but chuckle at that too. "...Y-you are aware of what an 'interrogation' is, right?"

Charlie's look of concern drops to a mild glare.

"Alright, babe. Step aside." Vaggie curls a dangerous little grin of her own. "I'll handle this."

As he sees Vaggie striding toward him, Alastor scrambles to sit up. "Wait, wait- Vaggie, dear, can't we-" He presses backward, only to find himself cornered between the couch and the coffee table. "Er- can't we talk this over?"

Vaggie crouches down. "You wanna tell me where Angel's speaker is?"

"No."

Fingernails are crawling up both sides before he even registers movement. Poor Alastor is clutched over cackling within seconds.

Charlie may be a surprisingly effective ler, but it quickly becomes clear who taught her: Vaggie is ruthless.

"Get his tummy, that's his weak spot!" Charlie chirps, not even bothering to hide her delight any longer.

"Chahaharlie!!"

Alastor actually feels a spark of legitimate panic as Vaggie's nails find their way to his upper belly, tracing along the lower edge of his ribcage, sending his laughter silent for a moment.

"Hey, if you really want me to stop, you can just tell me what I wanna know."

"YOou cahan-" (gasp) "-PRY it from my-" (brief giggle fit) "-cold, dead-" (wheeze) "-fingers!!"

"Yeah? I'll show you cold, dead fingers..."

Alastor feels a hand slip under his shirt.

"AaaaAAAHH! No, no, Vaggie don't!"

"Oooh, this is a good spot, isn't it?"

"NO don't do that- please please please..."

"What? You don't want me to do this?" Her fingernails skitter across his bare tummy. The poor man can't remember the last time he laughed this hard at anything - which, for someone who literally hasn't dropped his smile for decades, is a pretty high bar to clear. And he's gotta admit, it's the best he's felt in weeks.

"Don't kill him," Charlie pipes up, "I still need him to help run the hotel after this."

"I'm not gonna kill him." Vaggie leans in close. "I'm just gonna keep tickling this sensitive, vulnerable, unbearably ticklish little belly, up and down, over and over, on and on..."

The surge of radio static induced by this one sentence is so intense that it leaves Alastor's own voice virtually incomprehensible for several seconds. He tries to summon a shadow creature, a tentacle, anything, but he's so disoriented the shadows dissipate before they can be directed anywhere.

And that's finally what breaks his resistance. Being rendered helpless under Charlie's fingers is one thing, but being unable to use his powers at Vaggie's mercy is considerably more unnerving.

"OKAY, OKAHAY! I'll talk! I'll talk!"

Vaggie lifts her hands off him, though they remain hovering just a few inches over his torso.

It takes a solid minute for Alastor to catch his breath. "For heaven's sake, you could've just asked me..."

Vaggie scrunches her fingers in the air a couple times, causing the radio demon to fold up like a lawn chair.

"Ack! Nonono I'm kidding!! I'm kidding!" He fights back a fit of nervous giggles.

"Ten seconds to spit it out before I go borrow Nifty's feather duster."

Alastor rolls his eyes. "Oh please. You think you can threaten me with cleaning tools? Don't be ridiculous..."

"Five seconds." Vaggie turns to Charlie. "Hey babe, have you tried his ears?"

A little squeak of microphone feedback. "13th floor hall closet, second-to-top shelf, under a dead rat."

Charlie recoils. "Ew! Al!"

"Pardon, two dead rats." As Vaggie withdraws her hands Alastor sits up, brushes himself off, and reaches for his microphone. "Second one came along as I was arranging the first, and... offered to help."

Charlie just stares at him in horror as he stands and twirls his mic with his usual classy flair, the very picture of eccentric elegance - as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes being reduced to a hysterical mess on the floor.

"Is there any point in warning you not to pull something like this again?" Vaggie mutters, more to herself than the demon.

"No. But you can if it makes you feel better." Alastor grins and offers a hand to Charlie as she gets to her feet. "That was a lovely chat, my dears. Next time I need a good laugh I'll be sure to commit another petty theft."

Charlie rolls her eyes as he turns on his heel and strolls off.

"And let me know if you need help finding the batteries for that speaker," he tosses over his shoulder.

"OH you little piece of-"

--------------------------------------------------------------

This was such a fun fic to write! Hope you had fun reading it too.... let me know what you think!

💜 - Cozy

[girlwithadragonheart]

Leave Me to the Beasts and Bears

Halsin x Female Reader

Summary: Halsin overhears you singing about your struggles as a woman in the world. Comfort ensues

Word Count: 1,274

Warnings: Paris Paloma song, mentions of rape, assault, SA, graphic flashbacks, this fic is very graphic and intense read at your discretion!!! (I love you don't trigger yourself unless you know it's okay) This is a hurt/comfort because I need it

A/N: This song has been looping in my mind for days, and it really highlights womanhood. Also this is my personal experiences all roped together if you don't like it keep scrolling.

BG3 Masterlist

You had been staying with the Grove for quite a while, and no one seemed to mind. You brought light and life to the druids with your music, and you had become a welcome addition to the lovely place. You had found a quiet overlook next to the inner sanctum and often found yourself drawn there for the peace it brought you.

Your fingers danced idly across your lute strings, humming softly to yourself and the surrounding life.

Halsin heard your melodic voice and found himself drawn to you. Tucked just behind you out of sight. Not that it mattered as your eyes fluttered closed.

Cremate me… Deliver me to safety. So that when it’s spent maybe it will be my own.

Scatter ashes… Leave no marker where you plant it. So the hordes will be disbanded as they search on a treasure map for my headstone.

The druid’s brow furrowed as he heard the softness of your voice carrying solemn words. Little did he know what exactly was on your mind.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top.

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again…

Your throat felt tight. You saw them in your mind’s eye. You felt their hands on your skin, calluses scraping against you, nails digging into your arms. Your knees hit the ground with such force they cracked, and you cried out in pain. No one came. Heavy and hard hands ripped your blouse, exposing your chest for predatory eyes.

I’ll tattoo it, just so they think it’s ruined. And if they think it’s ruined, it’s easier to save. But please hurry, if you really love me, and dispose of me unceremoniously in the waves.

You heard the water lapping at the shore as your chest tightened with that familiar panic. Every time you dreamt about it or someone touched you close enough you were brought back to it again and again for days on end. No matter how far you ran, their eyes would always follow you. Their skin was tainting yours no matter where you went. Chest to chest unwilling, but appeasing.

You remembered their fingers carding through your hair, tugging it roughly from your scalp. You remembered how they put it to their lips and breathed in your scent. 

Leave me to the trees and air, I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or buy cuttings of my priceless locks.

Leave me for two days or three, ‘til my fingertips turn green. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

Those rough hands gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open as silent tears flew down your cheeks. Even if you screamed, no one would hear you. If they did, no one would save you. You were alone. Just the way they preferred.

The other hand traveled to their belt buckle. You heard the metal clanging in your ears as though cymbals were clashing next to your head. It was past the point of warning bells and alarms, you were in it and you wouldn’t get away before… before…

And they will come in such dismay, that they never did discover where I lay. And I will burn, my flesh and form. Screaming the words, “it will never be yours!”

I’ll take the flame over desecration, promise you’ll make all these arrangements. Don’t you dare think it’s overkill!

I wouldn’t wish the watching on anybody, so if for that reason only, swear to me you will!

Halsin watched you stand, and he heard the tears clogging your throat. He watched you scream these words out to the sea, and he felt his own throat close up. Memories of the Underdark and the drow couple started to surface in his mind. Maybe it was the words or the emotions, but what he thought of fondly started to seem less than. He heard you sniffle, and suddenly he felt those restraints on his wrists and ankles again. He felt them touching him, and his mind wanted to trick him into enjoying it. It wanted to appease his captors and draw pleasure where he could, but this… 

He was watching you break, and for the first time it was like looking in the mirror. For the first time he could see someone else breaking and recognize himself in them. 

And you choked up, feeling suffocated by the memory. You’ll never forget what it felt like. What it tasted like. The weight, the heat, the flavor, the intrusion was forever branded on your mind, body, and soul. It would always be there.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top. 

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

It was barely a melody at this point. More a choked whisper as you fell to your knees, lute laying still on the ground.

You felt the phantom soreness of every event, every time your body was used for someone else's desires. You heard every word of pleasure and longing that had ever passed to your ears. You felt their hands as they groped and poked and prodded even when you said no. Thousands upon thousands of strangers touching you. Friends touching you. Family touching you, and you couldn’t make them stop. 

But it’s fine because they love you. No! No more. This is not alright, I’m not alright. I’m not alright, I’m not, but no one understands, and no one will even listen, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!

