#always remember that a short description is always better than no description!!!!!!!!!!!!

[oathofkaslana]

anyways on the topic of accessibility: reminder that you are always free to add any video/image descriptions i add to your post! this'll mean people who need an image description won't have to search through the reblogs to potentially find one! absolutely no credit needed!

[tojisun]

!! nsfw; poly 141 ; sexting; fem reader

price gets a video, a measly six-second thing, from ghost.

he's used to getting all sorts of messages from his lieutenant, but a video has never been a part of them.

it was always soap who sends them videos upon videos—saved videos of things that make him lose his shit or links that are his new turn-ons. price even gets personal messages from the fella; sometimes it's his sergeant venting in lilted scottish, sent to price's personal number on a drunken whim, and sometimes they're videos of him pleading.

"sir, please... wanna cum."

kyle is still getting used to the dynamic. he's still a little shy, hesitant, although he seemed to be getting more bold in text. more pushy. descriptive.

then there's ghost. he is a whole different beast from the other two because instead of begging, instead of putting price above his own pleasure, he backs the captain into a corner, pushing him close to the edge with little taunts and teases.

price remembers the first time ghost has done it. he sent the captain a picture of a lacey panties hanging off of ghost's jean pockets, the rouge of the soft material drawing price's eyes to the distinct tent in his lieutenant's pants, leaving his throat dry. he remembers fisting his own cock at the image, mind running because of ghost's anecdote—

"you would like her."

john had never cum so fast when masturbating, and yet there he was, twitching on his office chair, chest heaving as ragged rasps of breaths passed through his clenched teeth.

"your girlfriend's got a good taste," price had messaged back.

"and me?" was what ghost replied with.

"you already know," price sent. then, "you always know how to make your captain proud."

that correspondence might have been what pushed ghost to keep sending more messages. more taunts. more teasing images that had price rubbing himself in any smidgen of a private corner he could find because simon was never one to disappoint.

so this video had set john's blood on fire, heat scorching from his spine and pooling towards his twitching cock. hairline fractures fill the sides of his phone's screen, leaving rainbow lines filing his eyes at every reflection of the light.

ghost had always liked to share you to him. price knew for a fact that simon had never sent pictures of you to the others—"need your permission first, sir."—but he also thought that simon had drawn the line there. that while he was eager to share snapshots of your pretty little lingeries or the way you marked up simon's tanned skin with deep punctures of what john knows must be straight teeth, simon was not going to indulge john any more.

and yet.

he feels his lungs burn. trembling fingers reach to play the video.

the sound of your squealed moans bouncing against the walls was what he registers first. ghost has you on your knees, and john traces the way simon's got a chokehold on the back of your neck. john watches as ghost uses it as a leverage, tugging you back to his cock—his pelvis is pressed flush against the fat of your ass, and price feels his gums throb with the need to sink his teeth into your flesh at seeing the ripples of your fat bunch up against the bulk of simon's muscles.

"si! si!" you sobbed, muffled as you have your head burrowed into the pillows. your hands are useless by your sides, limp and incapable of even fisting the sheets.

"s'right," simon's voice echoed from behind the screen. "show cap'n how you love moanin' my name."

simon's mention of john has him jolting, his breaths stuttering once again.

he thought this little thing they have was a secret. a dirty, little, desperate secret that only he and ghost had the privilege of knowing. the immorality of it had always pushed john to his orgasm faster than his every rub, and he thought that it would all change the moment you know.

but this is a better treat.

it's a feast.

because john sees it for what it is—a promise.

the video ends, reminding john how short it really was. but he is addicted, unable to let go now that he's been given a taste of what will be.

the next time he replays the video, he's got his erect cock in his hand.

he snaps a picture of his cum-filled palm and sends it to simon. he writes, "show her what she does to me."

it takes twenty-three seconds for simon's reply to come in. it isn't a message but a voicenote—"am i a good girl, cap'n?"

"yeah," john records himself say. "so, so good f'r us, doll."

—

sorta pt 02

[rodeorun]

love in the dark.

yandere pretty boyfriend x fem!reader.

cw: drugging, black-mail, non-con blowjob, degradation. Featuring @meo-eiru 's OC, Elias ❤️

MDNI.

“You better work,” Elias threatened the baby pink candle he was holding between pretty, manicured fingers.

One might even compare it to the young man himself. Long and more thin than thick, the pink wax at the tip molded into a heart shape, white wick sticking through the middle. Elias always had love on the brain, at least when it came to you. Pity he didn't have a fine white wick of logic to split his head in two, or rather, his heart. But, when you love the way he did, weren't those two practically the same thing?

He doesn't know how many hours he spent on the dark web to find this, some sort of ‘love candle.’ Whatever that bullshit meant. The description the seller left behind was short and to the point.

‘Ignite this candle in the presence of your desired person and watch them fall in love with you.’

Even Elias in all his lovesickness found it hard to believe, but it was that sickness itself that led him to purchasing the item. He hadn't gotten a gig lately so he prayed for the payment to go through, giving himself a headache for purchasing a mere candle that was six hundred and fifty dollars. God, the things he would do for you (or to you, but that's a completely different matter.)

You, the object of his affections. His sweet, sweet, sweet best friend who has saved him more times than he could count. You were entirely too good for him and he knew it.

A special knock on his door alerted him to your presence, and he knew it was you because you two had created that very knock in sophomore year of university. Long after he changed his name, you still had the heart to played with him like a child. Where others laughed at his girlish tears and overgrown sobs, you healed his inner child with every hug, every whisper, every time you'd look into his eyes and tell him, ‘it's okay, Elias. I'm here for you.’

And you always were.

No matter how bad his tantrums got, you never got sick of him. You were the only one who stayed. You practically conditioned him. How could he ever want anyone else after tasting a drop of your sweetness?

“Hi, darling!” Elias opened the door and pulled you in for a hug, kicking the door shut behind you. “Someone's mighty dressed up for a movie night in, hehe. Oooh, is this wine? Gimme gimmie!”

Taking the bag from your hands, Elias turned to put it on the table, laying a sweaty palm against his flushed cheek. Heaven, he couldn't do this much longer! Just a hug from you and a whiff of that perfume had him hardening in his yoga pants. He stayed faced away from you as he rocked side to side, subtly rubbing himself against the bottle you brought just for him. All for him.

“So, I was thinking we could start with a rom-com and then maybe a western, for variety, and after that there's a three hour long horror movie I found that-”

“Sorry, Elias.”

Glittering eyelids opened themselves.

“See, my boyfriend injured his arm in a game yesterday, so I need to go help cook for him,” you explained. Your sorry eyes seared into his back.

Ah, yes. That boyfriend of yours. Taller than Elias, bigger than Elias, handsome enough to be called a heartthrob and an athlete by profession. A real winner, that boyfriend of yours!

Elias wanted to spit on his corpse.

“Oh, your boyfriend!” He clasped his hands together and turned to face you. “The one who forgot to pick you up at the mall last week because he slept through his alarm, right? I remember him.” Elias fiddled with one of the bottles of wine now, snarling. So much for a ‘gift,’ you were just trying to buy his forgiveness.

“Yes, Eli, that boyfriend,” you chuckled. “But I forgave him for that, you know? Nobody's perfect.”

The illusion of bliss he was swept up in from hearing that sweet nickname quickly shattered.

‘Nobody's perfect.’ Elias knew that better than anyone else. Afterall, he was the last thing but, and yet you still treated him so preciously.

So, why? Why was it the very same thing he fell in love with you for, you were flaunting to just anyone? Don't you know that love isn't free? Especially not yours! How many bottles of hair dye, micro-needling appointments, collagen fillers, and waxing appointments did he go to for your love? By God he knows his deadname didn't deserve you, but didn't Elias at least earn a little bit of your attention?

How dare you, honestly. How dare you show someone else the kindness you won him over with? How dare you waltz in here just to stand him up for another man! How dare you fucking-

“Eli?”

“Yes, my beloved?”

You looked upon him tentatively, a testament to what a ticking time bomb he is. “Oh, alright, I forgive you.” He waved you off playfully and walked over to hold both of your hands in his. “But next time, I'll tie you up and keep you here forever, munchkin~”

Your laugh mingled with his. As if you thought he was joking.

“Ah, but, darling! At least have a drink with me before you go. It would be lonely to pop open a bottle by myself, hm?”

A single drink.

That's what you and Elias agreed on. One glass and you'd be on your way to that wretch. You didn't drive to get here and assured Elias that your boyfriend would drive you back home. As if.

“Oh, before we cheers,” Elias put his glass down and went to rummage for a box of matches, shaking his hips this way and that while humming in his search.

“Someone's in a good mood,” you grinned, watching him groove to imaginary music.

“Yes, with you around I always am,” he teased and returned to the table. He put the candle in the stand and lit it.

It was only a little unsettling that he watched you instead of the matches while he did so.

“That's a really cute candle, Elias. Where'd you get it?” you asked him as he sat down across from you, drink in hand.

“Oh, this old thing? It's just something I had laying around- Oh my god!”

Elias flinched as the candle suddenly exploded, letting out a small puff of wind that blew his hair back and left behind a plume of pink smog.

“Darling?! Are you- ack! You okay?” Elias wafted the air between hacking coughs until he could see your face again.

You looked shocked, as one would when a candle explodes in their face, but then you started laughing. Small titters that rang like a bell until it turned into gasps that made you grab your stomach.

“You're, hahahaha, so, so silly, Eli! Haha, where do you get these things?!”

Oh, honey. He couldn't stop loving you even if he tried.

“Oh, stop that, you! How was I supposed to know it would do that,” Elias played along, ears still tinged pink at his little blunder. You two looked at each other and then fell into joined laughter.

This light, airy feeling was a drug to him. No matter how boring he was, how flat his personality, you could always find something more in him. Something to talk about, to laugh about, to entertain him with. Something he couldn't find by himself.

It's like the universe sent you to him as if to say, ‘hey! This is the person who will make life worth living! The one who will take that mind numbing emptiness away!’

And who was he to deny the wishes of the universe?

“Worthless piece of junk,” Elias muttered when things settled down. The candle really was a sham then. “At least it smells nice,” he lit the candle again and waved the match to out it. “Anyways, I got a manicure today and the lady was way too rough with my cuticles. She should quit if that's the service she's going to give.”

He brought his nails up, inspecting the blood red polish.

He was met with silence.

“Darling?”

Your head was down, lip trapped between your teeth.

“R-Right. Well, it's pretty,” you shot him a sad kind of smile. “It's just, well, no. Hm, uh, no…I forgot, I guess?” Elias watched you scramble around until small tears dripped from your eyes. “I guess I just forgot that you see other women every day.”

His heart froze in his chest.

“And, I, I know she was just doing her job, but holding your hand while she did your nails- she did hold your hand, right? That's a little…”

You trailed off and wiped your tears, willing yourself to gather such thoughts while Elias looked on in shock.

His eyes flicked to the candle, to you, the candle, you. Always you.

“She did,” he said simply, cautiously, “hold my hand. Yes, she did.” Your face cumbled, making Elias shoot up. “But I hated it! I wished it was you! I want you to be the one holding my hand!”

“Really?” Those big, wet eyes pleaded with him. “Because, I get jealous, you know.”

Something below his belt started stirring.

“Is that so?” He hummed and pulled his chair over next to you, thumbing the tears under your eyes like you had done for him so many times before.

The light of the candle reflected in your eyes and when Elias glanced over, it had melted remarkably quickly. The leftover wax dripped onto the table but he couldn't care less.

First things first, he needed to make sure what he hypothesized was real. That this wasn't a ploy.

“You know, dear, I was very hurt when you started going out with that bastard. You hurt me, a lot. How do you think I felt?” He cooed like you were a child, soft and gentle in his palm.

“I'm so sorry, Eli. I'll break up with him, okay? I only want you! I'm really- mmph!”

Not the romantic first kiss he was dreaming of, but perfect nonetheless.

All this groveling and begging, over little ol’ him? It was too cute. He could just eat you up! But before that, it seems Elias was going to be devoured first.

“Darling? Ngh!” You were tangling your tongue with his, sucking his lips, his cheeks, his tongue, leaving little nibbles on his blushing skin. “Hold on, I need to-”

“Need to what, Eli? I need you right now,” you swallowed, “I feel like my body is on fire.”

Oh, god, the candle really did work. You were squirming on your chair, rubbing your legs together and giving him the absolute cutest puppy eyed stare. You wanted him. You wanted him.

“Yeah?” Elias said breathlessly, trying to keep pace with you, “well I think I need an apology for you cheating on me first.”

He stood up and pulled his oversized sweater up, letting you peek at the bulge growing underneath tight grey cotton.

“Oh, Eli! It's so pretty!” You weren't shy about rubbing him over his pants. “All of you is so, so pretty, baby. Can I…suck you?”

“Darling, I'm yours!” He said eagerly, the sudden onslaught of praise leaving him dizzy. “Anything you want to do, I'm yours!”

By the time you peeled down his pants and had his leaking dick positioned at your mouth, he was ready to burst. He was entirely ready to finally get his reward, but you hesitated.

“Wait, Eli. I think we should wait, um…my boyfriend. I should break up with him first.”

That goddamn candle should have come with a special feature to make you forget anyone but him all together.

Elias probably looked terrifying right now, fine features underlit by the glow of the candle, staring down at you harshly. For once, he didn't find your babbling cute. Not when every other word was your boyfriend's name. So, Elias kindly shut you up.

“There we go~” Elias cooed, thrusting his hips a little. “Ah, ah, darling. Don't run from it,” he giggled, “or I'll shove it down your fucking throat~”

You were choking on his cock, unable to pull away with how he had his fingers locked behind your head. More than you moving, it was Elias who was pumping himself in and out of your mouth, not stopping until his balls slapped against your chin every time.

“What a good little thing you are, angel. I love you so much! Hey, do you love me too? I asked if you loved me too!”

Even under the effects of the candle, you looked scared. Elias was frantic now, not only his balls hitting your chin, but his toned abdomen smashing into your face as he fucked your entire head roughly. “Dirty fucking bitch! I trusted you! I love you and you left me for dead to go date that idiot! Do you know how much that hurt me?! How much I need you?! You were supposed to me mine, all mine, just like I'm yours! You dirty, dirty f-fucking whore!” Elias let out a wet sob, spilling down your throat with his eyes screwed shut.

Heavy pants left his mouth as he stumbled back to sit on his chair, chest heaving up and down. Even through your coughing, you couldn't help but worry about him.

“Eli? A-Are you okay?”

What a wreck your voice was, no doubt you'd be feeling him in your throat for days.

“It's not all out.”

“Huh? I don't understand-”

“Lift your shirt up.” He wasn't asking.

The smooth expanse of your chest was revealed and Elias used it as extra motivation to get the last few drops of cum out, fisting his tip roughly to pull out those last thick strings. It pearled on your skin beautifully and you didn't hesitate to stick your tongue out, cleaning him off properly with soft sucks that made him tremble.

“Good girl,” he sighed and eventually sat. It was like the devil was released from him. He was just Elias again, your Eli. “That was my first blowjob, you know,” he giggled cutely, like you two were mischievous kids sharing secrets in a treehouse.

Elias sighed and leaned in to hug you after lifting his pants back over his soft length. “Oh, my baby. I can't believe this worked. Had I known, I wouldn't have done this sooner. I can't believe you're finally mine,” he mumbled into your hair. “I love you, darling. And you love me too, right?”

Silence.

“Darling?”

Elias held you at shoulder length away, not wanting to let go of you completely yet. “Hey, why the tears, darling? Hehe, do you love me that much? Aw, well-”

“I'm sorry, Elias.” Your dark pupils met his.

There was no reflection from the candlelight anymore. In fact, the flame had blown out completely by now, leaving behind a sad little puddle of wax.

Your arms pushed his off as you stood up. “Shit…I- oh god, my boyfriend. What's wrong with me?! I'm sorry, Eli- I mean, Elias, um, I think the wine was a bit too strong for me. I really didn't mean to…”

What the hell was this?! Was this- did your love only last while the candle was lit?!

“What the fuck!” Elias cursed loudly, fingers gripping his silky tresses. The situation was beckoning a meltdown.

“I know, Elias, I'm so sorry, but I don't know what came over me!”

You were scared, he could see it. And he's sure part of that fear was from the ache in your throat, the names he had called you when he was at the peak of bliss. How he carried on when he was so sure you were his completely. Over what, a stupid candle? He was an idiot! He had to do damage control.

“It's…alright, darling. It's okay. Hm,” Elias hummed as he thought, standing up to pace. “It's okay. Your boyfriend is waiting for you after all, run along now. It's getting late.”

“Elias?” You weren't sure what was going on.

“Don't worry, dear,” Elias looked at you with warm eyes. “I can keep a secret. We just got a little overwhelmed, didn't we?”

He was giving you a way out, obviously. But why?

“Right,” you said, unsure.

“That's okay, we all have our moments,” Elias giggled and walked over, wrapping his arms around you, letting one sneak down to cup your ass. “Some more than others.”

“I don't think we should be-”

“Be what? You already swallowed my load, pumpkin. Let it dribble all down your chin and everything,” he mused, rubbing a finger against your lower lip. “Or did you want to come clean to your boyfriend?”

“No! I really don't know what happened!”

“Then it's a secret,” Elias whispered, pulling you in for a kiss. You were helpless to him, unable to pull away under the looming threat of him snitching on you. His tongue traced your lips before he pulled away.

“I won't tell if you won't, darling.”

Elias sent you off with a few more kisses and a slap on your ass, already hard again and humping you like a dog all the way to the door where you left with tears in your eyes. You were just too cute!

It wasn't much, but it was something. The only excitement Elias could offer you. Now, he had a personality.

He was your secret lover.

“Aha! How wonderful!” Elias twirled around in excitement. What an adventure!

Soon, he'd guilt your sweet soul into breaking up with that idiot and you'd be all his. He already had a foot in the door after all.

Bringing a hand to his lips, he recalled the way yours felt against his. Marvelous, absolutely marvelous!

Hmm..

Elias took his phone out and sent you a quick text.

‘I think I left some lipstick on you, darling. Clean that up before you see you know who ;)’

Not even moment later, his phone rang.

“Hey, Elias?”

“Eli,” he corrected.

“Yeah, can you not-”

“Eli.”

“…Eli. Uh, can you not send texts like that, please? Just in case he sees.”

A shiver ran up Elias’ spine at the secrecy of it all. You two were bound by sin.

“Of course, darling. I'll call you tonight then.”

“I'm spending the night with him,” you said nervously. “I can't.”

“Alright then, I'll just text you,” Elias inspected his nails casually.

“But-! Ugh, fine. I'll call you later.”

“Perfect. We'll talk soon then. Make sure your camera is on, I'm still throbbing over here,” he giggled.

“I have to go now,” you whispered.

“I love you, darling.”

“Yes, he's coming so-”

“I said I love you!”

“…I love you too, Eli. Bye.”

Elias waited for you to hang up with a smile. You were already cracking under the pressure of your unwanted affair. Sure it would hurt you now, but if this didn't last long then it would be him hurting later. Surely, you wouldn't be able to deal with that, not your kind heart. After all, his beauty is something that shouldn't be marred, you said so yourself.

It was only a matter of time now.

a/n: I actually finished this over a week ago but the Elias lore kept pouring in and I was scrambling to edit to make this as canon as possible but I gave up sooooo, yeah 😃 just imagine this as eli if he actually acted on half the shit he wants to do ig lmfaooo

Also can't believe I wrote unwilling reader because Elias is literally my baby muffin snuggly pie googlie bear and i love him, but i love men suffering more ig 💗

Divider: /animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Please do not ask for part 2. Thank you!

[thelightsandtheroses]

Sweater Weather | Joel Miller x female reader

Summary: When you pick up a hobby again as the seasons turn in Jackson, Joel wonders why you won’t make him a sweater. Word Count: 2k Warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, copious references to knitting and crafting, references to the ‘sweater curse’ , post season Jackson domesticity, no description of the reader beyond her hobby. Notes: This is just a cosy autumnal piece of fluff to ease back into the fandom a bit. I’ve been struggling with writing and my place in the fandom bit recently but I wanted to take part in @jolapeno and @goodwithcheese ‘s jolabrew with cheese autumn challenge and I’ve recently been crafting a bit and trying knitting and crochet so couldn’t resist this silly little idea,

You used to love autumn. You thought it would be your favourite season forever. You were intoxicated by the foliage in all its glorious shades of red and mustard yellow, even the browns seemed richer then. You remember jumping through leaves in your childhood, a mug of hot chocolate waiting when you got home.

That was Before though.

Before the colour red reminded you of blood rather than leave. It was before the dark meant risk, meant the chance of an infected hiding away and a rational fear of death.

After the outbreak, all of the moments you clung to, the memories you used to savour, it all felt so pointless in this new world where death was always so close, always a shadow around you.

It’s different here though.

Jackson is like something out of a postcard. It’s simultaneously stuck in another time and fully adapted to the outbreak and the need for security.

You sit on the rocking chair on the porch, hands occupied by knitting needles as you try and turn what was once a too small jumper into something useable for you, or Joel, or Ellie. You’re thinking a scarf maybe for Ellie, as the weather turns more, perhaps even a matching hat if you can salvage enough, or remember how to make one.

“Whatcha makin’?” Joel asks, one arm casually leaning against the wooden jamb of the porch. Sometimes he seems to appear from nowhere and you take in his appearance, eyes slightly tired from patrol but still bright and there’s a small smile on his face as he takes in what you’re up to.

“Not sure yet. It was a sweater before I frogged it, could be good for a scarf or hat, maybe even socks if I can … I don’t know if I can make those.” Before Jackson, it had been a while since you picked up a pair of knitting needles or a crochet hook, or even a decent skein of wool but now you can finally indulge in the hobby again. Back in Boston, you can hardly imagine how many ration cards this would have gone for.

“You’ll figure it out, you always do.” Joel says with a smile.

You remember you used to make Tommy, Tess and Joel whatever you could from scraps of wool or ragged jumpers whenever possible. Your proudest accomplishment was a patchwork blanket over several months for winters in Boston. There was no heating in the apartments and it could get cold.

Now you’ve made a number of sweaters in varying levels of success, for the first the arms were so long in you had to start again, but you’ve also made a scarf and an acceptable number of hats - the latter of which you’ve proudly given to Ellie and Joel.

It feels domestic, normal even. Jackson is just different.

“How was patrol?” you ask.

“Tommy and I went up to the lookout, there were a few infected but-” Joel shrugs and runs a hand through his hair in a motion that still turns to your bones to jelly every single time. “It was fine.“

“Good.”

You take a moment to drink in Joel’s appearance. He looks better here. His clothes fit again, his eyes are brighter. There’s part of you that can’t believe either of you are here now, that he came back. That either of them did.

When you all left Boston, you noticed the way he made sure you and Ellie had supplies, had food when it was in short supply. The closer you’d got to Jackson, the more you’d noticed how he started using a tighter notch on his belt, so you tried to share more with him, make it subtle so he didn’t catch on to your intentions either.

He had taken Ellie on from Jackson alone, insisted he’d only be a couple of weeks, but he’d asked you to stay. There was an unspoken promise to wait for him to come back. Two weeks turned into a month and you’d begged Tommy to send a group to find him and Ellie, you’d begged the town meeting every week but they said no.

Tommy thought Joel was dead, you realised. Him and Maria were trying to subtly prepare you, to help you build a life in Jackson of your own. You knew they were alive though, you just knew it.

After a while, you weren’t so sure. You just weren’t sure what it would mean if they didn’t. Your life was in stasis, waiting for an answer that might never come.

The day Joel came back with Ellie, you’d hugged them both before joking that they stank and tried to wipe away your tears when neither was looking.

That was months ago and now the three of you are settled into Jackson, almost. There are secrets between them about the time they went to Salt Lake City, but they’re here. They’re safe. There’s time for that later.

Hey,” Joel says, “you want to get lunch at the hall?”

“Sure.” You place your wool and knitting inside the hallway of your, Joel and Ellie’s home and walk down the porch to meet him.

The two of you stroll down the street towards the main town hall and dining area. It’s cool, crisp and the sound of leaves crunching under your boots is a balm. Joel’s hand is tantalising close to yours, skimming your fingers as the two of you move in tandem.

“Weather’s turning, we’ll need warmer clothes. I think the stuff I made for Tommy and Maria’s baby went down well.” You pause. “Think I could get a sweater for Ellie and new socks for you outta that.”

“Huh?”

“The wool - you asked what I was making.”

“Oh, right.”

“Seth asked if i can make him a sweater. This wool is for you and Ellie though, if you come across anything on patrol, could you- ”

‘Sure.“

Joel pauses, he’s wearing the expression you’ve noticed whenever he wants to say something but he’s not sure. A slight frown, one brow lowered, concentration on his face.

“Is everything okay?”

“Sure.”

“Joel, I know that face.”

“Seth asked if you can make him a sweater.”

“For trades, Joel, could be useful. I think he mentioned a certain bottle of wine that I’ve been eyeing up.”

“Okay.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve made me some lovely things, darlin’, and I truly appreciate the hat, but I -I know it sounds selfish, but I -”

“You want a sweater,” you say in realisation. You should have known, the last time you knitted a jumper you couldn’t help but notice how Joel had watched you doing it.

“I mean, not necessarily. It just feels like half the town has sweaters you’ve knitted ‘cept -”

“You.”

“It’s stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No. No, it’s not. It’s just, I can’t make you a sweater, Joel.”

“You can’t make me a sweater?” Joel asks.

You nod solemnly. “Honestly, I would, but I really can’t.”

“Well, why not?“

“Sweater curse.”

“Sweater curse?”

“Sweater curse.”

The two of you reach the dining hall and you kiss Joel lightly on the cheek before you open the door. “We’re okay, right?”

“Course we are,” he says firmly, squeezing your hand and putting an arm around you. “Sweater curse?” you hear him mumble to himself.

You should elaborate, explain things but in all honesty this is a moment you’ve dreaded. It’s as close to defining your relationship as you and Joel have come in some time. Mostly, the two of you are together and you’re exclusive and that’s enough. There’s no need to put any firmer labels on things than that because the two of you just work.

By the time the two of you have selected your lunch and are sitting at the table.

Tommy’s wearing a sweater you’ve made. Joel scowls for a second.

“What the fuck is a sweater curse?”

Tommy bursts out laughing.

“Rally?” He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I’m not messing with that shit. Not in this world.”

“This world?”

“There are people essentially infected by a mushroom, Joel, I will play ball with any superstitions I need to.”

“That sounds sensible actually,” Tommy says thoughtfully. “So … the sweater curse, huh?”

“How do you know about the sweater curse?” Joel asks.

“Dated someone into crochet some time back.”

“You dated someone … Jesus, Tommy. So what is it?”

“Well you know if you give someone you’re dating a homemade sweater, the curse is you’ll break up.”

”Oh.”

Joel scrutinises you and you feel your face heating. “It’s an old wives’ tale, but I - I would rather not chance it.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I know, I know. It’s just I know someone who did make their girlfriend a sweater and then she broke up with them. Do you remember Tamsin back in the QZ?“

“Tamsin was a smuggler and dating a woman in FEDRA, it was doomed before the sweater,” Tommy says.

“Nonetheless.”

“But okay, if you’re really worried, I get it,” Tommy says, earning a scowl from Joel.

“It’s just an urban legend, baby,” Joel says.

“That might be true, but with you? Nope, I don’t want to risk it.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he repeats calmly, looking into your eyes and squeezing a knee as he slightly moves you so you’re both facing each other. The distractions of Tommy and the dining hall melt away. It’s like a balm over your body, the fact that Joel is here with you, that he still wants to be with you. The connection between the two of you runs deep and it’s certainly not always run smoothly. This town has been a true second chance for the two of you to achieve something close to normal, and maybe, you realise, Joel can see that.

“You go on patrol, Joel, it’s not as simple as that.”

Tommy looks away and Joel swallows. You watch how he tries to work through his answer, lips slightly pursed as he ponders the rich approach. There’s a freckle on his neck, one that whenever you see it instantly transports you to nights with him and moments between the sheets. You’ve catalogued every freckle, every mark, every scar now.

“I won’t push you on this,” he says quietly. “The gloves and hats are real nice.”

You smile softly, kissing him on the cheek before turning your attention back to your food. The water jug is empty so you decide to go and get a refill.

As you walk away, you can hear Tommy and Joel’s voices still.

“Now I think about it, there’s a way around the curse anyway,” Tommy says quietly, clearly in the hopes you won’t hear them. The years together have led to your hearing becoming attuned to them, to Joel’s voice in particular. You could pick him out of any crowd.

“Oh yeah?” There’s a lightness in Joel’s voice now, that slight teasing edge you love.

“Marry her. That’s the workaround. Honest.”

Joel chuckles. “For a sweater? Can’t marry her for a sweater. That ain’t right.”

“You said you were going to marry her anyway, Joel. Isn’t a sweater just a bonus?”

“Tommy!”

“I’m just sayin’, you said you had a plan.”

“I do and shut up, will you? She’ll hear.”

You freeze momentarily. Joel’s talked about marriage with you to Tommy? You take a deep breath before returning to the table.

“Is it true?” Joel asks in a whisper to you. “I know you heard Tommy and me.”

“Reckon I could ask the same question.”

Joel swallows. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

“Same.” You pause and smile mischievously, “Say it was true, I take it you have a colour preference for a sweater then, Joel?”

Tag List

If you would like to be added to to the taglist please let me know. As a reminder this blog is 18+ - minors do not interact and I block blank/ageless blogs. Tag lists are a bit funky at the moment, so I recommend following me or my fic account @thelightsandtheroses-fics (you can enable notifications for that account) if you want to ensure you're up to date

Everything Pedro tag-list: @harriedandharassed@pedrostories@hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk @pastelnap

[kaleuh]

FEELING THE FULL RANGE OF EMOTIONS ON THIS THURSDAY MORNING

tell me about ghis GlenMac?

I WILL Tell you about GlenMac !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SO

THIS IS GLENMAC (Official Book Art) AND THEN HERE'S A PICTURE OF HIM WITH HIS BEST BUDDY, Adjunct Professor and Graduate Jackson Green (art that me and my group got commissioned of them by nico on twitter!)

FULL NAME: Glenn MaClanahan (If you're formal, it's Professor MaClanahan, but all the students gave him the nickname GlenMac!)

He's a professor in the Anthropology Department at East Texas University, located in the cozy town of Pinebox, Texas. He and Jackson know fully well that there's something extremely uncozy about Pinebox, though. When you (the player) attend ETU as a freshman, you are quick to notice that there is something very unnerving about the town, and the school. Rumors of ghosts, monsters, and rituals—things that could easily be explained away by pointing at college students and children in town with too much liquor and imagination. GlenMac and Jackson are here to tell your character: No! You are not crazy! You definitely saw the ghost of a student who was burned alive in the gymnasium!

GlenMac (as well as Jackson) are the NPCs in this story who are initially there to serve your character with an introduction to the supernatural. GlenMac can really be any professor-appropriate age (I believe the book says he’s in his 40s but given the book art our DM [my boyfriend!!] deemed him to be 32 in our game. He also thought it would make sense to make him younger since him and Jackson (who is in his mid 20s) are supposed to be close pals.)

GlenMac has been investigating the supernatural for years, and deeply cares about the well-being of his students. Anyone who comes to his office hours for help will never be turned away—especially if "weird stuff" has been happening to them. In his office you'll also meet his life-long companion, a Scottish Terrier named Argyle, with whom he takes on regular walks throughout campus. He is overly caring and self-sacrificing to a fault, though, willingly placing himself in danger to protect someone who needs it. He's aware that students will occasionally stumble upon magic resources and rituals—because of this, he's been said to be searching for a method in which anyone can safely accomplish a ritual...without having to sacrifice anything to the Magical Powers That Be in return. Which seems like a great idea! A Professor with a deep thirst for the knowledge and power of the unknown, also willing to try literally anything, even if it means putting himself at the whims of Possibly Dark Magic for the good of others. It will work out fine for him, is what I've been telling myself!

SO OF COURSE, because it's a TTRPG, not all GlenMacs are the same. Here are some other fast facts about the GlenMac I know, and why I'm insane about him:

When my basketball himbo son (my character Trey) went through a tough breakup during freshman year, him and Jackson played Boggle with him and the party until he cheered up.

Also when my son was alone and sad in Pinebox during summer vacation, GlenMac adorned his best dork-ass dad jock attire and joined him on morning runs (with Argyle).

He's often stressed and formal but under that he is Sweet and A Tad Silly and a bit of a dork and god. we love him for it

GlenMac doesn't really pay attention to current pop-culture stuff online but if you tell him he Lost the Game he WILL get mad.

Unbelievable in that turtleneck.

Grew up in North Dakota, had a big falling out with his parents and has been largely alone. It's implied that he never really had a friend like Jackson, up until him (and depending on how nice your party is to him, your group.)

AND YOU CAN TELL HE'S LONELY. GOD. HE PUTS EVERYTHING INTO THIS WORK AND HIS STUDENTS. How much time he spends alone with his thoughts...the supernatural stuff probably pushed anyone he cared about away. He has his little apartment with his folded-cornered books and half-finished coffee cups and toys for his dog...but we want him to meet someone So bad 😭 (GOD I wish it were me.)

His desire to know the unknown and try things "just to see if he can" is dangerous, reckless, scary, and a little unhinged...he a little fucked up...I'm scared for him...(but its also...😳...).

This is not canon to our game but we keep joking about how girls on Rate My Professor won't stop referring to him as "Big Mac" and that he's desperately been trying to get those reviews removed.

If you ever get curious about East Texas University, I highly recommend it! I love the Savage Worlds system so much!! We're playing the East Texas University “Degrees of Horror” adventures, which is the "main plot" campaign for East Texas University (we also do some 12-to-Midnight adventures.) I think the story can be set anywhere in the 2000's so we just set ours in modern day.

We're not finished yet, but it has truly been a life-changing story so far!

GENUINELY, TRULY, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING

[obsessedwrhys]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ BROKEN FRAGMENTS

ᯓ★ Kurt finds you hurting yourself. Graphic description of cuts and scars/gore (?), SH, comfort, can be read as platonically or intimately. Reader is fem!! (I do not condone to anything in this fic. I just wanted to provide comfort to those who need the love they deserve.)

۫ ꣑ৎ Please reach out to someone if you're going through a tough time. Do not suffer in silence. YOU deserve to feel safe just like many others. Warning, this may be triggering for some so PLS DONT FORCE YOURSELF TO READ IF ITS TOO MUCH

ᯓ★

How you found yourself starting this habit was like a haze. You don't remember it all that well, but the emotions, the overwhelming emotion of guilt and pain always made it feel like it was just yesterday.

You had your reasons to carry out such acts.

But you knew that those reasons weren't an excuse for this.

Deep down you knew it was bad... but if it's bad, why does it make you feel so much better?

Should you feel guilty for wanting to be better?

After all, you never really knew how to express yourself... it always felt like this was the only way for it.

You made your way through the corridors of the mansion. The others had went for a mission so it was just you left behind. Why you weren't chosen to go was unclear but you had a grudge on why.

You tried your hardest to ignore it but you can feel how everybody was beginning to worry about you.

Moments where they'd take short glances of you...

Asking you if you wanted to hangout more...

Even secret talks regarding your wellbeing...

You'd be an idiot if you chose to believe your change of behaviour wasn't taking its effects on the others. You just feel like you've lost the spark you used to have in you. But can they blame you when you no longer have the energy to fight?

You retreated to your room, sitting on your bed to stare at the ground for a good few seconds before letting out a sigh. You searched through your drawers, looking for the exact thing you needed to get your mind off of these thoughts.

You really wanna stop... but it's so hard to...

Your hand just itches each time...

Your mind was a race track where the thoughts won't stop until one finally crashes.

You pulled up the sleeve of your hoodie, collection of scars that went back to weeks ago. Maybe even months. You're not sure and you could care less about it.

One...

Two....

Three....

Four.........

You continued on, the sight of the blood made you feel alive again. It was like you've pulled the curtain aside to reveal what was behind it. Your flesh and blood. Your very proof of existence. To prove you were real and breathing.

However that moment of euphoria soon vanished... you stare, almost blankly at the cuts as the blood continued on dripping out.