Strong arms wrap around you, trying to hold you together, but you’re falling apart freely with no air resistance, and the only thing stopping you is the embrace of warmth and strength and the smell of the earth. You didn’t realize you were screaming. You only thought you were crying, but you didn’t realize how much. 

Not until Halsin collapsed next to you and pulled you into his embrace. 

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

You felt his salty tears against your neck as you turned into him, arms wrapping around his neck. Your hands clawed at him desperately, trying to breathe in his safety and comfort all the while he tried to take yours. Kindred spirits, twin flames, two souls having walked the same path, and all you could do was hold onto each other for the ride and pray that you would make it to the other side.

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, burying your face in his shoulder.

“As am I.” His arms encompass you completely, holding you together. His large hands cover your back almost entirely, as though he’s attempting to shield you from your past with his large frame. You allow yourself this brief respite. After everything you’ve endured, you haven’t recovered, and you aren’t sure that you ever will.

It’s of small comfort to you that someone of Halsin’s size and stature knows the pain you’ve endured and has experienced it for himself. But you don’t know those circumstances. Perhaps he is only so large and muscular to protect what he couldn’t in the past. Perhaps he hopes to protect you in the same way.

Either way you are glad he is here.

“You are safe here,” He told you. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

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A/N: Are you guys okay after that? I'm not. Whew.

Have a good night <3

Tag List: @leiotyp

As always let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Requests are open!

[baddestbittyontheblock]

february fic recs (1/2)

✦ dividers by @saradika-graphics, @gigittamic ✦

Ⳋ᧙ hi everyone!! i've read a ton of fics this month, so i hope you all enjoy my faves of february!! Ⳋ᧙ ⑅part 2⑅

I made 2 post's for february cause it was too long lol

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ remember to like and reblog the works you enjoy in order to support each incredible writer!! ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Ⳋ᧙ however, make sure you read the information on each story themselves such as triggers & warnings Ⳋ᧙

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ also, if you’d like me to remove your fic from this list, message me! ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

women's soccer

alexia putellas

❀᧓ when i break, it’s in a million pieces (1/3) by @girlgenius1111 alexia x putellas!reader

-the pressure on reader is intense, from her sister more than anyone. an injury pushes her to her breaking point. desperate not to let her sister down, reader struggles under the weight of her injury.

❀᧓ shining just for you (2/3) by ^ alexia + barça & putellas!reader

-reader only gets worse. alexia gets frustrated. a much needed conversation is attempted.

❀᧓ all i do is try, try, try (3/3) by ^ alexia putellas x putellas!reader

-alexia and reader finally talk.

❀᧓ young, drunk, and alone by ^ alexia putellas x putellas!reader | angst, fluff, brief mentions of blood and vomiting. and alcohol consumption, 6k

-reader infuriates her sister when she sneaks out and gets drunk with her friends. alexia comes to realize that maybe, this is a result of her pushing you too hard.

❀᧓ you come back from gravity by ^ alexia putellas x reder | angst, fluff

-alexia and reader have an argument. reader misunderstands, and when alexia leaves to calm down, she thinks she's going for good.

❀᧓ annoyances by @sunnyaelia alexia putellas x reader | pure fluff, reader being a little shit

-alexia forces you to come with her to a photo shoot and a meeting while you’re tired - you’re intent on making her regret it 

❀᧓ matches and hickeys by ^ alexia putellas x reader | mostly fluff and then suggestive at the end, not meant for minors!

-alexia is very proud to take you with her to a match - until one of her opponents starts flirting with you 

❀᧓ jealously and sisterhood by ^ alexia putellas x reader | angst

-alexia and you are dating and she is happy that you get along with her sister alba so well - until people start thinking you and alba are a thing. in her effort to keep you away from her sister, she drives a wedge in between you and her relationship

❀᧓ listener and talker by ^ alexia putellas x reader | grumpy x sunshine trope but a very mild version of it

-you always think that you talk too much for alexia to listen to everything - she proves otherwise 

❀᧓ listener and talker 2 by ^ alexia putellas x reader | pure fluff

-alexia continues to be cute and you try to match her actions and do some things for her

❀᧓ insecurities and drunk talks by ^ alexia putellas x reader | talks about body insecurities and then wanting to change body image, nothing heavy or detailed though and it’s about gaining muscles not losing weight! also non sexual nudity and suggestive comments, 18+ please 

-alexia tries to tease you by not initiating any physical contact anymore - she doesn’t expect that you might misunderstand it and withdraw from her as a result 

❀᧓ laps and regret by ^ alexia putellas x reader | this contains descriptions of reader almost throwing up and non sexual nudity 

-in her efforts to hide your relationship to the others on the team, alexia overdoes it during training and is way too strict on you - it has consequences 

❀᧓ delay by @awfcspencer alexia putellas x reader | mdni 18+ only, smut with basically no plot. dom!alexia, sub!reader, fingering, strap-ons, praise kink, dirty talk, choking, orgasm denial

-flight cancellation isn’t ideal, especially when you had been teasing alexia all day.

❀᧓ dancing with the devil (1/3) by @pers1st alexia putellas x singer!reader | mentions of drugs and alcohol

-meeting alexia hadn't been an accident. if anything, meeting anyone, for you, was an accident, because more often than not, people were screaming into your face, demanding pictures and autographs and spinning theories about your private life that you were pretty sure could be considered conspiracies.

❀᧓ painkillers (2/3) by ^ alexia putellas x singer!reader | alcohol & drug abuse

-if lois noticed the tears threatening to spill from your eyes, he didn't mention it. you turned the radio on from the control in the back, desperate to escape the whistling thoughts in your head.

❀᧓ afterglow (3/3) by ^ alexia putellas x singer!reader | mentions of OD

-keira was taken away first. alexia noticed it as she marched across the damp pitch, a winter coat shielding her body from the cool wind, her body glistening with sweat.

❀᧓ bittersweet by @barcaatthemoon alexia putellas x reader

-the roar of the crowd was deafening. spain had won, and while you were so proud of alexia, you couldn't bring yourself to move to congratulate her.

❀᧓ testy by @acornsquish alexia putellas x reader | smut, 18+ minors dni, AFAB reader, cunnilingus, fingering, begging, restraints, D/S undertones, orgasm control

-you're in a terrible mood, for no particular reason. you know exactly what would help, but your girlfriend's been insanely busy for weeks, and you don't want to ask for what you need and put one more thing on her plate. alexia figures it out anyways.

❀᧓ broken by @ale-wosofan alexia putellas x reader | little bit of angst (+fluff), implied adhd

-reader is struggling but she’s not sure why or how to fix it. will she finally be honest with her girlfriend about how she’s feeling?

❀᧓ reliance by @leahluvr alexia putellas x reader | angst, comfort

-your newborn son won’t go to sleep

❀᧓ spoiled rotten by @wileys-russo alexia putellas x reader | fluff

-"only me!" you called out as you stepped through the front door, immediately nearly crashing to the floor over a pair of your girlfriends sneakers she'd left laying in the way.

❀᧓ caught on camera by ^ alexia putellas x putellas!reader

-"where are you going? the field is that way hermana."

❀᧓ open your eyes by @magics-neptunes-things alexia putellas x reader

-alexia. you’ve known her since you were a little girl. you met her when the ball she was playing with ended up in your backyard and she came looking for it, half hidden behind her father.

❀᧓ between us by @alexias-putellas alexia putellas x reader x jenni hermoso

-you’d had a crush on alexia from the moment you’d laid eyes on her the day you signed your barcelona contract. she was pretty and kind. and unfortunately, taken.

aitana bonmatí

❀᧓ sleepyhead by @storiesforthemoonchild aitana bonmatí x reader

-breakfast was always loud with the team, and you loved it.

❀᧓ clingy by @alexias-putellas aitana bonmatí x reader | fluffy

-with a heaved sigh, you pushed open the apartment door, dragging your suitcase in behind you. the quiet humming you could hear stopped and was replaced by the sound of footsteps.

❀᧓ beach babe by @princejiu aitana bonmatí x reader

-the barca girls spots a beach babe and aitana is immediately in love

jessie fleming

❀᧓ you've been missed by @lovinpelova jessie fleming x reader | smut

-jessie feels a bit more lonely than usual, so she makes sure you get home earlier.

leila ouahabi

❀᧓ eyes on me by @repulsiveliquidation leila ouahabi x reader | smut

-the sun shines through the hotel room in malta. leila has her arm wrapped around your middle with a tight grip on you.

mapi leon

❀᧓ don't doubt us by @girlgenius1111 ingrid x mapi x reader | 18+ smut!