Why do you never feel good enough?

When will the time come where this moment will just be a faded memory?

Why—

Suddenly there was a knock on the door but before you could respond, it opened by itself.

"(Y/N) I wanted to—"

The sight left him quiet. Kurt, who's smile was on his face dropped immediately the second he saw what was happening. You stare back, guilt heavy in your gaze as your face turned red.

Oh nononononono....

Whatdoyoudo?run??hide???kickhimout???

Before you can even think of how to act, he was the first to act, he took a few steps inside your room before closing the door shut behind him. He approaches you, carefully, almost like you were a wild animal he didn't wanna scare off because it was clear you felt tensed and afraid of how he may react.

Once he was close enough, he looked at you with a concerned expression on his face. It was visible to see that he was more worried about your wellbeing than anything right now.

"Do you wanna talk?" He knelt down in front of you, his eyes roamed over your body to see just how much harm you’ve done to yourself.

You look at him, afraid to speak. Afraid he may not understand and right away, he understood what you were trying to express in your eyes and he tilts his head with a sympathic smile.

"…I’m not angry at you" He said, a soft and understanding expression on his face as he looked at you.

Just then, Kurt slowly reaches out to you and places his hands over yours, gently prying the blade from your hands. Even though the sight of the blood on your hands worries him, he manages to keep a calm and relaxed demeanor for your sake.

"Shhh. It's okay...it's okay..." He mumbles to you in a soft comforting tone as he sets the blade aside and gently take your bloody hands back in his.

Even though some may get on his. It didn't matter, all that mattered to him, was making you feel okay.

Sensing you didn't have the strength to speak... and seeing the tears forming in your eyes. He caresses the sides of your face to wipe the tears away with his thumb. His touch was gentle and in a way it comforted you.

Your avoiding eyes finally locked with his, just to be met with his warm and soft yellow eyes that made your heart melt. Despite how seeing the slight fear in your own eyes made his heart ache, he manages to give you a soft smile.

"It's going to be okay..." He assured as he held you closely against his chest, gently rubbing your back in a soothing manner. He was slightly surprised at how small your body felt in his arms, but that just made him want to hold you more tightly in his arms and tell you that everything would be alright.

"You're not alone... I'm here for you. I promise..." He softly placed his hand on the back of your head and gently stroked your hair.

His words and how he was treating you made you feel seen.

Cared for.

Loved.

"I'm sorry" You tried to stop your tears but you were unable to hold everything in anymore. At the same time, the burn of the cut made your skin itch.

"Shhh... it's okay" He muttered, holding you tighter to have you cry on his chest.

"You don't have to apologize... Shhh... it's going to be alright..." He continued on stroking your hair comfortingly while he rest his head on top of yours.

Kurt hold you closely to his chest, his arms wrapped around you as you cried like your lungs were burning. His cheek was now rested against the top of your head and how he carried on to make gentle hushing noises in an attempt to soothe you made you feel appeased.

"You're safe... you're safe... I promise you’re safe with me" He said.

The room was quiet as you two remained in each other's arms. No amount of words could express how belonged you felt in his embrace. Even though your face was a mess of tears and snot, he didn't care if it was getting all over his shirt because none of that mess is equal to the situation you're in right now.

By the time you have calmed down, he felt it was the okay time to treat your scars now. Being as gentle as he could, he lifted your head so he could look at your self-inflicted wounds, his expression showing his concern but not a trace of judgement.

"Let me help you" He said softly, his voice just as gentle as his touch.

You watched when he got up to get a band aid kit from your closet. Then returning back on the bed, the mattress sinking back down from his weight. Kurt grabbed a piece of clean towel and you couldn't help but find the sight of him dapping it gently on your cuts with such focus touching.

After applying a thin layer of antibiotics, he took a roll of sterile gauze from inside the first-aid kit and gently wrapped the gauze around your hands and arms to help stop the bleeding and prevent further scarring if possible. His touch was firm but tender, his fingers carefully wrapping the gauze around your wounds.

Once he had finished bandaging your hands and arms, he gently cupped your face in his hands and looked at you with care in his eyes.

"Are you feeling better now?" He asked and you hesitated... then nodded.

Seeing you nod made him feel a bit relieved, but he could still sense that you were feeling vulnerable and fearful. He looks at you with a glint of hope.

"You don't have to tell me everything now... let's take it slowly... hm?" He said and you nodded again, a grateful smile on your face.

"Mein hübsches mädchen" He leaned in, resting his forehead on yours as he closes his eyes.

"Lieber Gott, bitte schütze dieses Mädchen vor allem Bösen und Schaden. Helft ihr, sich zu erholen und zu heilen. Schenke ihr Frieden und Trost in dieser schwierigen Zeit" He uttered, a prayer you assumed, his voice was small and hushed that it was comforting listening to him.

When he finally opened his eyes, he smiles at you, his fangs becoming noticeable as well.

"What do you say we raid the kitchen? Hm?" He asked and with that playful look on his face. It was hard to say no.

"Yeah..." You answered and he gave you one last squeeze of a hug.

"I know you're hurt and scared, mein liebling. But I promise I'll always be here for you. Together we can get through anything" He said, his words being enough to make you feel better now.

"Thank you"

Deep down you knew your habits would still haunt you but at least now you felt there was somebody there for you, to help and care for you.

Healing itself has no end but is a lifelong journey.

A journey Kurt is willing to go on with you.

[hippiegoth97]

Heat of The Moment: Eddie Munson x Reader

Collage by me :)

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Description: You're best friends with Eddie, but you're also secretly in love with him. You struggle to hide your feelings, until a visit to Lover's Lake makes you unable to keep up the act anymore. Thankfully, things go better than you expect...

Content Warning 18+ Only, Minors DNI:  smut, swearing, female reader, jealousy, crying, lots of angsty feelings, friends to lovers, metalhead!reader, drug references/use, grinding, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, praise/degradation, squirting

Word Count: 5.5k

Divider by @strangergraphics-archive

Heat of The Moment

You've been close friends with Eddie Munson since high school. You remember not fitting in with anybody, and then Eddie took you under his wing. He showed you how to play D&D, and all of his metal band cassette tapes. Soon after, you joined the Hellfire Club and became a full-blown metalhead. You cut your hair short and dyed it funky colors, and wore a beaten leather jacket covered in pins and patches. Your jeans were always torn, and Converse adorned your feet at all times. You even had your nose pierced, much to your mother's dismay. Your eyes were always smoky with eyeliner, and dark red lipstick made your mouth look absolutely sinful. You made guitar pick earrings and a matching necklace to wear, Eddie had generously given the picks to you. You'd even made him a necklace as well, and he gave you the biggest bear hug when you gifted it to him on his birthday. You were hoping for a kiss, but you took whatever affection you could get from Eddie.

Years later, you'd both just squeaked by to graduate, you never took your grades very seriously. You don't see the point of doing what everyone in life pushed on you. College, marriage, kids, the house with the white picket fence. It all seems so hollow, and you want no part in it. You instead choose to focus on Eddie. You play D&D with him regularly, and he recently decided to teach you how to play the guitar. Some days you just get high and listen to Metallica or Dio in his trailer. Any time you can spend by his side, you jump at the chance. You couldn't help falling in love with him, but you're sure he doesn't feel the same. He treats you like a sister, a best friend. He always picks other girls to go out with and screw. It's not like you aren't a catch, you've been with plenty of guys. But none of them make you feel the way Eddie does, so you’ve never formed a long-term relationship with any of them. You can barely remember their names, they don't matter to you at all.

It always hurts you to see Eddie with other girls, kissing and giggling with them. They sit in his lap after his shows, practically humping him on the couch in his trailer. It always makes you want to scream, or vomit. That should be you, not some whore who doesn't care about him. So you try your best to act unbothered, bringing your own dates to distract yourself. You eventually fuck them on the couch while Eddie takes whatever girl he brought home to his bed.

But the whole time you're having sex with someone else, you can hear what’s happening in his bedroom. It makes you want to burst into tears, but you just pretend you don't hear. Or worse, you pretend the random guy you’re with is Eddie instead. You always feel disgusted afterwards though, you're just using random men to fill a gaping hole inside your heart. Not only that, you don't even pretend to like them. They all have blank faces, no names to you. You fill in the blanks when it comes time to screw them, pasting Eddie where you want him most. But they never perform the way you imagine he would. They don't care about you, or your pleasure. Once they're done, they leave. You're left laying on the couch afterwards, hearing noises from the bedroom with your clothes still removed or undone. It's here that you always lose the battle with your tears, letting them out silently to make sure the lovebirds aren't disturbed. You eventually get yourself together, wiping your tears away before Eddie escorts his girl to the door.

"You okay?" He always asks after he lets his whore out, taking notice of your puffy eyes and streaky eyeliner.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Just another asshole." It isn't necessarily a lie, the guys you pick blindly usually don't treat you very well.

"Maybe you need to find someone you actually like, Y/N. You deserve to be happy." He kneels in front of you, wiping your eyes carefully. He looks into your eyes, and opens his mouth to say something. But he always closes it again, and shakes his head slightly. "Let me drive you home." And he always does, trying his best to cheer you up on the way. Telling jokes, blasting music, swerving the van playfully on the road. He does everything he can to get your tears to stop. It always works too, he shines so bright in your life. He makes everything better, any troubles you have melt away when you're with him. He parks and walks you to the door of your apartment like a true gentleman, telling you goodnight. You say the same, and burst into tears all over again when you close the door behind you and you're sure he won't hear. You cry so hard your chest hurts, and your throat is left raw from sobbing.

You eventually run out of tears for the night, crawling into bed with all your clothes still on, too tired to remove them. You lay in bed yearning for Eddie for hours, picturing what being his girlfriend could be like. It's oddly comforting, playing pretend in your head while you curl up in the blanket. You drift off to sleep with thoughts of the man you love swirling in your mind. And in the morning, the cycle starts again. Wake up, D&D/guitar lessons, van hangout, work, Eddie's show, back to his trailer, meaningless sex, crying, drive home, crying again, sleep. At some point this routine is sure to kill you, you can't keep going like this. You'll tell Eddie how you feel the next time you see him. And then you can either be with him, or put these pesky feelings behind you if he only sees you as a friend.

It's a Saturday afternoon, and you're getting ready to see Eddie. It's just the two of you today, you'll be going to Lover's Lake to hang out in his van. You both like the lake, not because of its name but because it's always peaceful there. The reflections of the surrounding woods on the water, birds flying overhead, a cool breeze brushing through the trees. It's nice and quiet, making you feel like it's just you and Eddie in the world. You're just about finished applying your smudgy eyeliner when you hear Eddie honking outside. You almost stab yourself with your eye pencil when the sound startles you. You toss it on your vanity, checking yourself over to make sure you look good. Your makeup is flawless, your outfit is badass as ever, and you don’t have a single hair out of place. You smile at your own reflection, eager to go with Eddie so you can tell him how you feel. You grab your bag, rushing out of your apartment and down the stairs. You run over to the van, yanking the passenger door open. You slide into your seat, tossing your bag in the back.

"Hey there, Y/N. How are you doing on this fine afternoon?" He smirks at you, looking you up and down. You seem extra put together today, he wonders if he's the reason for it. He pushes the thought from his head, there's no way you think of him like that.

"Hey, Eddie. I'm alright I guess." You say quietly, feeling his eyes on you. You look at him, meeting his wandering gaze. Did he just check me out?, you wonder. No way, he wouldn't do that.

"You 'guess'? That doesn't sound like the Y/N I know. Well, hopefully some time at the lake will brighten your mood, hm?" He puts his hand on your knee, rubbing it comfortingly. You tense at his touch, almost holding your breath. The skin where his hand is feels tingly with anticipation. "Seriously, though. Are you feeling okay? You've been kinda off lately." He's genuinely concerned about you, you've been acting weird around him recently. Whenever he touches you, it makes you all jumpy, and you've been crying a lot too. He hopes he hasn't upset you somehow, he truly cares for you. He likes you a lot, more than he'd readily admit. But he figures you only see him as a friend.

"I'm fine, Eddie. Let's just go to the lake, okay?" You reply, almost annoyed. You look out the window, waiting for him to start driving. Eddie sighs, taking his hand off your knee. He grips the steering wheel, and drives out of the parking lot. You both ride in silence on the way to the lake, but Eddie can't help looking over at you every so often. You refuse to meet his gaze, keeping your eyes focused on any sights outside the window as you ride past. Any enthusiasm or bravery you had about telling Eddie you love him is slipping away from your grasp.

Eddie continues to glance at you as he goes his usual route to the lake. Something is definitely off with you, he can see a sad expression on your face reflecting back at him in the window you keep staring out of. He doesn't know exactly why you seem so down, but he hopes you'll at least talk to him about it.

You finally reach the lake, and Eddie parks the van in your usual spot. He kills the engine, turning in his seat to face you. "So, are you gonna tell me what's going on, Y/N? Did I make you upset or something?" You turn to face him, looking into his eyes. His expression makes your heart break. He thinks he's hurt you, but it's been you hurting yourself because of how you feel about him.

"No, Eddie. You didn't do anything. I'm just being stupid, I promise." You reach forward to take his hands into yours. He lets you, and you stroke his rings, taking comfort in how the cool metal feels under your thumb. You want to keep talking, but it's like your mouth has been sewn shut.

"So what is it then? And I'm sure it's not stupid, Y/N. But you seem so sad lately, and you practically wince whenever I touch you. Just tell me what's wrong, darling. There's nothing you could say that would make me like you any less." He implores you to open up to him. He wants to help, however he can.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Eds." You manage to reply, and your gaze falls to your joined hands. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and your palms are sweating beyond belief. You feel sick, like you can't breathe. You can't do this. It'll ruin everything, and then Eddie won't want to see you anymore. You try to hold back, but your tears fight their way from your eyes, dripping onto the floor. Eddie's hands leave your grasp, grabbing the sides of your face to make you look at him again.

"Hey, hey. Y/N, please don't cry. Whatever it is, please just tell me. I can't stand seeing you so unhappy, princess." Seeing you like this makes his heart smash into a million pieces. He wants to make it better, but he doesn't even know what the problem is. You start to panic, your breaths come out fast and shallow. You start feeling dizzy, and you wish you could just run and hide. But you can't, Eddie won't let you go.

"I can't do this, Eddie. It'll ruin everything. And then you won't like me anymore. And I can't live with that." You choke the words out between sobs, your face turning a deep shade of scarlet. You're so embarrassed, and you just want to drop it. "Please, just forget it. We can pretend this never happened and I'll stop being an idiot. Please, I-" Eddie interrupts you by bringing his lips to yours. Your sobs stop, but your body still shudders a bit. You return the kiss, it's gentle and warm. A few more tears slide down your cheeks, and then Eddie breaks the kiss. He smiles at you, letting go of your face to hold your hands again.

"You know, if you were in love with me, all you had to do was say so." His smile grows wider when you gasp at his words. You open your mouth to protest, or put yourself down, but he places a finger over your lips to keep you quiet. "It's alright, darling. I promise you haven't ruined anything. I should've guessed this is why you've been acting so strange. I just didn't think you'd feel the same way about me as I do about you." Your eyes widen, you can't believe he's actually been in love with you this whole time.

You move his finger from your mouth, and grab his shirt collar. You pull him into you, smashing your lips together. He groans as you almost make him fall from his seat, but he hungrily reciprocates the kiss. He bites your bottom lip, making you moan. He slips his tongue in, and you battle for dominance. He wins out, frantically leading you to the back of the van. There's pillows and blankets thrown about, making a comfortable landing place for you. You fall onto your back, with Eddie on top of you. You finally break the kiss, stroking his face with the back of your hand. "You have no idea how many times I've wished for this, Eddie. I've loved you for so long, but I didn't think I could ever tell you. You always chose other girls over me."

"I know, and I was a fuckin' idiot. I only did that because I thought you didn't want me. We could've saved so much time, so much heartbreak. I can't begin to tell you how often I imagined those other girls were you instead." You laugh in shock at what he’s said. Him, fantasizing about you? You can't believe it. This whole time, he’s only wanted you. "That's not weird, is it?" He asks, blushes slightly at his little confession.

"Not at all, Eddie. If I'm being honest, I did the same thing with all those assholes I brought to the trailer. But I don't think they came even close to pleasing me like I imagine you could."

"Jesus, we're a couple of sick fucks, aren't we?" He chuckles, shaking his head.

"No. We were just painfully oblivious to each other's true feelings." You giggle, staring into his eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you. Your lips meet again, slow and sensual this time. The temperature in the van begins to rise, you feel your blood boiling in your veins. Eddie's hands grip your waist, and his left knee goes between your legs. He's creating friction on your clothed core, causing you to moan. His lips leave yours, moving to your jaw, and your neck. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your skin, occasionally sucking the flesh to leave hickies on you. "Fuck, Eddie. You're really good at this." You sigh blissfully, letting every sensation wash over you.

"I should hope so, I've had plenty of practice." He says between kisses, smirking like an idiot. One of his hands leaves your waist to grope your tits through your shirt. You arch your back off the floor of the van, gasping at his touch. "You make such pretty noises, princess." He whispers in your ear. "I can't wait to hear what you sound like when you cum." His words make you so wet, and his knee grinding on you feels so good. Every move Eddie makes sets your insides on fire, intense waves of pleasure washing over you. He's got you so wound up, soaking through your panties. Not long now until he pushes you over the edge.

"If you keep going the way you are, it won't take much." You moan out, your hands tangling in his hair. You tug on it roughly, and he groans into your neck.

"Careful, Y/N. It's dangerous to push my buttons like that." He grins at you, pulling you to sit up. He places you on top of him, his thigh positioned between your legs. You're sitting on your knees, and Eddie grips your hips in his hands. "Ride my thigh, darling. I want you to make yourself cum for me." He says lowly, his eyes burning with lust as they gaze into yours. You do as he says, slowly moving your hips on him. Eddie keeps your pace steady, helping you into the right angle to hit the spot where you need him most. You place your hands on his shoulders for leverage, increasing your pace on him. He just sits there watching you closely, drinking in every moan and curse that falls from your lips.

The waves are crashing into you now, threatening to pull you under. You're sweating through your clothes, and your pussy is impossibly wet. "Fuck, Eddie. I'm so close." You moan loudly, digging your nails into his shoulders.

"Keep going, princess. Make a mess all over me. Let me hear those pretty moans." His words spur you on further, and you grind yourself on him as fast as you can. You're panting wildly, feeling wave after wave rolling into you. Eddie moves to bite down into your neck, which sends you falling over the edge.

"Oh, god!" You scream, your legs try to snap shut as stars fill your vision. Eddie holds you into his chest, keeping you upright as your orgasm rips through you. You keep gripping his shoulders, gasping for air as you ride out your high. You fall backwards after your body has calmed down. You just lay here like a starfish, trying to collect your thoughts. You're staring at the roof of the van, breathing heavily. Eddie lays down on his side next to you. His head is propped up with one hand, and the other slowly strokes your arm up and down.

"How are you feeling, love?" He asks, looking down at you with kind eyes.

"Good. Uh, great, actually." You say awkwardly, glancing at him briefly. "I've never done that before. Not…cum, I've done that plenty. I just mean, the whole...um, grinding on you thing. I didn't expect it to have such an effect on me." You can't help your cheeks burning. You feel silly, babbling words at Eddie like this.

"Relax, Y/N. You don't have to be embarrassed about anything with me, you know that." You look at him again, seeing genuine affection in his eyes. You nod, turning your body to face his. You get as close to him as you can, and he wraps his arms around you. You kiss him again, but it's much softer now. Your heart melts, and you pull him even closer. He breaks away, speaking quietly. "Do you want more, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please." You reply just as quietly. You're not sure why you're both being so quiet, but it feels right. This moment feels so intimate, and you never want it to end. You lay on your back again after removing your jacket. He takes his own off too, the climate inside the van is like a sauna.

"Take your shirt off for me, princess." You obey his command, tossing it away. Eddie's right hand immediately goes to massage one of your breasts over your bra, making you gasp. His eyes gaze over your body, almost in awe of how beautiful you look. After a moment of staring, he lifts your torso to reach behind you. He expertly unclasps your bra, pulling it off you with ease. His breath hitches when your tits are exposed for him, your nipples hardened from arousal. "You're so gorgeous, baby.'' You blush at his compliment, a small giggle escaping your lips. Eddie lowers his head to your chest, kissing the valley between your breasts. You moan, gripping his long locks again. He peppers wet kisses on every last inch of you, leaving no flesh untouched. From the curves of your tits, to your ribs underneath, his lips leave a scorching trail as he moves. Once he's satisfied with his work, he swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before taking it into his mouth.

"Eddie." You whimper as he worries his teeth on the sensitive bud. His hand gropes your other breast, squeezing it roughly. Once he's left you properly marked, Eddie repeats the same actions on the other side. You tug on his hair again, making him groan. You love hearing the effect you have on him, most guys are too shy to make noises. But Eddie isn't most guys, especially when he's around you. You tug again harder, and he moans even louder. He stops kissing your chest, looking at you. His eyes are dark, swirling with pure lust.

"You love playing with danger, don't you, princess?" He flashes you a devilish grin.

"Maybe." You smile back at him. "But I love the noises you make when I touch you even more. Guys don't really do that, but it's so fucking hot."

"Is that so?" He asks, you just nod at him. "I'll keep that in mind, darling." He sits up to remove his shirt, and you can't help gawking at his body. He's toned, but slender, and his tattoos look so good on him. You get on your knees to feel him up. You run your hands up and down his chest, feeling as much of him as you can. "You like what you see, love?" He asks quietly. You look into his eyes, feeling passion overtake you. You grab him by the shoulders, and push him over as you bring your lips onto his in a bruising kiss. He grunts as he falls, grabbing your waist to take you with him. You straddle him when he lands, grinding yourself onto his stiffening cock. He groans into your mouth, gripping your hips roughly. "What's gotten into you, Y/N? You're so needy." Eddie chuckles as he breaks the kiss to take a breath.

"You'll see, Eds. Just lay down and relax." You grin slyly at him. He cocks an eyebrow, unsure of what you mean. You proceed to lick a long stripe from his collarbone to his jaw. You look at him again, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He just stares at you, wide-eyed. He's panting, awaiting your next move. You feel his dick growing even harder beneath you. You take that as a sign to keep going. You lean back down to his neck, biting down hard this time, then sucking the skin to make a dark bruise.

"Jesus, fuck." He moans out, spurring you on. You nibble his skin, trailing down his neck, to his chest, his stomach. Each move you take elicits whimpers and curses from Eddie's lips. Every sound is music to your ears, making you more and more wet whenever you hear one. You reach his belt, looking over your handiwork. Eddie's body is littered with teeth marks, and he's breathing heavily. You undo his belt, taking your time in order to tease him. Once it's open you unzip his jeans, pulling them down as Eddie kicks off his shoes. He's left in his boxers now, and a tent has formed in the thin fabric. You grip his waistband and yank his boxers down. His dick springs free, slapping his stomach before standing up straight.

You take his length in your hand, stroking him gently. He groans again, sweat beginning to form on his brow. He looks at you with pleading eyes. "You're very sexy when you're desperate, baby." Eddie's completely fucked for you, silently begging you to put him in your mouth. You happily oblige him, taking every last inch of him at once. You gag slightly when he hits the back of your throat, but you're persistent about keeping as much of him in as possible. You bob your head up and down, twirling your tongue around him as you go. He's constantly letting out lewd noises, which only serve to fuel your fire.

"Keep going, babe. But can you put your pussy towards me?" He asks, barely getting the words out. You position yourself where he wants you, and he makes frantic work of taking off your shoes and remaining clothes. You moan on Eddie's cock as you feel him stroking your slick folds. "You're so wet, darling. Is this all for me?" He asks as he slips two fingers into your cunt.

All you can manage to reply with is a muffled 'mmhmm' as he starts curling his digits inside you. Each stroke of Eddie's fingers makes you see stars, causing you to moan on him again and again. This in turn makes him groan and pick up his pace while fingering you. You feel Eddie's balls tightening, he's getting close. You speed up, working him harder and faster, gagging on him repeatedly. He takes this as a challenge to give you another orgasm, so he takes his fingers out of you, replacing them with his tongue. You scream on his length, feeling a fire beginning to build in your belly. His mouth licks and sucks on your clit mercilessly, pouring gasoline on the flames.

You're both driving each other mad as you compete to send the other over the edge. Moans fill the van as you near your highs, each lick and stroke pushing you further and further. Eddie's release comes first, and his mouth temporarily leaves your dripping cunt to moan your name as he cums down your throat. Once you've swallowed every drop, he sucks your clit into his mouth to make you topple over the edge. You scream his name as your legs begin to shake. Your orgasm rips through your body viciously, and you feel yourself cum onto Eddie's face. He holds you steady until your high subsides, licking up all your juices in the meantime.

You collapse onto him, practically gasping for air. You lay on your stomach for a moment, waiting for your vision to clear. Eddie strokes the backs of your legs affectionately. "You alive over there, Y/N?" He asks playfully.

"Yeah, just...wow. You're so fucking good at that." You sit up, back still facing him. His arms wrap around you from behind, his legs on either side of you. He kisses your shoulder, and your neck. His lips feel warm and soft against your skin, and you're already wanting more. You sigh as you cock your head to the side to give Eddie more access. He licks the length of your neck, stopping below your jaw. "Everything you do feels so good, Eddie." You sigh lustfully. You turn slightly to face him, looking at him from under your lashes. "Do you want to fuck me now?" You ask, biting your lip.

"Sure thing, dollface. Can you get on your hands and knees for me?" You nod silently, doing as he says. He kneels behind you, gently pressing you downwards. He leaves you resting on your elbows with your ass in the air. He grips his cock, brushing it between your soaked folds, drawing low moans from both of you. He teases you like this for a moment, eager to have you beg him to fuck you. You're so turned on it almost hurts, you need him inside you now.

"Eddie, please stop teasing. I need your dick inside me." You practically whine for him. He chuckles darkly at your pleading.

"Your wish is my command, princess." He says as he slams his cock into you.

"Oh, fuck!" You cry out as he hits your g spot perfectly.

"God, you're so wet and tight for me. Fuckin’ gorgeous." He pants, and he begins to thrust in and out of you. You moan continuously, he hammers your sweet spot with each thrust. He smacks your ass, making you yell.

"Fuck, Eddie!" You grip the scattered blankets beneath you for dear life, spots hinder your vision as you're fucked into next week. The sound of your vulgar noises and slapping skin is all you can hear, and it's like the most beautiful music in the world. You're loving every second of this, as is Eddie. But there's something else you crave from him. You don't just want Eddie to fuck you, you want him to do filthy things to you. "Babe, do you mind choking me while you fuck me?" You ask him as he continues to pound into your cunt.

He's taken aback by your request. Not because he's not into it, he definitely is. He's just surprised you want him to do that to you. But he finds your desires to be ridiculously sexy, and who is he to deny you? "Of course, darling. Anything you want." You can hear the smirk in his voice as his ringed hand comes forward, pulling you up by the shoulder. He lays on your back slightly so he can reach your throat. You feel the cool metal that adorns his fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing lightly. You choke out a moan as the pressure makes your head lighten. He loosens his grip for a moment as he continues to fuck you.

"Fuck, you're so hot, Eddie. Keep going. Fuck me, choke me, make me cum, please." You keep moaning and begging for Eddie to have his way with you, and he can't help but give you anything you ask for.

"You're such a dirty girl, Y/N. I fuckin’ love it." His grip on your throat tightens again, and he snaps his hips even harder into you. You're both slicked in sweat, struggling to keep your positions. You're nearing the end again, and you can already tell it's going to be the most intense orgasm you've ever had. Your skin is on fire, your insides like burning coals. Every feeling is amplified, concentrated in your pussy. Every time Eddie's cock enters you, it's like fireworks being set off.

Every curse and dirty request you let out makes Eddie's dick twitch. He can't believe how beautiful and sexy you are like this. He's genuinely in love with you, and his heart pounds in his chest as he races to the finish line. His free hand slithers down between your legs to your clit, rubbing quick circles. You gasp loudly, and his ringed hand tightens around your throat. He uses his arm to hold you in place, rubbing and fucking and choking you simultaneously. Eddie mentally congratulates himself on pulling off such a feat, but maintains focus on making you cum. "I'm so close, babe. Keep going, just like that." You say once his grip loosens again.

"I'm almost there too, princess. Be a good girl and cum for me." He pinches your clit between his fingers, sending you toppling over the edge.

"Eddie! Oh, fuck!" You scream so loud, and you feel your pussy clamp onto Eddie's dick. He groans, feeling his own high take over. He continues to hold you as your legs tremble violently, and juices spurt out of you onto the blankets.

"Jesus, Y/N!" He moans as your walls clench him. He feels your cum rush over his cock, spilling out of you. It feels unbelievable, he's never experienced anything like it. His load empties into you, mixing with your release as his hips buck compulsively a few times. Once Eddie regains composure, he pulls out of you. You whine at the loss, and your combined arousal slowly drips out of you. Eddie stares at the sight for a moment, before wiping it up with his finger. You moan at the overstimulation, and lay on your stomach as you cool down. Eddie lays beside you, trying to get your attention. You turn to him, seeing the gathered cum still on his finger. He brings it to your lips, and you immediately take it in your mouth. You suck it clean, moaning at the sweet taste. "Shit, could you be any hotter, Y/N?"

You just shrug and lean over to kiss him. He melts into you, caressing your cheek. The kiss feels different this time. It's slow and tender, full of love. You eventually break away, and you both lay down again. You place your head on his chest, and he wraps his arms around you. Your leg lays over Eddie’s as you try to be as close to him as possible. Your hand strokes his chest while he plays with your hair. "I love you, Eddie. I'm so glad I met you." You say, barely above a whisper.

"I love you too, Y/N. I don't think I've ever loved anyone like this before." He replies at the same volume. He pulls one of the blankets over the both of you, snuggling into you even more. You can't help but let your eyes flutter closed. You're so content like this. Your heart swells as Eddie's words echo in your mind as you drift off to sleep. He loves you, and you love him. Nothing could ruin this moment. The world could end and you wouldn't care, as long as you get to stay like this with Eddie.

The end.

[beefboyandbabygirl]

Pretend It's Someone That Came for You (18+)

pairing: coworker!wonwoo x fem!touch-starved!reader

genre: coworker au, office au, strangers to lovers, angst w a happy ending, smut (MDNI!!), fluffy fluffy fluff fluff

description: you're lonely. you're so lonely you think it might actually kill you. but when wonwoo transfers to your office, he might just change that fact.

warnings: unprotected sex (do NOT pls my babes), soft dom!wonwoo, sub!reader, v loving sex, praise (f. receiving), confession of love, riding, fingering (f. receiving), pussy rubbing tihi, pet names (pretty girl, good girl, baby, darling, etc), VERY angsty beginning, yn is truly v sad so DO NOT READ THIS if u fear it will make u sad!!, they say i love u unrealistically fast but i had to do it, yn uses sex to feel less lonely/ends up feeling more lonely, relatable yn frs, slightly dramatized symptoms of touch-starvation (?), kinda boring plot but idc bc its CUTE AF

quotes from my creative director (@joshibambi): "finally!!" (she was fed tf up), "stanley is the most stanley man ever. i hate him but i love him.", (more r coming she actually didnt have time 2 read this and i didnt want to wait with posting.)

wordcount: 10.0k

a/n: this story was supposed 2 have more angst, like it was supposed to have this whole misunderstanding, but it just didnt feel right, it made me sad, so instead this is a short n sweet love story xx

Sometimes you think that the loneliness might kill you. 

You weren’t always like this. You remember being a sociable, joyful child; half-broken bikes and teddy bears and booster seats. You remember pigtails and popsicle sticks and Power Rangers, and what came after that? Being a moody teenager, became being a moody adult. High school became college, and college became an office job that served to keep you alive, even if it didn’t feel like being alive. College wasn’t that bad, you remember, so at what point had you mistaken isolation for privilege? And at what point had you gone too far into that tunnel-hole to turn back? 

 You must’ve been cursed, you think, putting on your outfit for work in the deadly still apartment. Dust dares not move, dares not give you hope that you are not alone. 

You must’ve been cursed, you think, coming into work to a string of half-hearted, mumbled greetings. Your office is off-white and black and gray and everyone inhabiting it is also off-white and black and gray, and their skin is faintly oily and sickly and their faces are dragging down as if the very earth was reclaiming them and you think that you fit in here better than anywhere else. 

You must’ve been cursed, you think, when you spend your day writing emails and organizing documents of information into different formats to send to huge corporations. Sometimes you fantasize about the other end of the transaction. Maybe their office is warm and brown with an accent of blue, and maybe people put hands on each other's shoulders, when they tell one another they’ve done a good job. 

Yes, there’s no other explanation, you think, and can’t even muster the energy to feel bad when you blame some old hag from your hometown. You think she must’ve conjured up the worst ingredients, something cartoonishly evil, and a spell befell you, sunk into the crevices of your skin and dug into your pores.

You lie on your couch with a glass of wine and the television going, but you’re not really listening. You don’t think anyone has touched you in six months. You’re not even sure you’re real anymore. You swear, you could live with no one hearing you out, because you’re not sure you’d have anything worthwhile to say, but you just needed someone to touch you. To reach out a hand and confirm, you’re real, you’re right underneath my fingertips, and I’m squeezing your shoulder, and I see you, and I feel you right here.

Sometimes you think that the loneliness might kill you.

Lying physically very still, you still feel like you’re scrambling, fighting the clutch of the curse, and tugging on metal chains. Maybe that’s where all your energy goes. 

What do normal people do when they feel this bad?

Sometimes you leave open the window, and when the wind tugs at your door, you pretend it’s someone that came for you. 

Tug, tug, tug. The door rattles against its hinges when the fatally empty sky brings to you, in outstretched palms, the wind interlaced with glimmers of hope. 

There’s never anyone at the door.  _____________________________

This particular day starts like any other. You wake to your alarm and you put on clothes and you get ready and brush your teeth. Then you trample down to the bus stop. The sky is smothered by a duvet of heavy rain clouds. The rain hasn't come yet, but you know it will. Your fingers become stiff and hard, where they adhere to the polyester strap of your bag, massaging it. The bag is cold and dead.

The bus ride is by far the greatest part of your day. It’s quiet - early enough that you’re only accompanied by a few other souls. You rest your head on the window, vibrating gently against the curve of your forehead, and watch the people in the street. 

 The bus hums a gentle tune and snakes down the streets. Then you’re there, and whatever solace that it offers you under artificial light and mediocre, felted seats is gone. 

Your office building is maybe the most depressing place on earth. It’s no glamorous feat of architecture. It is but a large, orange-y, puke-y, brick square, and the building is shared between yours and the Forester company. You don’t talk to the Foresters, but you know they eat cream cheese bagels on their breaks and throw birthday parties and once you saw the branch manager squeezing a salesman’s shoulder and telling him he had done a good job. His fingers squeezed down and the movement of the fabric revealed a shoulder pad built into the suit. You remember thinking it was a shame that it blocked the real touch. 

Today, you walk up the stairs with heavy steps and you idle into the office building, eyes cast down to the dirty, gray carpet. You begin the long trek into the back of the building where your desk is located.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Tina.

“Morning, Tina,” you mumble back.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Gerard. 

“Morning, Gerard,” you mumble back. 

“Morning.”

“M-”

Wait a minute. 

Your greeting falls short. You don’t recognize that voice. Stopping in your tracks, your shoes scratch on the rough carpet, and lift your head to see him. 

The first thing you notice is that he’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. He looks like he jumped out of an underwear commercial; he’s all strong jawline, sharp eyes, round glasses on his pretty nose, neatly trimmed, short dark hair stretching down the planes of his face. He’s wearing a button up (usually you wouldn’t even register the clothing your coworkers adorned, but something about how he wore it was noteworthy), a tie draping over the dress shirt, and formal slacks hugging his thighs. 

He smiles at you sheepishly, hands nervously smoothing down his thighs. 

“I’m Wonwoo” he says curtly, nodding to you. “Just transferred from the Wallingset branch.” 

You nod. “Right. Wallingset,” you nod more. “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/n.” 

“Nice to meet you too, Y/n.” 