-reader gets sick. mapi and ingrid get overprotective. reader pushes herself too hard, but her girlfriends know what she needs better than she does

ingrid engen

❀᧓ ingrid blurb by @wileys-russo ingrid engen x reader

-"i didn't know you switched numbers"

❀᧓ inside everything by @retrocesosdestacion ingrid engen x reader | smut, minor disastrous, +18 writting, semi-public sex, touching, fingering, r sub, maybe a bit realistic, did not reach the limit, half sex, almost caught.

-It's shopping day, however you are very doubtful on which denim shorts you are going to acquire.

❀᧓ don't doubt us by @girlgenius1111 ingrid x mapi x reader | 18+ smut!

-reader gets sick. mapi and ingrid get overprotective. reader pushes herself too hard, but her girlfriends know what she needs better than she does

alessia russo

❀᧓ mornings with you by @mrchiipchrome alessia russo x reader | suggestive, 1.4k

-early morning rays of sun peeked in through the blinds as your girlfriend admired your features lit up by the soft glow of the rays. alessia’s blonde hair was splayed over the pillow, her finger tracing soft shapes into the skin of your arm. 

❀᧓ puzzle book by @wileys-russo alessia russo x reader

-cute little blurb about being on camp in spain with less

jenni hermoso

❀᧓ homecoming by @girlgenius1111 jenni hermoso x reader | smut! 18+

-jenni returns from a trip without you, intent on reminding you of who you belong to. you are only interested in proving to her that you've forgotten who is in charge.

❀᧓ between us by @alexias-putellas alexia putellas x reader x jenni hermoso

-you’d had a crush on alexia from the moment you’d laid eyes on her the day you signed your barcelona contract. she was pretty and kind. and unfortunately, taken.

❀᧓ caught by @barcaatthemoon jenni hermoso x reader | minors dni, 18+, smut

-you and jenni get caught breaking one the team's "no hotel sex" rule.

ona batlle

❀᧓ scratches down your back now by @alessiasfreckles one batlle x reader | smut 18+, dom!ona, sub!reader, fingering (r receiving), strap (r receiving), back scratching, dirty talk, degradation, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink

-you just want ona to use you, and she's more than happy to do so.

men's soccer

jude bellingham

❀᧓ tainted memories by @anadiasmount jude bellingham x reader | angst? smut and fluff, minors dni, 3.6k

-breaking up wasn’t apart of the plan. so was also inviting him to your friends party, but now that he’s back after seven months, a little rekindle never hurts anyone, right?

❀᧓ not what you think by ^ jude bellingham x reader | 2.1k

-a club filled with many girls but the one he wants is standing in the dance floor, his best friends little sister. he shouldn’t be thinking the way he does, but something about seeing you doing something he never thought and imagined has his mind racing with thoughts that were forbidden…

❀᧓ a love that feels right by @judethsluvr brother’s bsf!jude bellingham x fem!reader | 18+ minors dni

-“you know you don’t have to share a tent with me—in fact i’d be happy to have one for myself, just saying.”

❀᧓ just a fan by @mufcjb jude bellingham x reader | just slight angst, appearances from Camavinga and Vini Jr

-a security guard at one of jude’s games mistakes you for a fan.

❀᧓ wag in training by ^ jude bellingham x reader | insecurities, body image issues, brief mentions of lack of eating,very angsty

-reader is insecure about her capabilities of being a wag and feeling like she doesn’t fit in, especially after seeing the others at the world cup.

❀᧓ la playa by @moviestarmartini jude bellingham x latina!reader | really short instagram aus at both the beginning and the end, situationship where they both clearly fell for each other but won't discuss it, pet names in spanish, NSFW, semi-public sex, soft dom!jude if you squint, teasing, p in v, praise, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all), creampie, cockwarming, fluff (aka two big goofs in love), 2.0k

-situationship!jude asked to spend the summer vacations with you. he's been looking at you with something other than his hungry eyes for some time now.

❀᧓ ballroom extravaganza by @leviscolwill jude bellingham x f1 driver!reader | jude is jealous, reader drives for mclaren w lando, possible racing inconstancies (i can't drive to save my life), reader crashes (nothing too bad happens tho), gasly slander, language ??, quite angsty but happy (&fluffy) endin, 1.7k

-you always hated arguing with jude, but even more so when you're about to race monaco's streets

❀᧓ watermelon sugar by @judeswhore jude bellingham x fem!reader | 18+, minors dni, oral (f), pussy drunk jude??

-jude just can’t get enough of you

bridgerton

anthony bridgerton

❀᧓ bridgerton blues by @imthebadguyyy anthony bridgerton x reader | smut, heavy smut and excessive amount of fluff

-it's the first time after your wedding that anthony sees you sporting the signature bridgerton colour : blue, and it does things to him that he can only express in a much more....physical manner.

❀᧓ truth or dare by @ithebookhoarder anthony bridgerton x wife!reader | alcohol, mild smut, swearing, anthony losing his mind, typical bridgerton sibling shenanigans 

-married only a few months, you are very much one of the bridgerton brood - something that often drives your poor husband mad, especially when you happen to be every bit as chaotic and unruly as his siblings... also known as, you, benedict and eloise take a game of ‘truth or dare’ a bit too far. 

❀᧓ to lose yourself by @frost-queen anthony bridgerton x reader

-you and anthony have an intense moment in the library at lady danbury's ball. It leads to full on kissing till his sister daphne enters shockingly. teasingly she starts telling you to duel her just like anthony once did with simon.

call of duty

simon riley

❀᧓ drabble by @truetogaia simon riley x reader

-simon keeps his late girlfriend's things long after her passing.

❀᧓ simon fic by @lunarw0rks simon riley x gn!reader | nsfw + sfw, established relationship, smut/fluff, shower sex, hurt/comfort, 1.1k

-reader using their safe word for the first time with ghost

❀᧓ picture by @peachesofteal simon riley x fem!reader | 18+ minors dni, pregnancy, pregnant reader, blow job, praise kink, blood, violence, injury, ptsd, anxiety, trust issues. simon is bad at feelings. soap is a good friend. POV switches

-soap gives simon a picture.

❀᧓ simon blurb by @hecateslore dad!simon x mom!reader

-a working mom who comes home to a retired papa!simon

❀᧓ smut blurb by @shotmrmiller pornstar!ghost x fem!reader | 18+, smut

-pornstar!ghost who can't seem to ever keep his hands to himself whenever you're around, even when about to film.

[darksturnioloqueen]

Sadistic!Matt x Pet

**This Fic Series will NOT be for people with triggers. This Fic Series will have very descriptive moments of Sadism.**

Sadistic (Sadism - The Act Of Being Sadistic)

Deriving (getting) pleasure from inflicting (causing) pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.

Please Read At Your Own Risk.

⚠︎Trigger Warning: mention of tension, welt on face from being punched, INTRODUCING: silly!Sadistic!Matt, intense Matt, INTRODUCING: scared!Sadistic!Matt, Matt diving in, slight choking, thigh slap, slight degradation, good moment ruined, awkwardness, toxic feelings, put on the spot, angst, tension, knives, normal couple vibes from Sadistic!Matt, talking about the fight/ Sadistic!Matt enjoying hitting you, mention of bruising, threats of killing, snide comment / joke about punching you, sibling fight, slapping, crying, Sadistic!Matt thinking about hitting you, wanting to lie, ominous phone call, microphone drop. ⚠︎

A/N: Sadistic!Matt's Favourite Song: (No Warnings)

In the late afternoon, when you woke up, the tension in the house was painful. Not in a good way. You heard your brothers hanging out in your living room. Before going out, you checked your cheek for signs of Matt striking you in the face. You didn't mind the welt forming; to you, it was just a reminder of the fun times you had with Matt, but you knew Cole would never let it go if he saw it. After piling on fresh makeup, you joined them.

"Morning, sunshine." Elliott hopped up and wrapped an arm around you.

"We are taking you out." Cole looked content. Maybe the tension was all in your head? You thought. You went into the kitchen and grabbed a crunchy Valley grain bar for a filler snack.

"Cool. Where are we going?" You were hoping they wouldn't be lame and say it was a surprise or anything.

"There is a carnival happening about forty minutes from here." Cole stood up and stretched a little.

"Oh, that's perfect. Matt will probably like it, too." You said nonchalantly. You weren't sure if he was a carnival-type person, but you were excited to find out.

"Oh." The tension you thought might be imaginary became all too apparent, settling in the room like a blanket falling down. Cole's jaw tensed.

"He means a lot to me." You sighed. You hated having to justify being with Matt. The truth was that if they knew the absolute truth, they too would see that no one was better for you than Matt.

"It's fine." Elliott's voice cracked a little.

"Great. He lives a few minutes away. I'll go get him, and we can carpool." You smiled, feeling better knowing Elliott had your back.

"He doesn't have a car?" Cole scoffed.

"He does." You shot back. "I just want to talk to him for a minute before we go. You know, brief him on how crazy you two are." You tried to land a light joke, but it didn't stand a chance against the wall they both had up. Once outside his house, you rounded the corner to the back door. You heard a faint thumping noise as you put your key in to unlock the door. You still felt a sense of nerves as you walked into his house. He didn't seem like the type of person you would want to catch off guard.

Sliding the door open, the sound of the drumming beats pulsed on the surface of your skin. You never really thought about what kind of music Matt would listen to, but this wasn't shy of what you would have guessed. The washed-up lyrics behind the intense, steady drumbeat really set an uneasy tone. You stepped inside as the lyrics faded away, and the song transitioned to a just a drumbeat. Your mouth popped open, forming into a wide smile. There, in the middle of the living room, Matt was turned away from you, dancing. It wasn't anything particular, just a little shoulder shake as he tossed his head back and forth. The music was so loud he hadn't heard you come in. He was feeling every single beat pump through his veins as if it were his own blood.

All morning, he couldn't stop thinking about you. It started simply hoping you were okay. Then it moved on to worrying that your brothers convinced you to leave him. His mind progressed into a dark spot. He did the only thing he knew would silence the thoughts you might be gone—his favorite song. It wasn't his favorite before he met you, but it slowly became his favorite as his feelings for you grew more apparent. "Loving you is something else..." The music, mixed with a hint of Matt, swirled into your mind. You watched in awe as the scary, sadistic Matt kept doing his little jig in the middle of the room. You wanted to announce your presence, but you didn't want him to stop. He slowly started to turn around. You straightened up, waiting for him to notice you. His eyes were shut tightly. He was really feeling this song.

"Matt?" You whispered. You knew he didn't hear you because you barely heard you.

"Losing you is something else..." The music paused for a second before restarting the song.

"Matt?" You took this as your chance. Matt's eyes shot open, and he froze in place. The music took over the silence again. You smiled at him. "Hey." You mouthed through the musical notes swirling between the two of you. Matt walked over to the speaker, blaring, and paused it.

"Pet." He said.

"What song is that?" You asked. You wanted to know so you could never forget the sight of him dancing to it.

"Inamorata." He held no emotion. He was trying to figure out how to feel. Part of him was relieved to see you in his house, still allowed to be with him—still wanting to be. The other part of him was upset you saw him dancing and singing to a song like a teenage girl.

"It's pretty. I liked it." You liked watching Matt more, but the song was beautiful too.

"You." He was short. You knew there was more he wanted to say.

"Me what?" You walked closer to him in the living room.

"It reminds me of you." He looked down at you, hands by his sides.

"That's nice. I think." It was cute. Something reminded him of you, but you didn't know the song well enough to know the true meaning.

"Do you know what inamorata means?" He finally moved and snaked his hands around your waist.

"No." You giggled and shook your head. Matt leaned down closer to your ear, letting his breath tickle you for a moment.

"Inamorata means female lover." His voice was saturated with lust. You felt the cool sensation work its way down your spine.

"Oh." You let out.

"Inamorata." He whispered, his lips gliding across the skin of your neck as he spoke. After the word was thoroughly soaked into your brain, you felt his lips press down on you.

"Mhhmm." You hummed and let your head fall back slightly, allowing him more room to use if he wanted to.

"In-" He moved his lips slightly. "ah-" He kissed lower. "Mor-" He moved spots again. "Ata." He settled the last kiss on your lips. You weren't sure why he was suddenly all over you, but you wanted more.

"Matt." You whimpered. Once was enough to make him weak. His hands gripped your shoulders and squeezed tightly.

"I thought..." He looked down at the floor. "I thought, I lost you." He slowly raised his head to look at you directly.

"Never." You smiled into his baby blues. Matt leaned down and hooked his hands around your thighs. In a swift second, you were thrown over his shoulder. "Matt!?" You shrieked. "What are you doing?" You laughed freely as he walked toward the bedroom. He tossed you on the bed like a toy and quickly undressed himself. You were in a skirt as usual. Matt was releasing his built-up tension. He hated the moment something bad happened; his thoughts told him you were leaving, just like the rest. His need for you was becoming rooted in the fear of never knowing when his time with you would be the last. He wanted to take every chance he could with you. He reached right in between your thighs, ripped your fabric barrier to the side, and inserted himself into you.

You had given Matt full consent to your body without him knowing. There wasn't anything he could do to you that you wouldn't be okay with. "Yes." You panted out, letting him know it was good. His thrusts inside you weren't anything special. There was no rhythm to his hips pushing and pulling against yours. This was so that he could feel inside you for a few minutes. Matt grabbed your wrists and held you pinned down. His mouth peppered kisses all over your neck and collarbones. The sensation was new. Even with all of your moments of intimacy with Matt, he could still find something new to introduce into your relationship. "I'm yours." The words left your lips without your brain filtering them. They came from pure pleasure and ownership.

"My Pet." He used one hand to grip your neck. This sexual encounter felt very normal. For a brief moment, you wondered, "Am I changing him?" Matt's hand squeezed, and you felt a little rush in your head. "Inamorata." He whispered into your ear. You were beginning to like the way it sounded. Just as you were about to moan, Matt's groan filled the room. He pulled out of you and smacked your thigh slightly. "I could use you like that every day, Pet." His words, slightly degrading as they were, made your body shiver as your liquid pleasure leaked out.

"Please." You already had more sex than you ever had, even when you were primarily paid for it. With Matt, sex was more. It was an experience. It was what they told you it should feel like. It meant something to you. Matt leaned down and captured your mouth with his. Never getting tired of kissing you, he felt more comfortable initiating it now. When he pulled back and looked into your eyes, you saw the sweetness of his lust circling his pupils. "We are going to a carnival. Please come." You asked, shying away from him a little.

"We?" He pulled back more. His jaw tensed up. His eyes lost their affection.

"My brothers and -"

"No." He hopped off of the bed and changed his clothes.

"Matt. I never wanted you to meet them like that. Please." You sat up and felt his cum wetting your pink lace.

"Pet, I don't do the family thing." He said avoiding eye contact with you.

"I talked to them. I promise it'll be better this time." You stood up and positioned yourself under his chin. Arms wrapped around him. "I promise." Matt stood uncomfortable. He didn't like hugging, and he certainly didn't want to hang out with your brothers. The ones he beat the shit out of because he thought you were cheating... again.

"Okay." He sighed. He felt like he owed it to you. You squeezed his body harder. For a sadist, he wasn't very built. Still, he was big enough to dominate you properly. Just another thing to make you two perfect for each other.

"We are carpooling. Come on." You grabbed his wrist and pulled him through his own house. The drive doesn't take long, but the closer you get to your house, the more tense Matt looked. His color grew paler, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tensed, and he appeared angry. You ran inside to get your brothers. "Matt's in the car. Ready?" You knew yesterday was just a misunderstanding, and you had high hopes that today would help smooth things over. You were okay with Matt not meeting your family right away. Your nature and his were perfect for each other, not necessarily understood by outsiders.

"Great." Cole looked the same way Matt did on the short drive over.

"Don't worry. It'll be fine." Elliott wrapped his arm around your shoulder and walked with you behind Cole.

"I'm driving." Elliott ran to the correct door.

"Matt and I can take the back seat." You knew Matt would prefer that anyway. Matt noticed the passenger seat was reclaimed and stepped out of the car. He was slightly shorter than Cole, but he carried a darker presence. Cole glared down at him as he switched to the backseat. Matt knew they would never like him. It took him years to find someone like you—someone accepting.

Once you were in the backseat, you reached over and grabbed Matt's hand. He didn't like it, especially while he was already on edge with your family around, but he let you hold it. The drive to the carnival was awkward but not as bad as you thought it would be. The air was thick with tension and unresolved angst. The fact that the three most important men in your life all hated each other, and it was all because of you, was intense.

"How many people?" The gate attendant asked.

"I'll pay for you." Cole nudged you playfully. Matt gritted his teeth. It wasn't jealousy rooted in romance; it was more a bitterness stemming from the notion that you didn't need him. Matt needed to be needed. It fueled his confidence, and the fact you were being taken care of by other people bothered him.

"I got us," Elliott spoke to Matt, taking him out of his thoughts. Matt looked at him. He was observing this brother. Elliott was the more amicable, more understanding of the two brothers. Cole was the problem—Matt's problem.