Something about your name on his lips makes your heart flutter. It’s pathetic, you know, but his peregrine being in his office chair, spilling your name from his pink lips makes you feel a little more real. You look at him and then you nod again-again, kicking your legs into gear again and walking the last stretch to your desk. 

You can see the back of his head from your orange-wood desk. Papers and sticky notes are scattered among the desktop. The monitor watches you accusingly, all big and square and black, waiting for you to open it up and begin working. Your eyes linger on him for a moment. Then you work. 

A few hours pass on emails and translating information from a company into a comprehensive sheet. However, today you’re having a hard time focusing on work. 

This is not new. 

Sometimes you briefly talk to a man at the grocery store, and your mind will wander to him for next week, wondering if he’s thinking about you too, imagining yourself cuddling with him, watching movies, imagining him telling you it’ll all be okay. Sometimes you briefly talk to a man on the street, sometimes it’s even a date, but whatever the case you obsess and you dream and you always end up alone. 

Today the victim of your depraved mind is Wonwoo. The guilt is easy to push away. You feel sorry for yourself. You think you deserve this. You think you can’t survive without this. And so you imagine him hugging you, stroking your hair, and you imagine him falling in love with you, and you imagine not being alone. Your fingers rest on your keyboard. It’s old and mechanical. You think it’s from a yard sale, probably an old woman whose children moved away. It’s plastic, and it curves inwards underneath the pads of your fingertips. The keys are cold and dead. 

You fully zone out, eyes blearing into the back of his head, but you don’t really see it, your mind has traveled elsewhere. You guiltily imagine his hand between your legs, on your chest, straddling him, kissing him. And it’s not rough, it’s loving, because in this world he loves you, and he’d do anything for you, and you don’t have to be alone again.

You don’t love Wonwoo. It’s not some magical love at first sight, it’s not a romance book, it’s real life. You’re lonely. You need this to survive. 

“Hey, Y/n?” 

You snap your head up. Maybe you were still daydreaming. But you recognized the voice well and true, and it was Wonwoo, leaned over your desk, hands in his pockets.

“Oh, uhm, hey-” your voice is shaky and you quickly rush to compose yourself, hands moving frantically and uselessly to glide papers over one another and, then, realizing that there was no point to your movements, stilling and looking up at him, cheeks flushed. “Hey.” 

Wonwoo smiles gently. “Uh, you know, I was wondering,” he looks around the office, as if surveying the area. “If you knew where to get a good lunch? I don’t know this area at all, so..” 

He trails off, looking at you expectantly for an answer. Now that he’s standing before you, it’s much harder to ignore the guilt you feel. You wanna gnaw at your nails until they’re nubs, you want to crawl under your desk and cover your eyes. Does he see how red your cheeks are? 

“Uhm- well- I don’t- I eat a packed lunch, so I’m-” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I’m, uh, no expert,” you giggle awkwardly and watch his gentle smile drop into pursed lips. “But! Uh- I hear the- the hot dog stand, uh, just a little down the street is good!” 

“Really? Maybe I should try it,” he contemplates, smile returning to his lips. “Would you mind showing me this mysterious hot dog stand?” 

“Uh-” 

Just seconds before you were thinking of his fingers in your pussy, and his hands caressing you, and him making you feel loved. He’s standing before you and he’s a totally normal guy, and you feel like shit. You feel like shit for using this fake image of him to comfort yourself. You can’t be around him, can’t convince yourself that maybe this’ll turn into something more - not when you always end up alone. Your brows furrow in determination.

“Actually, I have to, uh, get this done, so-” you gesture vaguely to your monitor. 

“Right! Yeah,” Wonwoo seems embarrassed, biting his lips and nodding. “It’s, uh, just down the street?” 

“Yeah, to the right when you walk out the building.” 

“For sure. Thanks,” he doesn’t even look at you then, just waves you off half-heartedly and starts trailing down the office. His shoulders are incredibly broad and his belt wraps tightly around his small waist.

You feel like shit.  _____________________________

Why is no one else cursed? 

You look out of the window, lying on your bed after work. Everything is very still and unmoving - your whole apartment feels like it’s knotted in strings, tightened until everything is snapped into place, and if you move the wrong muscles, the invisible hands will let go and everything will fly and hurdle through your home, and you can almost hear the sound, like the hard, empty sound of throwing a bowling ball and getting a strike. 

No one else is cursed. People crowd the streets with friends, family, partners, and they’re talking and laughing. You rest your head in the windowsill, a lone spectator in the window. The glass cuts you off from the streets. 

The afternoon after daydreaming the way you did about Wonwoo is always hard. Your apartment seems intent on suffocating you. Your daydreams serve as a reminder that you’re alone, that you truly have no one, and the act itself is so humiliating, you sulk into a glass of red wine and sometimes you cry. What do normal people do when they feel this bad, you wonder again, sobbing in your bed and spilling wine on your nightie. 

Nighttime falls early while you’re crying. You weep on and off, hug your knees, eat a microwave dinner and watch TV, light casting onto your pathetic form on the couch.

And in your most vulnerable state is when you most easily slip into your old habits. 

You press an old contact in your phone, one you’d tried to steer away from recently. You wipe mascara from your reddened cheeks, you wear pretty lingerie, and you lie, completely empty, void of any warmth, on your bed, awaiting.

It’s the first time he touches you in months. When his hand finds your shoulder, you shudder terribly. Sorry, he says, and he seems taken aback. Just ignore it, you plead, just ignore it. He does so, unsurely, and every time his hand grazes over your body you shudder and sob and every time he hesitates, asking if you’re okay, you cry at him to continue.

It feels good while it’s happening. Skin beneath your fingertips, hands on you, a face close to yours. You and him are the only thing moving in the apartment, synergizing on your bed, conjoining and writhing, and for just a moment, you don’t feel so alone. 

When you’re done the anonymous man stands back up, sliding on his pants in the late hour. He says it was great and you hum. But then he looks around, hesitating on every old piece of furniture, on every photo on the walls, and lastly on you.

“What?” you ask, lying naked in your bed. He grimaces at you, as if signaling that he can’t quite figure it out himself. 

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, hands on his newly-clothed hips and surveying the corners of the room, where shadows pool. “It feels haunted in here.” 

He leaves. 

When the warmth is gone, the bile rises in your throat. Old habits die hard, you think, and you feel totally empty. You couldn’t go on like this. It was nights like these you began to feel like a martyr - sacrificing yourself for a brief escape. Because when the door is closed with a click and you’re alone again, you feel yourself trembling and your heart is glowing red in the empty astral plane. Brief, easy forms of pleasure are often the most harmful.

It feels haunted in here. You remember his words, and before you finally fall asleep, you wonder one thing. You wonder if you’re already dead.  _____________________________

The next day is a pain to overcome. You’re slightly hungover, slightly sore, and very uncomfortable. But you comply with your routine, and you enjoy the bus ride, and when you get to the office everyone greets you. 

 “Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Tina.

“Morning, Tina,” you mumble back.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Gerard. 

“Morning, Gerard,” you mumble back. 

“Morning, Y/n,” Wonwoo says. You look up from the carpet carefully, flashing him an apologetic smile. You hope he can read its intention: Sorry about being weird yesterday. You think he got it.

“Morning, Wonwoo.” 

And then you’re landing yourself at your own desk and beginning work once more. It’s boring, but today you ward off the daydreams and you focus, and you’re getting an exceptional amount done. 

The clock on the wall (off-white, but yellowing near the top) reads 12:28 when your boss, Stan, approaches your table. He’s half bald, and his suit is much too loose, and he has a ladder of wrinkles climbing his larger-than-life forehead. 

“Hey, N/n!” he calls, so loud that a couple of heads turn at the commotion. You’ve asked him several times not to call you that. 

“Stanley,” you breathe, tapping a stack of papers on your desk to neaten the pile. You wonder if you were in trouble, but if his smile is anything to go by, you’d guess not. 

“My favorite woman in accounting!” 

“Hehe,” you laugh half-heartedly. You catch the eye of Wonwoo, glancing over his shoulder with a small, teasing smile. You smile back. 

“I have a big- oh wait, wait, new guy, uhh, Jeon? Come over here real quick!” Suddenly his solid fingers waft the now scared Wonwoo over. The spectacled man’s shoulders hunch up as he moves off the chair, nodding respectfully. Wonwoo stands beside Stanley at your desk, and you focus your attention on Stanley, hoping to not get too lost in the idea of Wonwoo again - you were doing so good today. 

“I have a big job for you, and I thought you could work with Wonwoo on it,” Stan moves his hand up to cup the side of his mouth, as if telling you a big secret, “seeing as he was a bit of a star over in Wallingset.”

Shit. The guy you were daydreaming about was working with you? Wonwoo laughs, embarrassed, but you hardly have time to catch it. You can’t do this. Yesterday you were thinking about him fingering you while looking at you lovingly!

“We have a massive, new client! Just dropped a big competitor of ours, and they want us to do their six month report!” Stanley seems genuinely excited about this, so you can’t help feeling a little guilty that you’ll be a gobbering, slobbering mess, sitting beside Wonwoo on this. 

“That’s great-”

“I know! So, my two star members in accountancy, I’ll hand this off to you. The data should be coming into your emails soon,” without letting either of you react, Stanley hunches over, like a coach does before a little-league baseball game, wrapping his arms around both of you and Wonwoo. “You got this, troopers!” 

Stanley claps his hands on both of your backs, so hard you jerk forward at the movement, and then he bounces off to the elevator at the far end of the room. You sigh heavily from the interaction. It’s quiet for a moment, while you fiddle with the papers in front of you.

“What a guy,” Wonwoo muses finally, thin fingers resting on the edge of your desk. You giggle, unable to look him in the eye for fear that you might remember how you’d thought about starting a family with him. “Yeah.”

You and Wonwoo settle into an unoccupied meeting room, and it’s all very professional. Markers and post-its, trying to find the best way to structure the report, excel sheets to categorize and overlook data, double check numbers. 

However bad you think it’s going to be, you’re wrong. Wonwoo is easy to talk to - he’s quiet, but he’s intelligent, and he understands how to bring on conversation, even when you fold in on yourself like a used napkin. 

“Yeah, we used to steal signs from our neighborhood,” Wonwoo admits halfway into a conversation about your hometowns. “I don’t think that’s gonna fly anymore.” 

“Why stop now? You’re letting societal rules hold you back,” you joke, and the two of you laugh, and it’s so pathetic, you’re certain you haven’t laughed this much in years, and the conversation has lasted maybe 20 minutes. 

“Well, I could show you the craft, you know, it’s a delicate process-” 

While Wonwoo talks your phone buzzes and you absent-mindedly pick it up, reviewing the notification.

Your grin drops. Faintly, you hear Wonwoo stop talking. He tilts his head to study the way you frown at the screen. “What’s up?” he asks. 

It’s the guy from last night and he’s asking if you’ll be available again tonight. 

Maybe it’s how you could almost forget it - how you let yourself into positions that would hurt you, just to feel seen and heard and touched. Maybe it’s the dichotomy of that encounter and now, talking to Wonwoo, and having the laughter steal away the loneliness. But you’re reminded so terribly of your position. You’re reminded that this, too, will end, and that the loneliness will return. You’re reminded that once the shift ends, you’re alone again. 

Suddenly you’re a thousand daggers all pointing out. You shield yourself. 

“Uh,” you trail off, putting the phone down again. “Just some guy.” 

Wonwoo’s eyebrows raise. “Boyfriend?” 

“No!” you say quickly. “No, he’s, uh. Just some guy.” 

A pause. 

“Okay,” Wonwoo says. You don’t even remember where you left off the conversation. You bite your lip because everything is all agony. The table is cold and dead beneath your hand. 

“I’m thinking we group these together,” you say, eyes now tuned to your screen and fully submerged back into your work. Work. That was all that could cover your beaten down, cursed self. 

The rest of the shift you feel Wonwoo looking at you carefully, as if he’s trying to read you. You don’t talk about yourselves anymore, no more banter, no more witty comments. You structure the report, and try to ignore how his eyes laser you open. You don’t like it. You feel like he can tell you’re a pathetic, lonely woman and that you have nothing and no one. You feel like he can sense the curse upon you. 

This would be torture.  _____________________________

It is not torture. 

The next day, to your surprise, Wonwoo is nowhere to be seen. You wait 5, 10, then 15 minutes in the meeting room you’d camped in, before you begin working on your own. It’s slower without him, but you manage. 

You can’t help but slightly worry about him. It feels stupid. You know you’re putting too much emotion into a person you’d known for two days, but you can’t help it. You wonder if he’s gotten hurt or injured, or if maybe he hates you and has transferred back. You think even Excel finds you pathetic. 

You sit there for three hours, among the ruins of paperwork and your open laptop, running your hand through your hair and typing in sentences that mean nothing, and the wallpaper is off-white and yellowing at the top, and the blinds are closed to the meeting room. 

Around 1 PM the door to the meeting room is opened, wood smacking against the glass that surrounds it, and Wonwoo stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath. You snap your head up to him, like the jerk of a lifeless doll, suddenly interrupted from a very disorganized Excel sheet.

“Hi, shit, sorry,” he gasps, slinging his bag off of his shoulder to sit down next to you. 

“Are you okay?” you ask immediately, and Wonwoo nods blindly, pulling his laptop out of his bag. “Yeah,” he says, cheeks slightly flushed and licking his lips. “My cat- my cat needed surgery, she got sick last night, it was an emergency.” 

You nod in understanding, “it’s okay-” 

You can hardly get the words out before Wonwoo rolls his chair back, wheels resounding hollowly on the floor, so he can look at you clearly. “I’m really sorry about this, it was not nice of me to leave you alone with this.” He gestures vaguely to the scattered papers, and you shake your head.

“It’s okay, Wonwoo, I get it,” you say reassuringly, peering up at him through your lashes. “You don’t need to worry about it. You’re here now.” 

Wonwoo seems less intent on personal conversations today - it’s probably because he was so late, and now is trying to make up the time. But it’s okay, in fact you’re somewhat relieved, because it dampens the false hope that blooms in your chest, whenever he asks you about your life. 

Even if you and Wonwoo work hard and quietly, you slip into the late hours of the night in an attempt to keep on track for your schedule. Outside the windows that separate you from real life, the sky turns orange, and then dark, muted blue, and stars begin dotting its impressive stretches. People begin to leave around five, and by the time you and Wonwoo finish all your work, you’re the last ones left on your floor of the office. 

Wonwoo lets out a loud sigh when he finally finishes the second segment of your report, and the both of you slump back in your seats. 

“It’s so fucking late,” Wonwoo limply throws his hand in the direction of the window. You smile a little, looking out. Smaller buildings spawn geometrically from the ground, and every once in a while someone walks by with their dog, spotlighted by the stretch of street lamps that stand outside the parking lot. “I really am sorry about this, you know. Really ruined your night,” he says quietly. 

You shake your head. “It’s fine, I had nothing to come home to anyway.” 

There’s a pause.

Wonwoo looks at you intensely. Oh shit, you realize, was that too obvious? Was that too pathetic? Has it just clicked that you’re a loser that no one wants? You nervously look back at him, but there’s no malice in his eyes. A totally unreadable expression adorns his features, where he’s leaned back in his leather chair, legs spread invitingly. You look away, feeling dumb. 

“At least we followed our schedule!” you say. Wonwoo snorts.

“Yeah, thanks to you. If you hadn’t completed so much before I got here, it would’ve been hopeless.” 

Now it’s your turn to scoff, blushing lightly and looking at the linoleum flooring. “I don’t know about tha-” 

“Seriously, Y/n, just take the compliment,” Wonwoo reaches a hand over, and you watch its movement.

It’s like time slows down, not like the movies, no, like you can stop time with the heavy weight of your gaze, pinning his muscles in place. But you can’t, and it lands on your shoulder with a soft thud. Fuck. His hand is warm and alive on you. 

“You did so well today, I-” Wonwoo cuts himself off, because suddenly you’re trembling. 

He feels your body shuddering and jerking under his hand, like the wind rattles your door when you leave it open, and he can’t see your face behind a curtain of hair, but he hears you gasp, and, fuck, you look like you’re sobbing. 

The man from last night had become so hesitant when you reacted this way. When your body trembled and shook and when you cried, but Wonwoo seems to understand. He peers at you from above the rims of his glasses, and his hand stays put right there on your shoulder. 

“Y/n,” he whispers, so sincere it causes a pathetic squeak to escape you. What must he think of you? The thoughts spiral and you can’t control a single one of them, they dance like freed souls in your head, and you can’t stop the spasming of your muscles, and you know you look so pathetic beside him right. “Y/n, look at me.” 

You don’t. You can’t. You can’t because there are tears spilling from the rims of your eyes, and rolling down your cheeks, wet and glossy. Besides, you’re an ugly crier. 

“Look at me,” he says seriously, finger tightening on your shoulder. You try to steady your breath and calm your tears, before you obey and begin to turn your chair. The simple motion requires so much effort - it’s like the air has become so thick, that the friction against your leather seat slows you down. 

Finally you turn to him, eyes first resting on his knees, then, carefully, traveling up to his face. He’s frowning. 

Your face is reddened and your eyes are puffy, your cheeks are shiny and you chew your bottom lip in a futile attempt to keep the tears at bay. 

Wonwoo looks genuinely devastated. The hand on your shoulder softens its grasp, then begins petting your arm, rubbing up and down. The action has you choking out gasps, trembling even more in his hold, and Wonwoo feels the need to roll his chair closer to you, so his other hand can grab yours. His thumb rubs over the back of it, and he lowers his head to look at you. 

“Shh, relax, relax, Y/n,” he whispers, and you try to nod, but it’s so overwhelming; being touched, being seen, being heard, all at once. For months, maybe years, no one has touched you like this - as if they care. Now the feeling is foreign, so scorching hot on your arm and your hand, your body can’t take it anymore. You’re stuck between wanting to lean into his hands, wanting to feel how real you are, and how physically true your existence is, and wanting to shy away. What must he think of you? 

“Y/n,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the sigh of your sobbing. “When was the last time someone touched you?” 

You hiccup painfully. “Uhm- I- I don’t, ” your eyes are bleary and your lashes are wet. Your lip trembles and your whole body shakes when you try to breathe. 