"What are we going to do first?" You asked, looking around. The rides were lit up even though it was only just now starting to get darker. The food was being cooked fresh, filling the air with a variety of sweet, salty, and greasy aromas.

"Rides." "Eat." Cole and Matt glared at each other's challenging statements.

"What do you want to do?" Elliott asked you. He meant well trying to give you the choice, but now it just made it seem like you were picking a side to represent.

"I... Uh..." You stuttered. All three of the boys stood watching you, waiting for your response.

"Games!" You said excitedly. For one, it would be a lot of fun. But most importantly, neither of them had suggested it.

"Okay," Cole said, sounding a little more into the activity. All of you made your way to the game alley. Matt stayed so close to your side that he kept bumping into you. You couldn't tell what his issue was other than Cole's dislike for him; you weren't sure why he was on edge. You played the Strong Man game, losing of course. Elliott wanted to try. He did better but still lost. The next game was a simple one: Ducks. You just had to pick the right duck in the pond to get a prize. You, again, lost. Cole played this one for fun and won a small prize. "Here." He handed you the tiny duck plushy. You squished it close.

"I love him." You smiled. "You want to play?" You offered to Matt. You wanted to make sure he didn't feel left out.

"No." His voice was tense. You swiftly looked to see Elliott and Cole sharing estranged looks of disapproval. You looked back at Matt and nodded. You wanted him to try at least to get along, but you understood he wasn't the type to let people in much anyway. But this mattered. You guys kept slowly dragging your feet along until your eyes lit up at the sight of the sparkling sign—knife throwing. "Matt, can you win me something?" You saw his lip smirk to the side.

"I can try." You both knew he was flawless at this. You were excited to know Cole and Elliott were going to witness him win you a prize. Matt walked up to the table and picked up the knives. He felt them for a second, learning their weight and balance. Without missing a beat, Matt chucked the knife directly at the target. It stuck. He threw another—stuck. And another—same results. All five knives stuck in the middle of the target seemed to overlap one another, fighting for the middle spot.

"Large prize!" The game attendant hollered and rang a bell. Matt was smiling.

"Pick whatever you want inamorata." He whispered in your ear. He didn't want your brothers to know his nicknames for you.

"Can I get... That one." You pointed at the big plush animal. Matt accepted the prize from the vendor. He handed it to you. "Can we get cotton candy?" You were starting to fall into the cliche of a couple being at the fair, but you couldn't help it. This was the first time in your few months of dating that you felt like a normal couple. You and Matt walked off, leaving your brothers behind. They stood watching Matt buy you the sugar fluff you asked for.

"You know, she seems happy," Elliott said. Sure, he saw Matt as odd, to say it nicely, but there was no denying his baby sister's happiness when it was right there in front of them.

"He hit her. In the face El." Cole wasn't changing his mind anytime soon. Matt was wrong for her, and he wasn't going to let one stuffed animal and sugar cloud his judgment.

"Maybe, hear me out, hot head; it was an accident." Elliott was recalling the events of last night.

"You didn't notice how he enjoyed it?" Cole paid attention. He might be a hothead who gets into fights, but he wasn't stupid. He never blacked out, he was never blind to the problem.

"Misunderstanding?" Elliott's voice cracked a little, trying to find excuses. Matt's feelings weren't important to him, but he knew it meant the world to you.

"Yeah. Maybe. I need to talk to him. Could you like distract Sis for me?" Cole asked. His words sounded nice, but his intentions were far from it.

"Of course, bro. I always got your back." Elliott was naive to Cole's plan. You were toggling your items in your hands when you and Matt walked over to your brothers.

"Sis, want to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl?" You nodded eagerly at first, but when you made eye contact with Matt, you realized you shouldn't.

"Can I?" You asked Matt's permission, which warmed his heart. Even though you were asking to make sure he would be okay, he liked feeling like he had control of you. He nodded slowly. You handed Matt your cotton candy and left the group with Elliott, leaving Matt and Cole alone.

"So here is the thing. That girl is our baby sister. We will do anything to protect her." Matt looked Cole in the eyes, disinterested.

"And I love her." Matt decided to speak up. He knew your brothers wouldn't stop trying to get between the two of you. His heart leaped. This was the first time he proclaimed his love for you to someone other than you. It felt real.

"Look, man, I saw the bruises. You aren't going to fool me." Cole stood his ground. Matt straightened up. He knew they could never understand what happened in the bedroom between the two of you, but that also kept him in the role of the villain. Matt clenched his jaw, trying to bite his tongue. "If you ever put your hands on her, I'll kill you." Cole stood tall compared to Matt. Matt wasn't scared. He was pissed. He hated the feeling of knowing he would never hurt you in a way you couldn't handle but not being able to vocalize it.

"That was so fun. We have to go again." You smiled, feeling dizzy from the ride.

"You guys have fun?" Cole switched up his attitude fast. Matt noticed the facade.

"So much." Elliott pulled out his phone to check it.

"What's next?" You asked, ready for your next adventure, hopefully this time with Matt.

"Do they have any games where you punch like a punching bag or something?" Cole asked nonchalantly. Having missed his intentions, you looked around.

"I don't know -" Your voice trailed off, still searching for something similar to a bar game.

"That's too bad. Matt would have been good at that." Your head whipped to look at Cole, now catching his point. Matt physically bit his tongue, tasting the iron.

"What was that?" You challenged Cole.

"I said, that's too bad. Matty boy would have been good at punching something." Cole didn't back down. He stood on his words.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" You yelled. Your anger didn't waste time bubbling before spilling over—it flooded.

"We all saw the bruises. Don't lie about it. We can help you." Elliott looked up from his phone as he heard the fight escalating.

"I don't need help. I'm fine. I love him. So stop being a dick." You never fought with your brothers when you were growing up. Being the baby of the family, everyone was always on your side—until now.

"Just admit he hurt you. I saw him punch you in the -" You slapped him quiet. Right across the cheek, the same one Matt had hit on you.

"Cole, drop it." You stormed off. The tears started to fall once you were turned away. Matt felt something he hadn't felt in a long time—guilt. He didn't like seeing you unhappy. In pain, he loved that, but when you were sad, it caused him pain. He didn't like feeling anything. He made eye contact with Elliott, and they nodded at each other. Matt chased after you.

"Pet." He called out, earning a few odd looks from those who heard. He realized that didn't sound normal in public. You turned around and let Matt catch up to you. You immediately threw yourself into his chest and let more tears fall. Matt felt more guilt bubbling.

"I love you, Matt. I love you so much." You hated sounding so whiny about it, but the love you had built for Matt, with Matt, was beyond words.

"I know." He felt you nuzzle him. He liked it. He may not be the one to initiate intimate touches often, but when you gave them, he secretly loved some of them.

"I'm sorry you are in the middle of this. They have never been like this before and -" Matt never thought he'd do what he did, but he decided to be the voice of reason.

"It does look odd to outside people. I do hit you, Pet." He smiled, thinking about it. He couldn't help himself. Something about the idea of his body colliding with yours just did something to him. You looked up at him with your eyes pink from your salty tears. You couldn't believe he was being the voice of reason at the moment.

"I love you, Matt. No matter what anyone else says or thinks." He just nodded. He was fine telling you he loved you too, but he didn't want to wear it out.

"What do we tell them?" Matt's head nodded in the direction of the identical brothers talking. After a quick glance in their direction, you felt some understanding build in your chest. They were your big brothers. You were their little sister.

"They are just going to have to trust me." That was until either you could tell them the truth or come up with a damn good lie as to how you let Matt bruise you. It seemed like an easy lie as if you had fallen or something, but you and Cole both knew what he saw. Matt hit your face and he loved it—that was the actual problem.

Once you had settled down, you walked hand in hand with Matt back over to your brothers. Elliott exchanged a small smile, he looked almost apologetic. "Who is he on the phone with E?" You asked a little more cheery than intended—you were overselling your feelings. He stayed quiet. The look on Elliott's face said it all—all you needed to know. Cole hung up and took a few steps back to join the group.

"Cole, you didn't." You glared him down. Your head started spinning. You looked at Matt, which only made it feel worse. Your tears were reforming. Matt was confused. He wasn't accustomed to the sibling mind-reading you grew up with. He stood by, waiting for someone to explain the new tension growing. "Tell me you didn't." Your voice was firm, but you were begging.

"I had to, Sis." Cole didn't look sad, primarily just concerned—and he was. After moments of silence, Cole spoke up again. The words only adding to the ever-growing tension between everyone. "Mom and Dad want to meet him."

I did normal Matt Sturniolo tags on this chapter because its so light. If you are reading this for the first time the other chapters are NOT light. Proceed with caution.

[lostinwildflowers]

Summary: When you and Six are asked to go undercover for a high-stakes mission, you aren't quite sure what you are getting yourself into. All you know is that people are disappearing, and you need to find and kill the mafia boss responsible. Oh, and you are supposed to be Six's undercover girlfriend.

Series Word Count: 62.1K

Series Warnings: Fake dating AU, the mafia, black market, mentions/descriptions of sex trafficking,  guns/weaponry/bioweapons/drugs/alcohol, depictions of violence/blood/gore, pre-canon setting, intense/passionate scenes but not NSFW, some sexual innuendos/jokes, slight pervy behavior from OCs, swearing/some harsh language, angst, idiots to lovers(my beloved), mutual pining, reader is very slightly a crybaby but just is overwhelmed a lot of the time, reader has hair long enough to put in an up-do of sorts, Six is a little shit, lots of fluff mixed in

A/N: This series contains some dark content, which I typically don't write on this blog. I ask that if you interact with this series, you are 18+. There is no "smut", but there are potentially dark/triggering topics for some, as well as some suggestive content. Please refer to each individual part for more tailored warnings.

Also, this series is based on one of my all-time favorite songs - "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton. I highly recommend you listen to it before you read this series! I pulled inspiration from both this song and The Princess Bride, so please enjoy! I would absolutely love to hear feedback!!!

Series

Part I - 15.9K - Fitzroy assigns you and Six your next mission - one that has you on the edge of your seat for more than one reason.

Part II - 16.7K - The mission is starting to ramp up, but your mind starts to get muddled when Six has to actually start acting like your boyfriend.

Part III - 24.4K - A twist is thrown into the mission just as you think you are finally settling in, and Six? Well, he's acting like your boyfriend more than you can handle.

Epilogue - 5.0K - The mission is over, and the target is dead. You don't know how things stand between you and Six - but there's only one way to find out.

Moodboards

Part I

Part II

Part III

Epilogue

Dedicated Meme Page - ...yeah this is a thing XD

[voxmortuus]

Hi! Can I please make a request?

If yes: thank you!

Could you write Hannibal giving his male!reader a blowjob?

Thank you and I hope you have a good day!

✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Hannibal x M!Reader ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Hannibal ✧*̥˚ PROMPT: *̥˚✧ See above ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 480 ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧ PWP | Male Oral | Male Finish | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I hope this finds you well. Pretty basic request. Thank you for an easy porn without plot request was easy to bust out. Sorry it took so long had family over yesterday. Hope you enjoy ✧*̥˚ DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Hannibal Masterlist *̥˚✧

Never sloppy, this man was a professional even in intimate moments. However, the only reason why he was on his knees in front of you and not the other way around was because he lost a bet. He wasn't a sports fan, and you knew that you took advantage of the situation, and now you were being rewarded. It wasn't every day he lost a bet either, but, that being said, you were immensely enjoying what you felt was a well-deserved reward.

As the hot shower water adds to the pleasure, you look down, watching as his lips form perfectly around you, savoring the flesh, making sure you are well tended to. The stroke of his hand, the bob of his head, the attention to the little details. How you could feel the tension and tautness of the lips to add that perfect amount of pressure around, tight but not too tight.

You hang your head back as you enjoy this moment. The subtle stroke of his hand as his mouth glides along your slick stiffened flesh. Of course, he knew what he was doing, and you were bearing witness to it now.

Looking back down you watch as his lips move along the side of your cock, the length from base to tip, his tongue curled around the underside of your shaft, the way he moved along the side and wrapped around back to the tip only to press your head between his lips again and press you to the back of his throat as he picks up the pace.

You hang your head back and let out a long draw out moan into the bathroom as it echoes in the shower bouncing off those glass walls. Your body tenses with this intense wave of heat. Feeling it wash over you it's like prickles to your flesh. You let out another moan. Your eyes close as you reach down and grip the back of his head as your hips buckle in a rhythmic motion.

The faster he moves the faster your hips move in a perfect tandem motion. The perfect about of give and take. With a faster bob comes a tighter pressure, comes a quicker build of your own pressure but you're unable to hold back any longer. Before you could even get a word in edgewise you're letting out a loud moan of pure satisfaction. Your voice echoes in his ears.

As your cock twitches with your finish, like the professional this man is, Hannibal takes the load, proceeds to stand up with your cock in hand, pulls you closer, and looks down at you as he stands a fair bit taller than you.

"Next time, you're the one on your knees…" He stated with a small smirk.

"Whatever you say." You state with a soft chuckle kind of out of breath and in a daydream-like state.

[numinousher]

CHANTAJE! (xviii)

PAIRING: ceo!bts x actress(female)!reader

SUMMARY: being under the watchful eye of the media and your fans, your managers are in desperate need of regaining back your popularity after other influencers who hate you cause mayhem to your life. what best way to do so by having you pretend to be in a relationship with the popular 7 who are known to be intensely wealthy and stoic? will you be able to regain their trust or will they go with their promise of damaging your reputation even more?

WARNING(S) FOR LATER: gore/blood/murder, harassment/bullying, mental health talks (nothing badly triggering), child endangerment (mc was a child actor, again nothing badly triggering. if there is, there will be a warning)

NOTE: if you guys read this, im not late, you are 😒

TAGLIST (CLOSED): @parapiop7 @an-ever-angry-bi @softforyoongles @thenaverse @chansatlan @juju-227592 @skyys-universe @carolinexkpop @reallysparklychaos @namjooncrabs @savagemickey03 @drunkzseok @svnbangtansworld @2ne1unni

“Why are you crying?”

Were the first words Namjoon asked as soon as he, Jimin, and Taehyung came to find you sitting on your couch with tears streaming down your face. Little gasps were escaping your lips and your eyes were casted on something propped on the arm of your couch.

You raised a finger up as an answer.

“Y/n.”

You ignored them and continued to look at what you were looking at.

“Y/n.”

A little sob escaped you this time and Taehyung strides forward to see what was causing your tears. He pinched the bridge of his nose once he came to find a book laid down, a sigh escaping his own lips.

“Y/n, are you crying over a book?”

“You better not be judging me.” you glared at him, though Taehyung couldn’t take you serious since your eyes were teary and swollen. Your nose was starting to get stuffy, too, so you sniffled in hopes it would stop running. You continued to read.

“Why are you crying before your meeting with your parents, idiot?” Jimin sighed, passing you the tissues on your table. You took them from him and made sure you were finished with the last sentence of the book before closing it.

“I needed to read this because I need to remember I could’ve had it worse,” you mumbled, standing up to stretch. You twisted your body side to side to get rid of the ache from sitting down. “I cry when I get mad so I needed to get those tears out before my parents words get to me.”

“You read that book because you needed to remind yourself you could’ve had it worse?” Namjoon asked in a low voice, almost in disbelief. You nodded and quickly put your things away. “You’re crazy. Don’t compare yourself life to fictional things. This is real life and as much as we all have fucked up childhoods, yours is valid, too.”

You sniffed one last time, your gaze stuck on the wall beside his head to look at the picture of you and your sister. “You’re right. I needed that.” You dabbed your eyes and inhaled and exhaled. “Okay, I think I’m good. I really needed that cry.”

Jimin scoffed and shook his head. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You innocently smiled, sticking out your hand. “Hold it?”

Before he was about to respond, your maid, Min-seo, came with her head bowed down. “Your parents are here, ma’am.”

“Thanks, lead them here please, Min-seo,” you softly spoke to the poor woman, turning around to breath in and out. You ignored the stares and the anxiety building up in the pit of your stomach. “If I talk back, don’t think I’m disrespectful.”

Taehyung’s hand rested on the middle of your back, thumb rubbing against the material of your shirt. Much to your surprise, though, his touch soothed you.

“Why are they here?”

Your eyes shut closed out of irritation at hearing your dad’s annoyed yet stern voice.

“Because I’m dating them,” you spewed out between gritted teeth, a fake smile spreading on your lips as you came to see your parents and your siblings. You forgot you had a brother for a sec, but you remembered the money you gave to your parents went to him. “Namjoon, Jimin, Taehyung, these are my parents and my siblings. Parents, siblings, these are my boyfriends.”

“Hmm.” Your mom looked at the boys and looked away. “What are these allegations?” You rolled your eyes and turned away to sit down. “Do not turn your back to me, Y/n.”

“I’m not turning my back on you to be rude,” you said, feeling Taehyung sit next to you while the other two stood behind you, watching your family with a stern gaze.

Namjoon, though, kept a close eye on your sister.