Apparently this was enough of an answer for Wonwoo, because he suddenly stands, somewhat harshly tugging you into a standing position too, and pulls you directly into the harbor of his arms. 

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his torso. His chest is pressed flat against yours, so, so warm, when he nudges your head into the crook of his neck, and presses his face against its side, sighing softly into you, and breathing warm air onto your hair. His palms push you into him, soothing your trembling body, and holding you like an anker. One hand travels up to your hair. 

“W-Wonwoo, you don’t have to-”

“Shh,” he quiets you immediately, voice the softest wind of a peach tree. “Just let me take care of you.” 

You do. Wonwoo holds you until you stop crying, and though it must’ve been twenty minutes or so, it feels like no time at all. Standing in his space, breathing in his dark cologne, and letting his heat thaw your dead heart is a totally timeless act. Joy and serenity flows from the places where your bodies touch. When you stop crying, Wonwoo holds you for longer. 

Eventually, he lets you go. 

You step back sheepishly, now much calmer and the red in your face faded. You wipe your tired eyes shyly with your sleeve. 

“Thank you, Wonwoo,” you mumble, voice thick and garbled. When you look up at him, he smiles softly, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says softly, arm extending one last time to squeeze your forearm. Then it falls limp again. 

“I, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” 

“Of course.” 

When you return home, you’re buzzing. Your entire apartment buzzes along with you, things seem to clatter and beam along with the bright, glowing of your heart. You snuggle into bed and nothing is still and even when you’re drifting into sleep, your nerve endings spin in joyful circles, and your feet are a static hum. Suddenly you are very, very real. _____________________________

You’d think the next day would be tense and awkward, and maybe it is at first, but soon enough you’re talking again, more intimately than before even. 

This is Wonwoo’s doing - you know this. You know he’s smart and you know he doesn’t want you to feel bad, so he makes conversation and builds trust between the two of you. You know he hopes you don’t feel insecure. Every word he says and every flick of his eyes is riddled with it. 

The conversation decidedly slows down your progress, so Wonwoo once more suggests staying overtime. You look at him for a moment before agreeing. 

You can’t tell what his end goal is. A chamber of your heart has been revived and rebirthed, and you’re more chipper, more bouncy, but the rest of your heart insists: you’re still cursed - eventually it’ll go back to how it should be. You listen. You try not to get your hopes up that Wonwoo really cares about you. Why should he, really?

Although when you’re done for the day, about an hour after your usual 5 PM, you stand up and begin to pack your things, laptop sliding into your bag and clustering pens in your hand. It’s gray outside, but the sun comes in a single strand through a gap in the smog and the clouds. The wind hoots by the windows, and it smells like the indian you ordered for lunch together. 

You stop your packing, feeling a set of eyes in your back. You twist your head to see him.

Wonwoo is sitting completely still in his chair, slack-covered legs spread open, and he makes no move to collect his own things. He just stares. 

“What’s up?” you quip. You’re slightly nervous. Just before it was all silly childhood stories, college and weed and life before the dead-end job. Now Wonwoo has that unreadable expression on his face again. 

He slowly lifts his hands from the armrest, eyes locked with yours, and claps his palms on the tops of his thighs. 

Your eyebrows furrow. 

“Wha-” 

“Come here,” he says simply. When you stand completely still, like a deer in the headlights, Wonwoo scoffs and rolls his eyes. “What? You think you’re cured because someone hugged you once?” 

“Cured?”

“You’re touch-starved, Y/n,” Wonwoo states matter-of-factly, “you need to be touched.” 

“Touch-starved?” you echo, a bewildered expression on your face.

“We can also just hug, like yesterday,” he suggests calmly. You envy his collectedness. “I just don’t want you to feel bad. So please. Come sit.”

To emphasize, Wonwoo pats his thighs again, patiently. You step away from your bag with hesitating steps, pursing your lips. Your cheeks blaze when you look at his thighs again - they’re so long, and the folds in his slacks stretch down and centralize on his crotch and- You’re being a pervert. 

“Okay,” you squeak and Wonwoo tuts. Why is that hot, you think, why the hell is that hot?

“We can just hug if you-” 

You feel bold.

Without letting him finish, you swing your leg over his, and plop down, straddling halfway down his thighs. You thank God you put pants on this morning instead of a skirt, when you look down at where you rest on top of him. 

Wonwoo is a little taken aback, but when you’ve settled on him, his hands find your waist and he looks up at you with a hum. Your breathing is a little shaky. Once again his hands provide a pumping of golden joy into your body, and more of you comes alive and becomes real, and you smile. 

What had Wonwoo been talking about? Touch-starved?

“What’s, um-” your question is cut off with a gasp, when Wonwoo uses his hands on your middle to tug you closer. You rest on the highest point of thighs that you can without sitting on his dick. Cheeks red and eyes squeezed shut, you hear how Wonwoo hums, pleased. “What were you talking about? Touch-starved?” you whisper, keeping your eyes shut. 

Wonwoo sighs, and once more, like the movement is entirely replayed, his hand finds your hair and pushes your face into the crook of his neck. You sigh against it, enjoying how his arms protect you and hide you from the evil of the world. 

“If you don’t touch anyone,” Wonwoo begins, his voice low bass in your ear, “you become touch-starved. That’s why you reacted the way you did yesterday.” 

His hands run up and down your sides. 

“But- but I’m not crying today,” you say quietly into his neck. Wonwoo hums.

“No, that’s good,” he says. “We can stop if you really want, I just wa-”

“No!” your voice squeaks immediately, and, as if he were running from you, you fist his shirt to keep him close. 

“Okay,” there’s a smile in Wonwoo’s voice. You can’t see it but you can imagine it. 

Comfortable silence. Wonwoo traces patterns on your back and you breathe deeply against the skin of his neck. The two of you function as one living thing, the only living thing left in the office. Chairs are turned halfway, a couple lights are left on. The desks betray the past presence of humans. 

“Wonwoo,” you pip. 

“Mhm?” 

“You don’t have to do this, you know? I don’t want you to do it if you- if it’s just.. Pity.” 

Wonwoo sighs, and you feel the way his torso deflates underneath you. He trails his hand up from your back to tap your cheek. You move back and look at him. 

Your faces are very close, you can feel how your exhales collide and then scatter, hell, you think you could count each of his eyelashes from here. 

“I already told you. I’m doing this because I don’t want you to feel bad. I-” he hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips. “I’ve been there. So I know what it’s like.” 

The thought of Wonwoo feeling like this, like you, is sickening. Genuinely sickening, you feel your insides turn to rot and mold and you frown so deeply, you think your lips might forever lock in that position. 

“I’m okay now,” he reassures, reading you immediately. His hand finds your cheek and he almost cries out at the way you lean into it blindly. 

“How did you-.. I- I always thought it was, like, a lifelong curse,” you say.

“A curse?” Wonwoo grins, thumb stroking over the skin of your cheek. It makes you happy, it makes you feel like your heart will burst. 

“Yeah. I guess I just blamed some old woman from my hometown,” you giggle, blushing a little because, yes, it did sound stupid when you weren’t just echoing the theory to yourself, like playing a team sport alone. 

“You’re not cursed,” Wonwoo promises, tucking your head into his chest. “I’ll help you, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you from now on.” 

He does take care of you. 

Every day you work overtime, and every day when you’re done with work, Wonwoo slides you into his lap and holds you, while you curl up in his chest. Then you talk and you laugh, and you listen to each other's music. His hands run warm up your back and in your hair and on your hips, gentle caresses, deeply intimate. For two weeks you and Wonwoo indulge in this nighttime ritual. 

You have not felt lonely since that night. And Wonwoo can tell. Your skin is warmer and brighter, you smile wider, your eyes twinkle, and there’s energy in every movement. Your body thaws under his warm hands every night, and sometimes when you smile, he gets so happy he could kiss you. 

You realize you like Wonwoo one particular night when you’re falling asleep in your bed and you can still feel the ghost of his arms around you and it lulls you into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you wake up you smell a little bit like his cologne. That’s how you realize. You like how considerate and how gentle he is, you like how sweet he is to you, you like how he looks when he smiles and when he laughs and you like how much he loves his cat. You like how his arms feel wrapped around you. 

And you like him, and suddenly your apartment is a song that you dance in, and every photo on your walls is smiling and your bed is always warm and so is your heart. 

There’s nothing dead in here, you think, when you cook a delicious meal on the stovetop, sauce bubbling in a stainless steel pan. Nothing haunted about your home or your heart. _____________________________

“We’re almost done.” 

“Mhm.” 

“I can’t believe we’re almost done!” 

Wonwoo looks up, bemused, lips made small and pointed. You’re staring at the almost-done document, scrolling up and down through long and arduous paragraphs. It’s nighttime again - not that you had to stay late today, it was a choice - and the city glimmers brilliantly in the coolness. You and Wonwoo wear sweaters to keep warm. 

“Feels like a lifetime,” Wonwoo murmurs, same smile upon his beautiful face. His cheekbones point out from beneath his skin. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, leaning back. You won’t put your fingers back on the keyboard. Not when it could be done so soon. You look at him, all snuggled up in a brown sweater. “What if..” 

A pause. He tilts his head.

“Well, are we still gonna talk?” you chew your lip dejectedly, feeling a little sad and desperate, but Wonwoo only laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, it’s one you associate with joy. 

“Of course,” he says, as his laughter quiets down. “If you want to.” 

A shy smile forms on your lips. You turn to look back at the computer, but you hear the now-familiar sound of Wonwoo patting his thighs. You flit your eyes back to him, teasingly scolding.

“We’re not done.” 

“We don’t have to be done now,” he shrugs, an equally teasing smile on his lips. You roll your eyes, but, unsurprisingly, you shift over to him, sitting down in his lap. He immediately tugs you closer, fingers searching for stimulation on the seams of your jeans. There’s something different about Wonwoo today, you realize, his touch is more feverish, his fingers dig deeper into the fat of your hips and he looks up at you like you’re a diamond-encrusted chandelier, hanging from the ceiling, all glittering jewels. 

“What’s up?” you giggle nervously. It’s becoming hard to breathe with the way he paws at your hips. 

There’s something in the air between you, but maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you, concocting the magnetic pull that lingers between you, the thicker, heavier air, that urges you closer. 

He sighs heavily, as if he was dreading this. All of a sudden composed, cool, icy Wonwoo is chewing his lip and avoiding your eyes, looking instead down where your fat gives way for his needy fingers. 

“I, uh, I really like you, Y/n,” his voice shakes. “Would you. Maybe. Want to go out some time?” 

At the last syllable his gaze locks on to yours, and you watch him visibly relax, because you’re fucking grinning. 

Not maliciously, not crudely, not a dime or a dab of evil, only genuine joy. 

“I-I would like that,” you control your smile, pointing your lips in the same way that Wonwoo does and blushing all over. Wonwoo grins too and it’s unbearably boyish. 

“Okay,” he says, as if he can’t believe it. “Okay. Great.” 

The window slams shut, the spell is undone by his hand, the dead defy their only law to bow to his necromancy. Wonwoo is alive and warm underneath you, and you are alive and warm on top of him, thighs pushed up against his and tugging at the fabric of his shirt. Your balloon of heart pops in your chest, and the bone-cage of your chest is filled with helium, that has you floating. Rosy and shiny, your heart beats at twice its normal speed.

There’s a lull in the conversation. It would’ve been a more comfortable silence, if you couldn’t see by how Wonwoo looks down and purses his lips, that he’s itching to say more. 

Sparked by his confession, you confidently snake your hand up to tap his cheek lazily. He turns to you with a loafy smile. “What is it?” 

He breathes out unsteadily.

“You’re-” he closes his eyes. “There’s so much I like about you. It- It makes me feel really bad that you weren’t feeling well, so I-” 

He cringes at himself, one hand pushing away his glasses to rub the eyes underneath them. 

“Can I make you feel better?” he asks vaguely. 

You huff out a laugh. “Are you trying to ask if I want to have sex?” 

He laughs too, behind his big hand. “No. It’s not the same, I want it to be about you!” 

You laugh more, and Wonwoo’s face reappears as he lowers his hand. He looks up at you adoringly, dotingly. He’s smiling.

“I’m being serious,” he says quietly, when you finish. He seems less embarrassed now, more so smug. “I want to make you feel good.” 

He’s paying an awful lot of attention to your hips, which he has not let up massaging and squeezing roughly. 

“Can I..?” he begins, eyes fixed on your hips in his lap. “Can I make you cum?” 

Then, slowly, Wonwoo lifts his hands and gently places them around on your face. His touch is always as soft as a hope-laced wind. He’s warm and he’s alive and he’s holding onto you, and you see it in his eyes: you’re real, you’re right underneath my fingertips. 

“Please.”

That’s all he needs, before he presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is everything you want it to be; because it’s loving. It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s gentle, there’s no tongue, just the soft, warm, real, alive flows of his lips against your own. His hands on both of your cheeks caress your cheekbones gently, and warm air is spilled in the small space between you. He pulls away, panting. 

“I don’t understand it,” he mumbles, before he’s pressing his lips back to yours hungrily. You let out a confused hum, and you have to gently push at his shoulder to back him off again. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“Why you were so alone,” he breathes, transfixed on your lips. “I want to be with you all the time.” 

Before you can respond, Wonwoo grips the underside of your thighs, lifting you and himself from the chair and placing you on the desk. You gasp at the impact when the glass table meets your bottom, and Wonwoo is standing over you, suddenly so tall and so broad, and slimming at the waist. His narrow eyes become hooded behind the reflection of his glasses. His head is tilted down to meet yours.

“Can I take off your clothes, pretty?” 

You don’t answer, only grip the edge of your shirt, tugging it over your head, so your bra-clad chest is exposed to him. He groans at the sight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles, nimble fingers dancing across your back to unclip the bra, sucking in a harsh breath the fabric becomes loose, sliding down your arms. “Such a pretty girl.” 

“Stop,” you whisper, face warm and red. Your heart has never beat this way. It’s utterly unbearable and addicting at the same time, it’s without rhythm or class, it’s wild. And it’s because he’s looking at you and it’s not just lust. It’s adoration. There are deeper strings to the make-up of his eyes, there are lines connected to his heart, and he’s all flushed.

“What?” he asks. “I’m just telling you the truth.” 

Wonwoo throws your bra on the floor next to him, hands finding the hem of your pants. “Can I take your pants off?” 

You nod, still so shy and abashed, because Wonwoo’s eyes feel like a pink spotlight, and you are bathed in its warmth. He unbuttons your pants and you gently slide off the table to work them off your legs. 

“Your panties are cute,” Wonwoo remarks (it should feel lewd, but he has a hand on your hip, that brushes the bone and he smiles at it). “Thank you,” you breathe, before you’re taking them off too.

Wonwoo doesn’t need to, but he still insists on gently lifting you back onto the table, and he kisses your nose when you’re sitting before him. He’s standing in between your legs, and then he’s looking down at where wetness drips onto the glass table. 

His hand slides down your stomach, resting on the fat of it. He’s smiling, he’s so gorgeous, because he’s smiling the most gentle smile at how wet you are and how it leaks onto the table and his hand is so warm on your stomach, doing nothing, yet turning you on even more than you’d ever been before.

He sighs like he’s carrying the greatest burden on his broad back. “You’re so pretty,” he says, almost exasperated by it. He pinches some of the fat of your stomach between his fingers lovingly. “I can’t believe I get to have you like this.” 

Then the hand on your stomach slides down further. His large, veiny hand cups your pussy, the tips of his fingers just barely teasing your hole. You whimper against him, hands finding his biceps for support. Wonwoo studies you, craning his neck down to peer at your face, while his fingers begin swaddling your folds. 

“You’re so wet, baby,” he mumbles, trying to catch your eye where you bury into his chest. One finger dips into your hole, penetrating slowly and settling knuckle-deep. 

“Wonnie!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Mmm, clenching down on Wonnie’s finger so hard. My beautiful girl.” 

He begins pushing his finger in and out of you, pace slow and torturous. His other hand slides up and down your body, squeezing your waist then your thigh, then coming right back up to fondle your chest. He pushes your back flat against the glass, so you’re all splayed out for him and you watch him from there, eyes hooded and legs spread to accommodate him. He breathes in shakily at the sight of you. 

“Shit, Y/n. What were you doing hiding all this from me?” His finger picks up the pace, as another finger slips in alongside it. You’re moaning and panting, lips red and hair mussed, unable to focus on his words, when his fingers curl against that spongy spot inside you. Apparently Wonwoo expects an answer though, because he speaks again, voice lower and rougher. “Hm? You didn’t want to go have lunch? What, was it that guy?”

“W-What?” 

“Just some guy,” Wonwoo echoes your past words, emphasizing with a harsh thrust of his fingers. 

“N-No, I- Hng!” you cry out, when Wonwoo’s thumb presses onto your clit. He rubs it torturously. “I-I was embarrassed because I- I was thinking about you!” 

“Oh?” this catches Wonwoo’s attention, as he diligently works his hand within you, staring down at your naked form, fully clothed and tall. “Tell me what you were thinking about, baby.” 

“This!” you cry out, too high off the pleasure to really feel embarrassed about it.

“Pretty, sweet, dumb baby. You were thinking about you whimpering and writhing while I fuck you with my hand, hm?”

“N-No,” you mumble, cheeks aflame. “W-Was thinking about you l-liking me.” 

At this Wonwoo hastily leans over you, pressing his lips onto yours again, and this time his tongue pries open your mouth, wet and warm in the cavern of your mouth. You moan into the kiss, hips canting into his hand. There’s something so desperate about him then, something so eager in the way he crooks his fingers, and how he kisses you, panting and covering your face in warm air. You feel a tight knot in your stomach.

“Cum on my fingers, please, pretty, sweet, baby, darling,” he mumbles into your mouth, rushing out the words before he’s sealing your lips again. 

“God, I think I might fall in love with you.” 

That makes you cum. You cum so fucking hard, clenching around his fingers like an air-tight seal, and your cum spills onto his fingers and his name spills into his mouth. The curse comes out with it, escaping like the air that spills out from an ancient, rediscovered chamber, and dissipating into the night. Your heart is beating and you’re breathing into his mouth, nose brushing his. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, finally releasing your lips and letting his lips fall heavy and wet on your cheek. 