“We have told you work comes before everything and that included having friends,” your mom continued to scold you, slapping your hand away from the cotton candy you had been eating. “And this is not food. What is this? Throw it away.”

“Why are you here?” You asked, ignoring her words and eating the sweetness she despised. “There must be a reason as to why my whole entire family had to come to my house instead of calling or texting.”

“Your brother wants money for school,” your dad simply answered, back straightening a bit to look more intimidating. Because Namjoon and Taehyung worked out more than Jimin did, your dad couldn’t help but eye the way their blazers looked on their arms. Although Jimin wasn’t as buff, his mere presence was enough to intimidate anyone in the room, including your younger brother.

“Ah, that’s what it’s for,” you scoffed out, shaking your head. You glanced at your brother. “Funny how as his parents, you can’t financially provide for him. Thanks to me, he can have everything he wants.”

“Y/n.”

“No,” you remembered Jae’s words resonating with you. It was time to put your foot down. But you couldn’t help but admit you felt a bit embarrassed since the guys were there, watching you. “I am not going to just throw money I earned because of my hard work. I worked. Not you. It’s my money.”

“But we helped you get to where you were,” your mom argued, hoping to diminish any confidence you had standing up to her and your father. “Without us, you wouldn’t be living in a house as big as this, all while being named the biggest actress and millionaire in South Korea. We put you in this path.”

“And I thank you for that,” you said with a frown, not straying away your eye-contact. “But it doesn’t mean that you don’t see me as a big dollar sign because you do. That’s all I am to you and it has been like that since I was a child.”

“Your aunt made you like this,” your father fought back, his words laced with such hate for the woman who technically raised you. “After she died, you have been nothing but a disappointment.”

“Since I’m such a disappointment,” you started, feeling Taehyung’s hand on your thigh to provide some type of support, “then you don’t need the money I get from the movies and shows I’ve been in that disappoint you.”

Your mother scoffed. “Despicable!” She stood up and pointed a finger at you. “You have been nothing but a spoiled brat. You’re never appreciative. Never, and you’re here because of us.” She glanced at the 3 men surrounding you. “Nothing but a disappointment.”

“You know your way out,” you said in a monotonous voice, your fingers slightly shaking with nerves at even the thought of kicking your parents out. You’re really doing something you know you’re going to feel guilty for as soon as they leave. “I will support my siblings, but you two are not getting a cent.”

“Whatever.”

Your parents turned on their heels and left, heading towards the front door. Your siblings, feeling bad for you, immediately walked to you.

You stood up and hugged them both simultaneously, bringing them closer to kiss their cheeks.

“Stop growing up, you two,” you joked, hoping to ease the tension surrounding all of you. They chuckled tearfully on your shoulder before pulling away. You placed a hand on your brother’s face. “Whatever you need, text me. I will have my bodyguard get you and bring you here, okay?” He nodded, tears in his eyes out of gratefulness for having you. You were always so thankful he was never ungrateful. “Go. I’ll talk with your sister really quick.”

He nodded and bid his goodbyes. Though, before he left, he turned to look at the three men still quietly staring. “Goodbye. Take care of my sister please.”

They all nodded their heads.

“We will,” Jimin mumbled much to everyone’s surprise.

You watched your brother leave before turning to look at your sister. You placed your hand on the sides of her face, looking at her sadly. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m okay,” she said, her own eyes becoming blurry with tears. “They’re just too much.”

“Whatever you need, I’m here,” you muttered, hugging her again one last time. “You know that.”

“I know,” she sadly chuckled, nodding her head in agreement. “That’s why I call you my own mother figure because that hag outside is nothing to me.”

Snorting, you softly slapped her back. She could hear the smile in your voice as you scolded her. “Don’t say that.” She laughed with you before pulling away. “I’ll see you then?” She nodded. You sighed. “Okay then. Please take care of yourself. You have my number and stay out of trouble.”

“I will,” she breathed out. You kissed her cheek one last time. She looked over your shoulder. “Take care of my sister.” Her smile vanished and a stern look overtook it. “I know people who can get the job done. I even have a bunch of haunted dolls that will get attached to you as soon as you touch it. Don’t tempt me.”

Taehyung couldn’t help but let a small smile slip on his mouth at the threats. “We’ll take care of her.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at them and turned to look back at you. “Be happy.”

You felt that familiar lump in your throat at hearing her words, and you blinked away the tears threatening to escape your eyes so you wouldn’t worry her. You watched her leave and you couldn’t bear the thought of crying in front of the others. This was a different feeling than the one you felt at reading the book.

“Excuse me,” you mumbled, walking yourself to the library you had in the other room.

The three men looked at each other but Namjoon, understanding you, sighed at your figure closing the door behind you.

“I’ll talk with her.”

Jimin and Taehyung watched him leave and they were left with a solemn air surrounding them. They could only hope Namjoon did his best to reassure you.

“Hey,” Namjoon said, closing the door behind him. He watched you sitting on a chair with your hand covering your face.

“I have an ugly crying face, leave,” you let out, though Namjoon could only register a couple of words since your mouth was muffled.

He snorted and shook his head, ignoring your words. He sat next to you and silently sat there, legs stretched out. He glanced at the back of your head and leaned back.

“My parents were like that.” His words caught your attention. “I mean, they were a bit worse but, the amount of manipulation and guilt-tripping they did to me for the majority of my childhood. I lie all of the time that they were nice, loving parents or that my mom was great, my dad was great, whatever. But in actuality, they were a bunch of assholes who never recovered from their own childhood trauma so they took it out on me until I eventually became them.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you breathed out.

“I get that feeling of being afraid that you’re going to end up like them but, when you’re self-aware, when you know their actions,” Namjoon held your hand in his so you could understand the sternness of his words. He wouldn’t just say all of this without meaning to, “you’re already the best version of yourself. You know what they’re doing is wrong and you’re already close to the fact that you’re not going to become like them.”

A moment of silence became you.

With a sigh, you sat up, and rubbed your eyes.

“You really have a way with words if you’re not a douchebag, huh?” He noticed you had the habit of doing that; to get rid of the tension by making small jokes. He couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath at your attempt. “Thank you, Namjoon. I am sorry you guys had to be here to witness that mess.”

“It’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t seen. As long as you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. Let’s get some cotton candy, yeah?”

“Okay.”

He smiled at you and softly patted your head. “And please, if you want to cry before meeting your parents, come with me. You can cry however much you want around me, I won’t mind. It’s better you have someone than being alone.”

“Just say you like me.”

“Who wouldn’t, bestie?”

“You ruined it.”

< before - after >

[liminalspaceau]

Q&A Liminal Space

What is Sun and Moon’s dynamic?

• Sun and Moon are two separate bots that were put together. (plot points you’ll find out about later :D) They were not created as twins but as each other’s perfect half. They were made to complete each other and Sun would do anything for Moon. (They’re boyfriends your honor.)

Where did you get the idea?

• Liminal Space was actually based on a dream I had back in January. I told me friend about it and jokingly made the comment “Yeah, that would actually be a cool fan fic.” To which they immediately responded, “do it coward.” Fucking bet. So here we are 3 months later!

What are the Tropes?

• This story will contain a polyamorous Romance between Sun, Moon and the Reader! (You!). There is definitely some miscommunication but don’t worry it won’t get dragged out cuz oh boy those can get exhausting. There won’t be any jealousy between Sun and Reader or Moon and Reader, Sun if anything is just very protective of Moon and doesn’t want to see him get hurt. Moon is a notorious flirt with the Reader btw so teehee.

So… what’s the Romance?

• While it is a romance… there will be no smut. Tbh I’m not comfortable writing that so if it does “happen”, it happens behind closed doors. Besides the Reader (you) is written as gender neutral so like… not sure how I WOULD even write that lol.

Is there a Y/n?

• Yes, and no. While it is an X Reader you will not be referred to as Y/N. The story will mostly address you as well.. You!

How violent will it get?

• Things are going to get very violent and will result in many multiple near death experiences. There will be descriptions of bodily injury and it may even get gory depending on the ideas that flow. I will give trigger warnings if things start to look really intense for the story, so there won’t be any surprises that you aren’t prepared for!

Is it a one off?

• While I only officially have writings for Liminal Space there is talks and small snippets for an after story and possibly a sequel! Keep a look out for updates.

Is there an ending?

• Yes I have an ending for Liminal Space, and I’m happy to report it will be a happy ending. (Maybe a little bittersweet).

Is there Liminal Space Art?

• Any and all official Liminal Space art is done by my wonderful friend @its-always-nightshift ! Please check out their work because they’re incredible and I love them to pieces.

Can I draw fan art?

• ABSOLUTELY. I’m an absolute fanatic when it comes to art so please go nuts!! Make sure to tag me so I can see it! 💕💕

Did you use ai to write?

• Nope! Most of my ideas have come from my own thoughts or from my friend who’s been helping me build this story since I came up with it in January. :)

Can I use it for ai?

• Absolutely not. :) Thank you for understanding.

Can I ask you or the artist questions about Liminal Space?

• Of course!! There might be some questions that the artist or myself can’t answer yet for spoiler reasons, but please feel free to ask any questions!

Where can I read it?

• Liminal Space is posted on AO3!! Chapter 1 and 2 are officially uploaded and Chapter 3 is currently in this works.

I will be updating this post with any frequently asked questions!

Liminal Space Link:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: OUT NOW!!

Happy Reading!

[ddollfface]

God, I love golden retriever men so much.

*Intensely staring at my fav athlete*

Now, that I have a brainrot~

1. Our lovely Athlete with a nerd darling.

- This would be funny. It is giving black cat × golden retriever. So hard.

- Darling has anemia? She's used to sitting around and reading? Can't walk too long to save her life? He's fucking carrying her everywhere.

- Can you imagine darling bringing a book about his sport (I don't know if you've mentioned what he plays) to the game and reading as they watch him play cuz they don't know crap about sports? He'd be so, "But you're supposed to be watching me." :Insert puppy eyes:

- He's isolating darling? Eh, Darling needs a 4 hour nap after every social gathering anyway.

Ok but-

2. Him with a nerd darling who's a childhood best friend, where darling has a childhood filled with emotional and physical abuse. (I'm finna design a whole ass character to ship him with. If you don't mind, of course.)

- This.

- Don't let me get started on this.

- They would be so power couple coded fr. (Darling knows Athlete is trying to manipulate her. Doesn't care as long as she's getting taken care of.)

- Darling is snarky with a S.

- Darling: "The cheerleader was flirting with you."

Athlete: "I know. :3"

Darling: "Go marry her."

Athlete: "But you're the love of my life. :("

Darling: "Oh, really? I could've sworn it was Cindy instead. Go to her, shoo."

Athlete: "No."

Darling: "Who's bestie are you?"

Athlete: "Yours."

Darling: "Exactly."

- Don't let this fool you, tho. He's def the dominant one in the relationship.

Athlete: "You're my baby :D."

Darling: "Mhmm. Don't say that infront of anyone else."

Athlete: "Why not?"

Darling: "I'll bite your head off, that's why."

(spoiler, he says it in front of everyone and darling does nothing but get shy.)

Darling: "Why would you say that?"

Athlete: "Becuz you're my baby?"

Darling: *cuddles closer to him.* *Whispering* "I'm his baby."

- 💗 anon (if I may) (also, he's my baby now, thank you. I'm keeping him in my head and heart.) (It's so late at night. I just keep thinking about this 😭 and I can't put my thoughts into proper words rn, bear with me on this)

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈

𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗦𝗶𝗰𝗸!𝗔𝘁𝗵𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲 𝘅 𝗮𝗳𝗮𝗯!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

Trigger Warnings; yandere behaviors, possessive behavior, talk about trauma bonding (both reader and yandere or mentally ill), yandere masking, bad writing, and me rambling (I'm so sorry 💗Nonny lol) If I missed anything, then please let me know ♡ I offically declare you 💗Nonny!! And I don't mind you coming up with your own interpertations of reader and LoveSick!Athlete! Just share 'em! Also, I may or may not have gone on a tiny, just tiny, tangent, so sorry 💗Nonny... Feel free to submit more asks if 'ya want

LoveSick!Athlete can really mold and mend well with most personalities and darlings, this is due to his manipulative personality. A little off-topic, but he really has a hard time understanding who he is because he's always pretending to be what others deem "acceptable". This causes him to have a multitude of identity crises, but when his darling, you, comes into the picture, it makes it easier for him to find himself. He feels like he's the real him whenever he's with you. You just feel so natural, he feels natural, too. It's just right.

And for that reason, I think LoveSick!Athlete would go really well with a childhood!reader, seeing as she's been with him since they were young. And, I'm not too sure if you've read my Yan!Alphabet for him, but I mention LoveSick!Athlete's childhood; let's just say it wasn't the best situation for a kid.

LoveSick!Athlete would feel a special bond with his darling now, seeing as they've been together threw thick and thin. He's trama bounded to you, and you to him. We'll run off the assumption that reader has also had a bad childhood, whether it be an absent parent, abusive sibling/family member/or parent, whatever it is allows you to feel a connection to LoveSick!Athlete, seeing as you have a mutual situation. You both have something to bond over, something that locks you together.

He has a bad home environment, you have a bad home environment. He doesn't feel at home, so you become his home, and he to you.

And I like to run on the assumption that reader is all talk, no bite. And if you've read any of my writing where the reader talks, you'll see that I prefer to write reader as more "real" (to me anyway) because I'm personally not the hugest fan of the "helpless" reader. I like to write a darling who has a mouth, someone who's bratty (but that's 'cause I'm a brat lol).

Anyway, I'm getting off-topic, back to LoveSick!Athlete.

To your idea about a snarky reader, I totally agree. Honestly, LoveSick!Athlete would eat that shit up, no joke. He would love it, as he enjoys the back-and-forth between you two. He loves to press your buttons, wanting to see what sarcastic reply you have ready for him.

The thing is, he knows your just talking shit, never willing to actually do anything. You just run your mouth, and he lets you, but whenever you step outta line, sometimes, he's gotta put you back. Though, you'll never think of it like that. No, no, he's too sweet for that. He's gotta keep that golden retriever vibe going, y'know?

He just swat you on the ass, telling you that you got such a dirty mouth, mamas? I thought you were my little princess, no? Girls with a face like yours shouldn't be speakin' that like-

He'll just move on, as if he didn't just grope your butt, nope, not at all. And you'll be standing there awestruck, face red, and biting your tongue as you try to not overheat in embarrassment!!

It never ceases to entertain him, watching your face widen with surprise whenever he refers to you as his girl, his cute little girlfriend. The way your face heats up when he wraps his strong arm around your waist, putting his cap on your head (a silent sign of possession over you, trying to get the guy in the back to keep his eyes to himself, but you don't need to know that ;)).

In your little monologue, you go over some cheerleader girl (named Cindy??). Though I would agree that chicks (and some dudes) practically flock around LoveSick!Athlete, I would say that he doesn't even pay them any mind, not even entertaining the thought. Don't get me wrong, he'll talk to them, but make it painstakingly clear that he's only got one girl on his mind, you.

Most of the time, the girl will just find it endearing, slapping his shoulder, and telling him that he'd make a great husband or some shit like that. Of course, the chicks joking, making some nice comments to leave the, now awkward, conversation, but LoveSick!Athlete will take it to heart. Now, he's imagining a pretty ring on your finger, something he paid for, he got you. Because he'd be such a good provider for you, don't you know?

Another thought, 'cause I'm on a role, but I'm not sure if I've directly said this or not, but LoveSick!Athlete is a hockey player. I've tried putting strickly hockey photos on all my posts (you should see my Pinterest feed, it's filled with hot guys lolol).

Hockey is an aggressive sport, I would know. I used to ice skate every day for an hour or two. And, trust me, I got to see a lot of hot guys, though I was always too nervous to say anything, that's beside the point.

I can imagine that reader would be the same, intimidated by these testastrone-filled, young men who just wanna get all sweaty and gross. And I prefer to think that reader also doesn't know how to skate, much to LoveSick!Athlete's enjoyment.

Just to torture you, he'll take you to his ice rink, partly wanting to show you off, and also wanting you to rely on him to move around. He won't even let you hold onto the side, nope, all you got is him, babes.

And anyone who's been to a rink before knows that if you're not on the wall, or smack in the middle of the rink, you're in traffic, especially if it's busy. And this means that you gotta go fast, keeping pace with everyone else. And there's always a handful of assholes (usually hockey players) who will purposefully do a hockey stop, flinging a shit tone of ice at newbies.

I imagine that this shit would happen all the time and LoveSick!Athete is enjoying it sm. He gets a rush every time you flinch, clinging onto him tighter, especially when the really fast skaters zoom by you, scaring the crap outta you.

And he won't let you go at your own pace, forcing you to follow his lead. This means you're going far too fast for comfort, leaning on him for support. You're arms wrapped around his bicep, which isn't recommended btw. Your cheek pressed against his arm, holding on for dear life.

You'll snap at him, telling him to shut up and stop enjoying this, you dork. I'm only clinging to 'cause I gotta!

And he'll just take it, giving you a lopsided smirk.