He pulls out his fingers, unbearably wet and slick, and you think for a second that he’ll let you calm down and then maybe he’ll put his dick in you, but as soon as the fingers are out of you, they’re settling back on to your clit, rubbing heavy-handed circles.

You whine, arching your back off the table and wiggling your hips at the overstimulation. His other hand catches your hip and he shushes your cries softly. 

“You can cum again, can’t you, baby? You can take it,” he says, so nonchalantly, while his slick fingers rub you. You cry out. Your legs are shaking. “Think you can cum again from just this?”

“Y-Yes,” you sigh and when you look down, his entire hand covers your pussy, as he pets your clit in circles. He smiles at your words, pinching your clit teasingly. It causes a squeak to escape you, hips struggling against his hold, where he pins you to the table.

“Good girl,” he praises, purring. “Letting me use your pretty pussy like this, letting me make you feel good.” 

His body in front of you prevents your legs from closing, but, God, do they try, knees pinching his thin waist, and hair bunching up on the glass when your face scrunches up in pleasure. 

“A-a-ah!” you cry out. Your hips involuntarily begin to inch away from him, but Wonwoo pulls you back with one strong hand, tutting. 

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, pouting. “You need to be touched, remember?” 

The whole thing is so heart-achingly intimate. The way he stands, still fully clothed and with a huge fucking tent in his pants, simply rubbing your pussy and looking at you with heart-eyes. Seriously, eyes swimming with adoration for you, teasing words slipping from his mouth unable to mask the genuine wonder he feels, at how you gasp and you arch and you clean and you jerk from the simplest of his movements. And your pussy is so warm and wet under his hand, and his body between your legs is so warm, and you cum again from just that; from how much love he looks at you with, and from the fingers crooking to pinch your clit again, wet and swollen underneath his glistening fingertips. 

“W-Wonwoo!” you cry out, cumming again, and your body convulses around his, when it oozes out of your hole. Wonwoo’s fingers gently work you through it. His gaze on you is so intent, so careful and insistent, you can’t bear it, the way he sees you totally lost in the pleasure he brings you. 

“There you go,” he whispers gently, fingers letting up and disappearing from your pulsating pussy. 

“Wonwoo,” you mewl tiredly, pushing yourself onto your elbows to look up at him. He looks at you, so sweetly, so attentively, hands immediately finding your back to stabilize you. “Can I please have your cock now?” 

“We don’t have to-” 

“I want to!” you interrupt him, brows furrowed and lips in a pout. Wonwoo grins at that and though he may deny it, you don’t miss the red that twinges his cheeks. 

“It’s just if you were too tired..-” 

“I’m not,” you say decidedly, and Wonwoo nods. 

“Okay. C’mere then.” 

You’re confused when Wonwoo sits back down in the office chair, fingers working his slacks open. He doesn’t answer to your grimace though, only manages his pants unzipped and in one lift of his hips, peel both them and his boxers down. 

His cock springs free, and your confused grimace is replaced with one of awe. It’s pale and veiny, the head is red and thin, white liquid oozes from it, like melted candle wax. And it’s huge.

You’re too slow to mask your amazement, it seems, because when your eyes return to his face, he’s already looking at you, smiling smugly. 

“Come ride me, baby.” 

You don’t need to be told twice. You slide off the table eagerly, lumbering over to where he’s relaxed against the back of the chair. He looks up at you, all naked and pretty, with a grin. 

The top buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, but he must’ve given up halfway. Either way, the milky plates of his chest are exposed, shining gloriously in the warm office light, and he discards his glasses, face fully exposed to you. He’s beautiful, and you think to tell him.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, planting each leg around his, so you’re straddling him. Like your ritual, Wonwoo grips your middle and pulls you closer, but this time it’s even closer than normal. Your stomach meets his dick, all heavy and hot on your skin, and your breath hitches at the sensation. 

“You’re beautiful,” he teases, looking up at you. You smile. 

“Can I put it in?” you ask. 

“As if the answer was ever gonna be no?” 

You snort out a laugh, raising yourself by your thighs and gripping the base of his dick to steer him inside. He hisses at the feeling of your hand grappling with his impressive size, and he hisses once more when the head of his cock buries into your heat. 

His hands on your waist anchor himself while you slowly sink down, until he’s so fully sheathed in you, you think the tip of his cock must be brushing your heart, because it feels like it’s swinging in your chest. 

“You’re so big,” you whimper, clutching his broad shoulders, and scrunching the fabric on top of them. 

“Don’t say shit like that, I’m gonna cum, babe,” he grits out, fingers bruising your waist. You mewl, clutching his shirt. Then you begin to bounce. 

Your thighs flex on either side of him as you heave up and down his cock, the both of you gasping into each other, and clutching each other for stability. 

“Shit,” he pants out, genuinely out of breath. “Fuck, you’re the loveliest girl in the world.”

You cry out, pressure already welling in your stomach and burying yourself in his neck like you’ve always done, and it’s so intimate and he’s warm, and, fuck, he wants you. You can feel it in his grip, in his cock, in his words; he wants you more than anything. The thought makes you wanna cum. 

Wonwoo is not quiet at all. He grunts and whines and his words are strangled and garbled, but frequent, showering you in affection and praise, while you bounce eagerly on his huge cock. 

“You’re so pretty, baby.” 

“Your tits are so perfect, shit.”

“Pretty girl.” 

“Loveliest, prettiest, sweetest girl, bouncing on my cock, fuck.”

Praises spill from his lips in purrs, one after another, and when you cum you can’t help but return it tenfold. 

“Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonnie, fuck! Gonna- fucking cum, I think I’m- f-falling in love with you”

You and Wonwoo come alive. Cum spurts from his cock and into your pussy, and you both cry out, entangled and completing one another in the space where you meet. 

And it’s true, falling in love with him is so easy. And falling in love with you is easy too, you realize, because the second he’s spilled his cum in you, he pulls you from his neck to kiss you so deeply, so thoroughly, you think your lips might never unpuff from his hasty, bitten kisses. 

His cock, now soft, still inside you, his warm chest against yours, his nose nudging yours, his eyelashes fluttering against your skin, the kiss is totally perfect, and you’re warm, and the windows are all closed and fogged up and there’s no curse other than the most fatal and most perfectly tantalizing of them all: love. 

You are not alone. You’re sitting in his lap and you think if you give it a day or two more, you might want to spend the rest of your life with him. 

You catch your breaths. 

“You’re really good at that,” you say finally. He grins again, perfectly undone, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. “Yeah?” he asks. You hum. 

After some minutes of keeping him inside you, kissing lazily, running your hands over his pretty chest and arms, you pull back, beginning to flex your legs to pull him out of you. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, hands wafting to still your movements. You furrow your brows, confused. 

“Am getting your dick out of me?” 

His hands sink down on your hips heavily, fully encompassing his dick again. You sigh at the feeling. 

“Don’t do that, silly. You’re touch-starved, remember?” 

He tilts his head teasingly. 

“So why don’t you just sit snug on my cock, so you can get all the closeness you need?”

[greatestexpectationss]

A Quiet Moment

Luke Castellan x Fem!Daughter of Persephone Reader

Description: You and Luke get a rare quiet moment in Cabin 11 accompanied by some troubling thoughts. Luke's always there to make you feel better and you know him better than anyone else.

Can be read as a stand-alone or part 2 to Poison Ivy

Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, mentions of mental health (season depression), making out, I think thats it?? Also not edited sorry!!!!!!!

“Luke, this is not good,” you’re pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation. The cabin is in total disarray, you’d left Luke and a majority of other campers there to begin to clean it while you helped the Demeter kids in the Strawberry fields. You’d come back to, though a smaller mess, a mess nevertheless. 

 Cabin inspections are later tomorrow afternoon, and you can already tell the Hermes cabin is so totally screwed. Cabin 11 is chaotic as always, to be fair it isn’t Luke’s fault, Hermes houses his children, unclaimed children, and minor gods' children alike. As a child of Persephone, you’ve only ever known the Hermes cabin as home other than the few nights you’ve spent in the Demeter cabin with your friend Katie, you fit in there as a child of Persephone and your power of chlorekensis makes you fit right in. Chiron in a desperate attempt to make more room in the Hermes had asked you if you’d like to move into the Demeter cabin permanently. You’d told him no, Luke needed your help managing the campers, but you’re sorely regretting it now. 

Your boyfriend pouts at you from his bunk where he’d collapse in exasperated exhaustion just moments before you’d return. “This whole thing is rigged, how’re we expected to be clean, we’ve got like triple the campers?” he groans. Then he sits up on his elbows eyeing you up and down. You’ve discarded your camp half-blood t-shirt and are left in your forest green spaghetti strap and dark denim shorts. He smiles like he’s won the whole damn lottery. You're exasperated resolve melts a bit when he speaks again.

“You look pretty,” he compliments you. You smile, blush, and roll your eyes before collapsing on his bunk beside him, ignoring the campers scurrying around you to get to their activities and clean up their own messes. 

“Thank you,” you whisper as he reaches over and moves a piece of hair out of your face. “Anytime Poison,” he replies, a cheeky smile on his face. Then as if remembering something he sits up and addresses the few campers that are still scrambling about the cabin, “Go enjoy the rest of your free time, we’ll take care of the rest of the damage in the morning.” They all cheer and thank him, but you know this was just a clever ploy for Luke to get the cabin empty for a second. 

“How was your day?” you ask him, sitting up and sitting crisscross on his bed. He follows suit facing you and interlacing both your hands between you. “You’re looking at it sweetheart,” he gestures around to the mostly not clean cabin. 

“This took you all day?” you tease. Luke flicks your forehead, you laugh in response. 

“Don’t be mean.”

“Who me? I’m not being mean.”

He shoots you a look.

“Well now you know how I feel, you’re always teasing me.”

It’s takes about five seconds for Luke to wrestle you onto your back, knee slotted between your thighs, while both of his hands mercilessly attack your side. Your writhing beneath him, laughing so hard you can’t breath. 

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you squeal, he halts his movements and pokes the dimple by the corner of your mouth, that only shows when you’re laughing hysterically. 

“That’s what I thought Poison, you know we’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” he’s slowed his movements, now one hand still stroking you cheek, moving down to your hip and pressing you depper into the mattress, his other hand holds him up so he’s not completely crushing you. You blush furiously at his implication, the last time the two of you had been in this position, it had been sinful, granted you weren’t in your cabin where anyone could walk in at any moment, but still. “You’re gross,” is what you decide to respond with, but he just laughs and leans down to kiss you anyways. 

Kissing Luke is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You’ve kissed other boys before him, but something about the way he kisses you, you know he’s absolutely ruined you for anyone else, he kisses you in a way you know will screw up forever. You don’t know what you’ll do if he wakes up one day and decides he doesn’t want you anymore. The thought makes you kiss him harder, and pull him closer. His thumb rubs soothing circles against your exposed skin from where your shirt  had ridden up a bit. One of your hands rests at the base of his neck pulling him closer, begging him to kiss you harder. Your other hand hovers at his lower back, when you try to pull him closer there too, he pulls his face back from yours, breathing heavily. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks you, he kisses your check once on both sides softly and then looks at you again.

“Nothing, just keep kissing me,” you tell him before pulling him back to your lips. 

He mumbles your name against them, but then indulges you for a moment, your brain is going a million miles a minute, you don’t know why you can’t turn it off sometimes, but the thought of loosing Luke plagues your mind too often, were you destined to be like your father, who loved your mother in the spring only to be left again by the fall, he had never truly gotten over his one great love, Persephone. You couldn’t imagine ever getting over Luke either, especially with the way he’s kissing you so tenderly now.

He pulls away again, making you pout. 

“I can hear you thinking, what’s up?”

You almost tell him but he’s always trying to make you feel better and for once you want there to just be nothing wrong. You’ve always been a little more darkness than Luke, you think. He’s the camp golden boy, perfect in all the ways that count. You’re Persephone’s only (claimed) daughter, who grows plants from nothing, and grows vines of poison ivy around people who piss you off. Your moods change with the seasons, and as Fall grows nearer you can feel yourself growing darker. You just want a moment with your incredibly hot boyfriend to not think of the impending darkness that’s right around the corner.

“I’m okay, really,” you tell him, he’s not convinced clearly because he stays hovering over you but he won’t lean back down to kiss you. “Luke, c’mon we’ve got like–” you check your watch, “30 minutes until the first round of campers are back.”’

“But you’re worried about something, I can tell,” he mutters, “It’s almost September, that’s what’s buggin’ you huh?” 

Sometimes you hate how well he knows you, “Okay, yeah, you’re super duper smart now do you wanna make out with me or what?”

He laughs, and leans down to kiss you again, it’s a peck not at all what you were looking for and you groan. “Luke–”

“Look, I’m all for making out, and I’ll distract you if you really want me to,” his voice is husky in your ear, in the way he knows you love, but then he pulls back to look at you again, “but we both know this is still gonna be buggin’ you afterward, and I just want to make you feel better.”

You sigh, cause you know he’s right, annoyingly right, and stupidly handsome, you still really want to make out with him, but you don’t want him to feel like he’s a distraction, because he isn’t. He’s Luke, and you love him with everything you have.

“You’re never a distraction,” you promise him eagerly, you move to sit up and he follows suit, leaning against the headboard of the bunk and opening his arms wide for you to snuggle into is chest, you place a kiss over his heart. “You’re the main event baby.”

He snorts and pulls you closer, “That was incredibly corny Poison, you going soft on me?”

“Oh yeah, for sure. But seriously, you're incredibly sweet."

You lean up and kiss his jaw. He kisses your forehead in return.

A moment of silence passes before he asks the burning question on both of your minds. 

“Are you going home this year?”

You’d spent most of your time at Camp Half Blood being a summer only camper, but the last two years you’d been a year rounder. Your dad had never really been the same after Persephone disappeared from him, never to return, at least according to your aunt. When you’d been younger you’d been a handful and provided your dad with a distraction from his sorrows. But as you’d grown older, made friends, and forged your own life, your father had started drinking again. The more he destroyed himself, the more he destroyed you and your already almost non existent relationship with your mother. You resented him, but you resented her more for leaving him with nothing more than a hollowed shell of who he used to be. He’s been writing you letters, but you can’t bring yourself to respond.

“Probably not,” you admit finally, “I don’t want to see him and besides,” you curl into Luke more, “I want to stay with you.”

Luke’s arms tighten around you as he peaks down at your face, “You do?”

“Of course I do.” 

Luke kiss your head, you smell like flowers and goodness and the things he loves. He thinks he could stay right here with you forever. “Are you sure?” he asks you. 

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, feeling self conscious now, you don’t have the opportunity to let your anxiety consume you for long before Luke is reassuring you. 

“Are you kidding? Of course I want you to stay. I love it when you’re here, you know that.” 

You smile up at him softly, his brow furrows, a little crease at the center where you can tell he’s thinking really hard about something. You reach up to smooth it out, but he catches your hand with his own. “You do know that right?”

“Yeah,” you nod, and you do. You really know it, in the back of your mind, you know Luke loves you as much as you love him. 

“Good, because sometimes I think you don’t get it, how much I love you. I’d do anything for you, just say the word,” he lets you reach up to smooth the crease from his brows.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“You get this little crease between your brows when you’re worrying about stuff, did you know that?”

Your pinned back down on the bed before you get a response, he’s kissing you like you’ve been wanting him to this whole time, Hot and searing with his hands in all the right places. You could die happy, right here, wrapped in his arms, his lips pressed against yours, and his tongur sneaking into your mouth. You stay like that for a few minutes, unaware of the time ticking away. You both pull away a little breathless. 

“I love you,” he says quietly, “a lot.”

“I love you too,” you reply kissing the bottom of his scar softly, “a lot.”

He leans down to kiss you again but you place a hand on his chest pushing him away from you. “We should probably clean the cabin now,” you relent, sighing as you look at your watch, the first round of campers should be returning in about five minutes, Luke takes a look at your watch and groans.

 “You were right,” he admits, head tucked into you neck as you play with his hair.

“I’m sure I was but youre gonna have to be a little more specific babe,” you reply matching what you’re sure is his cheeky smile buried in you neck. 

“We should have just made out.” 

You push him off the bed.

[psychelis-new]

pick a pile: "Your love is..."

take a breath and choose the photo or number that calls you the most to read a short description of how you love others, not just romantically. the reading wants to focus on how you show affection, on your main love language and how you are seen by those receiving care from you.

don’t take the reading too seriously. only take what resonates with you and leave the rest. if you're not called by any pile, let this reading slid as it may not hold messages for you. if you're called by more than one pile, there may be messages in each of those piles. remember that is a general reading and some things may not resonate with you. energies can change and readings are based on present ones (as you read); you're always in charge of your life.

(photos found on unsplash)

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1 2 3 4

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pile 1

Your love is gentle and delicate, like a caress. You may love to touch people or hug them, your main love language may be physical touch. You like to make your presence be felt by others. I think your energy/vibe too is very easy to be felt when you're around. You may also have a healing presence/energy: you don't have to do much but just being near someone may help them being stronger and braver too. You are like this presence people may rely on when in doubt or go to when having troubles. Your love is sweet and tender, people may feel brightened and supported by you. Your smile, your warmth: these may be your main traits or charateristics people notice the most about you. You are also cute. You are able to love of unconditional love too, you may love to give love: it makes you feel better. I'm getting a young energy here, so you probably are either kinda young or you still are very in touch with your inner child and let them help you being this little ball of tenderness and affection with others. You may love to run into others' arms while showing affection, it may also make you feel safe in a way (for some).

For others, you are also the one protective with your love, the safe place for others: you probably like to care about those more in need or kids/animals in particular. You like to shelter them. There's also something magical about you and ofc it could be your healing energy but also something about the way you can help others through your kindness. It could be how you like to manifest good things for others as well. You probably are into magic or you heal yourself/others through herbs or such. You may be into natural healing and may have a strong connection with nature/the earth in general. Just try to not let others use and break you as at times you may tend to act a little naïve and let others not-so-nice behaviour get the best of you/control you. Protect yourself as well with your own love. Include yourself into this beautiful lovely shelter as well. You may also have lot of admirers and if you're in a relationship you may have your lover trying to protect/shelter you (you may be petite and/or younger or they just need to cause of your gentle sweet energy). You may not be aware of how many people really appreciate and like you and have self doubts, but I hope you will be more objective about yourself and your loving sweet nature and appreciate it more. Find likewise individuals/groups (dunno why but I have to say: especially if you feel lonely at times, ask for guidance to likewise people not just to animals and nature -you may attract animals easily btw or Guides may show love/guidance/signs through them, especially birds; birds may guide you to new people).

song: 7 ways | abs, eve

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pile 2

Your love is full, you give plentiful of love and affection. I'm suddenly smelling moss here and I think it's cause your love is very deep and sensual, but also so grounded and safe. Comfortable. You know, moss also hides lot of natural treasures like good roots and plants to eat not just for survival, and therefore I think your love too hides some nice gifts for those receiving care and attention from you. You probably also like to give gifts or encourage people through words of affirmations... actually, I think you are able to adapt your love language to the receiver, so to give them what they need the most: this is why I think you are able to really gift further treasures within your already loving attitude. Your love is safe but also gently surprising, something like that. You don't do big gestures as they may scare or embarass others (and maybe you too), but just little nice acts that are welcomed so gladly by everyone. Your love nurtures them, and makes them feel good about themselves too.

Some of you may have been deceived or have given to the wrong people, so now may have a wound when it comes to give but even more receive love, the type of love you really deserve to receive. Please, remember that you can still be this precious kind being and have boundaries to protect yourself: being kind doesn't mean not having boundaries or people pleasing. You don't have to stay around people that are bad for you or make you suffer. But you can act as a good reminder for them on how to behave in relationships. Some of these people who hurt you though, understood what they lost: when you leave a relationship (of any type), people notice your absence. They realize how important and special was your love in their life. Some of them may feel guilty about having made you go and may try to come back but please, do not fall into their trap unless you have proof that these people have changed and can give you back too now, and as much as you deserve. Relationships don't move on a one-way street (you give -> the other receives), or you'll just end up being emptied. I am kinda sure you know this by now, but I just wanted to remind you about it. You deserve love and respect too, do not stick with anything less, do not accept crumbs. You're so caring and special, keep your standards high. (I also hear you're kinda passionate too especially as a lover, and this side of yours can only be seen by special people. Keep it this way, your match is coming).

song: love of my life | queen

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pile 3

Your love is discreet. You're never overwhelming or too much, you tend to give the right amount at the right time/when it's needed. It's like you let others live their life and observe them and just come in as a further support. I feel like a motherly/parental type of love from you, a type of love that is there as an anchor for bad times. You probably rather use words of affirmations and quality time to express your love: you like to listen to others, to guide them. You're there, in the corner, waiting for them to come to you like a guide or a guru, when they are lost. And once they can walk again with their own legs, you keep watching them from afar. You are never too much or don't occupy too much of others' lives with your love. It's all very calibrated and precise. I said parental love but probably it's more like a grandparent-type of love. You may occasionally like to give gifts as well if they can be used as an help or guidance.

It's like you know others need to make it alone, they have to make their own experiences and you cannot interfere in their life too much: both good things and bad things are part of this life and even if it breaks you to see them suffer, you know you cannot prevent them from suffering. I feel a very wise energy from you, maybe you are an old soul. All I can focus on is this person sitting on an old elaborated chair, waiting for others to run to them with open arms and a loving nostalgic smile. Are you feeling a bit isolated and alone in your life atm? Maybe you don't have many friends and you don't like to really enter others' lives abruptly; or you've been isolating to heal something or had to focus on something else and it kinda made you feel alone. Know that your love is always very appreciated by others, even if you think you're not able to love as you'd like to. I think you're just grown unused to it, but good news: we can always re-learn stuff. Even how to love (and we can change our ways, as we change too through our life). Others can feel what you have inside of your heart, there's no need to block it. You can give more of it: if you think others have tried to hinder it and you in the past and didn't accept your love, it simply was not the right people ready to receive that from you. Why would so many people run to you, if your love wasn't this special for them? If you weren't as special for them? Please, love. Keep loving as you feel and want to. You'll get it back too. Let others give you back, it's not just wishful thinking, it can happen.

song: love to dream | doja cat

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Your love is patient. Your love reminds others of good old times and feelings that they may fear they lost. It feels like time and space-travelling to ages and places that are too far away in our past. Your love is also difficult to explain, it feels like a mix of emotions and experiences that are so different and complex and hard to distinguish. Your love can mostly "be felt with the heart". It's a movie/fairytale type of love. And it's also very romantic. You may be pretty romantic. Your love is pure and gentle like a caress or a breath of fresh air. You may be practicing acts of service and express words of affirmations the most but your main love trait is indeed this peculiar character/trait you give to what you do and say that takes others aback and sends them to emotional places they thought now are unexistent. You focus so much on the object of your love/attention, that they can feel like the only human being alive in that moment in the whole world. You make others feel seen and heard like no one else, you really have the ability to listen to people and see people as nobody else. And this is really special cause at the end of the day, every person on earth mostly wants to be heard and seen.

You are really able to stand by the other person's side through thick and thin and you don't disappear when things get tough. As said, very romantic and ultimate us against the world type of energy. You really want others to succeed too. To see their best sides and traits especially if they tend to focus on the dark parts. Your love is very individual, it's crafted on each receiver much more than in the other piles. Your love is for the soul of others: you don't care about the looks, you see beyond that. You may also have a specific soul connection that you need to find in this life (you will ofc at the right time if you haven't already), so to bring more love around in the world. Maybe not just that but you have some type of mission you may need to accomplish with this other soul (or group of souls ofc, take as resonates: it could be romantic love, bring to life a child or a project/work.... it depends). There's a need to communicate something, maybe about this love inside of you (maybe you two) or this ability to see beyond and really see and hear others. If you have insecurities or troubles related your ability to bring support and care to others around you (maybe you have been silenced a lot in your past, even emotionally, or you were and are an highly sensitive person and had to deal with an emotionally complicated environment), let them go: you're important, you are able to bring support and you're more than enough to do whatever your soul is calling you to do. Don't let random occurrences hinder you. Do not silence yourself out of fear. Trust your inner vision.

song: we own the sky | m83

[planchettewrites]

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)/AFAB!Reader

DESCRIPTION: You find out about Bella Donna Boudreaux, and you are not happy about it.

CONTENT: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Threats of Breakup, Mentions Remy's Past (*Using the Original X-Men Animation Series as Ref.)

A/N: This is not my favorite Remy work I've done, but I think it's still pretty good. This is pretty heavy hurt/comfort, and the ending is a little rushed. TBH I wanted to just write this and get it over with. WIPs can only have such a long shelf life! I may eventually update this later.

848 words | Safe!

"Remy…" You walked cautiously into your and Remy's shared bedroom in his apartment near the school, anger bubbling inside you. In your hand, you held a letter from some woman named Bella Donna Boudreaux. The letter was old, at least five years old. You found it while cleaning out one of Remy's closets, finding it in a box on the top shelf when it came tumbling out of the closet. "What is this?"

Remy, who was reading, immediately shot up. His black and red eyes looked at you with so much shock. He looked like a man who got caught. “Ma chérie,” he started.

"What is this, Remy?" you shot, effectively cutting him off. "Who the fuck is Bella Donna Boudreaux?"

"Chérie, it's not what you think." Remy stood up from the bed and began slowly approaching you. 

You weren't stupid; you could read what the letter said, and that letter painted a rather different story than your current reality. "I think it's exactly what I think, Remy. What the hell does 'I'll forever be your wife' mean, then? Remy, we've been dating for three years, and this letter is five years old. Are you married?" you roared, your anger almost unmanageable. 

Your mind was racing with every possible answer that Remy could've given you, and none of them were positive explanations. Your relationship with Remy was the best you ever had; he was kind, generous, and giving, and overall, he was a spectacular partner who always put your needs first. You loved Remy more than you could fathom; this letter was heartbreaking.

Before he could answer, you began to read some of the letter to him. "Remy, mon amour, I miss you every day. Every day you are gone is like a stab in the heart. I still remember the day I last saw you; you looked handsome as ever, mon cœur." you stopped reading the letter and threw it on the bed. "What the fuck is this?"

"Darlin', that's all old history, Bella Donna is…"

"Your wife, apparently, Remy." you began to tear up. Nothing shattered your heart like reading that letter did. You had read through the entire thing before you confronted your boyfriend, and you knew a love letter when you read one. You started shaking your head, putting your palm up to your forehead. "I can't fucking believe this."

Without even noticing, he got closer, Remy turned you around and gently pulled your hand from your head. His face portrayed an emotion of hurt. As much as you wanted to scream at him, tear him apart, something in you knew that he had some proper explaining to do. "Darlin', listen to me. Please."

You sighed roughly, continuing to shake your head. "Fine. You better have a great explanation for this, Remy. Or I'm done."

He sighs. Remy knew this day would come eventually—whether it be when filing for marriage paperwork or when his past eventually bubbled up to the surface. If he was honest with himself, he completely forgot about that letter; it was shoved in that box with the rest of his past in the Thieves's Guild. Looking at you, his heart was breaking. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt you. 

"Well, darlin', it starts back in New Orleans. The long and the short of it is that Bella Donna Boudreaux was a member of the Assassin's Guild, and I was a member of the Thieves's Guild. We were arranged to be married in an attempt to unite the guilds. Gambit didn't love her, so he walked away from the altar. Bella Donna wrote me that letter as a last-ditch effort to get me back. I don't know how she even found my address, but she sent it. I forgot that I even kept it. I promise I didn't marry her, mon amour. I don't love her. My heart does not belong to another; it only belongs to you." He held you steady in front of him, and he watched how the tears forming in your eyes began to roll down your cheeks. 

Remy pulled you into a tight hug as you cried. "Shh, don't cry, chérie, Gambit's right here."

"Don't ever fucking scare me like that." you cried. Right now, you hated yourself. There was no way you could deny what you read, but you trusted your boyfriend with every word he said. Remy wasn't one to tell you a lie. Ever since you began dating, he has been nothing but honest and upfront with all that he said. "M’sorry, Remy. I'm really sorry."

Gently letting go of you, Remy cupped your cheeks and placed a kiss on your forehead. "No reason to apologize, mon amour. You were scared, and that situation seemed nasty. I understand."

"I was just so worried that you were keeping something from me, especially something that would change our relationship."

"I know, chérie, I know." He cooed, pulling you back into the hug. 

You sighed, letting the anxiety go. “Please forgive me.”

He smiled. “Gambit forgives ya’, chérie. Of course I do.”

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.65)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: The truth always comes out one way or another, and with Jimin temporarily whisked away for surgery- it's up to you and yoongi to answer Namjoon's questions.

Tags: Angst, blood, guns, murder, discussions of morality, descriptions of dead bodies, discussion of past spousal abuse, confessions, hurt/comfort, sickfic, hospitals, reconciliation, vmin focus, Trans! tae, Everybody lives nobody dies,

W/c: 15.0k

A/N: this chapter is a bit heavy on the dialogue but! sorry that this chapter came out when it did, we're finally here! sorry for the break in chapters- I got some not great news about a family members health and wanted to spend some extra time with them over the holidays.

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

The abandoned industrial building rises without warning from the mist and fog. You could almost call in lonely. Although it has its comfort in its stillness, the same way that monsters that do not move do not instill fear. A foe vanquished but not forgotten.

The body. The dust. The puddle of blood by the door is more than enough evidence for plausible deniability. The faint splatter of it here and there like confetti left after a parade, or flower petals that fall in spring and pile up like snow.

Moonbyul stands in the doorway, like a pagan in a house of God. Out of place and out of mind. Dark coat unblemished by dust or blood. She doesn’t stoop to touch the ground or try and clean up the evidence from Jimin and Jin’s misbegotten hours here. She doesn’t think Hobi’s name, although she knows it.

God does she know it.

She’s poured over all the files that her men have collected about your pack for weeks now. Searching out weaknesses like a snake searches rabbit holes for soft fur and an easy meal. She’d spent the most time lingering over Tae’s file. The photos that shift from short hair to long, lipstick that she finds too pink and distasteful.

Red is better color.

She'd spent a long time pouring over Jin’s too because she’d needed to. Jimin and her cousins had been glossed over. She already knows enough about them to last a lifetime.

But only one file had given her paper cuts. Revenge on paper is not as sweet as it should be.

She doesn’t need to read that file anymore. Although she hears the words that the youth said so many months ago on repeat, you and Hobi in the coffee shop caught only on security camera. “I think I heard something I shouldn’t have”. As well as the ones that followed.

Contrary to popular belief, Moonbyul doesn’t like killing. She views it only as a necessity. She looks at the blood on the floor without any disgust. It’s been a long time since she’s cleaned up any alpha's mess, and she’s not going to start now.

She looks down at the blood and smiles. It’s a rare thing- seeing her smile. It’s different from her grin that bares her teeth. Sharped incisors changed and honed just before she’d been appointed the head of the moon family.

She remembers her mother's words when she’d looked at them in the mirror for the first time, She remembers that she could still taste the file they'd used to carve them. Metallic, like blood on her tongue.

“All the most dangerous alphas have fangs; you’ll need to learn to use them if you want to fill your father’s shoes.”

Familial death is more of a rite of passage than a time for mourning in the family. A time when power shifts and secrets get covered up or aired out. Like the moon waxing and waning.

Moonbyul hadn’t been born with fangs, the way alphas always are. Moonbyul hadn’t been born with a lot of things.

A smiling Moonbyul is either a happy or a bloodthirsty one. And a happy Moonbyul, when properly stroked- means they get privileges.

Privileges in their pack, amount to small little things most of the time. A night where they don’t have to take the heat inducers. A night where they can wear comfy sweats instead of the lingerie and stifling silk. But if they're extra sweet and good they get better things. A free evening where they can see their families as long as they come home before sunrise.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Solar is dressed as her clone today, with stockings pulled up her milky thighs flashing beneath the long hem. Extra extra cute in the way that she loops her arm into Moonbyuls and pouts. as if she's upset that her alpha is paying more attention to the murder than her.

She still smells faintly of sex, moonbyul, and her own ginger scent. Not like fresh cut- the kind that baked goods have around Christmas time.

Moonbyul smiles, rapping her long nails against where Solar's arm is curled around hers clinging to her as if her life depends on it. It does- Moonbyul and her both know it does. But Solar has always been a good pet. She’s never needed quite as much correction as Wheein who likes to know exactly where her cage ends and begins, or like Hyejin- who needs nearly as much combatting and careful maneuvering as their enemies.

She'd learned from Hyejin. Had never let the others have quite as much freedom or get used to challenging her. There's a reason why Hyejin had demanded to wear her mating mark and why Moonbyul had let her have it.

Omega's however sweet and however docile, still need a cage. Moonbyul's only ever tried to branch out of her tastes once, and she won't ever do it again. Disastrous as alphas are. They make piss-poor lovers and disobedient needy pets.

She sighs. Alphas and their messes.

In truth, the pack could use someone truly obedient, someone for whom being good is as easy as breathing to balance them out. The pack could use a good pup. The pack could use you.

Moonbyul burns in want, stewing in it ravenous. It’s not love, it’s not even really lust either. She’s never been an easily sated person. She’s always wanted too much, always finished the whole pint of ice cream in one sitting. She’s always wanted everything.

That’s why she’s smiling, because she’s about to get it.

She stands a little straighter, holding out her palm. “Why don’t we go see.” Moonbyul doesn’t turn to leave, however. She doesn't walk towards the body dumped at the back of the building, still bearing Jin's fingerprints. A single strand of hair would do it. She doesn’t make any move other than to reach into her pocket and take out a lighter.

She thinks of the family's assassins; The Bee, The Spider and The Wolf. She thinks of Park Jimin. The snake. Hopefully either dead or in the process of dying.

The body in the back of the building is another one of hers. She never thought that this would be the end of the Wolf, he'd always been one of their most reliable killers. Always showed up on time too, an exemplary employee. Not to be easily duped. She'll have to figure this out and pin down What did him in. But that will take time and energy, only one of which she has.

He was only supposed to wait in the wings and ensure that neither Park Jimin nor Kim Seokjin left this building alive, nothing more.

Sometimes things are just coincidences, sometimes if you're lucky- they're just bad luck.

This doesn't feel like bad luck, this feels like revenge.

Solar makes a noise in her throat, a questioning chirp. She really is trying to be her cutest right now. Moonbyul won’t reward her in a way that she likes, a way that she wants. Even songbirds still feel the itch to fly. Clipped wings and all.

She looks at the flame, sparking.

“Why won’t you just leave the evidence? Wouldn’t that be easier?” Solar is not as good as Hyejin at handling this sort of thing, not as experienced. But she’s currently handling other more important things. Things that need her finer touch.

Solar doesn’t understand why Moonbyuls going to light this place up like a fucking Christmas tree and do Seokjin’s dirty work for him. Solar is only a pup, and she’s been kept like that because Moonbyul likes pupish omegas.

She likes the innocence and obedience that people who weren't made for this kind of life have. So eager to please that they're willing to debase their souls. There is no greater sacrifice, no greater sign of love than someone willing to do anything for you.

This also happens to be why she likes you. Why she will have you. because neither Solar nor Wheein have ever been as good at this as you were. The perfect medium between sinful and pious. Cute even while killing.

And 5 is a prettier number than 4. 3 pups for her and Hyejin is a prettier number than 2. They need more than one for each.

Just one more pup, and then their collection will be complete. It took them so long to find the right one, so much trial and error. (Moonbyul despises errors. She's going to try and kill one before this is through)

She won’t let you slip through their grasp, not a second time. You should have never been Yoongi's.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to leave this as evidence? So that the FBI gets them all? We could just like- buy them off if they wanted to take her too-”

“Oh pup” she croons, half gentle. Flicking the lighter and letting it burn in front of her face before she tosses it The soil is so soaked through with gasoline that it lights as easily as a candle, slowly spreading from wall to wall and then- in the doorway, until the heat is too much and they have to move away.

“That wouldn’t be any fun now, would it?”

~-~

(Now, Namjoon)

Namjoon’s shirt is soaked so thoroughly with blood that it makes him cold. The hospital always feels cold, goosebumps rise like a mini mountain ranges on his arms. The hair pressed down where the blood has dried.

It’s not his first time covered in blood, but this time feels different.

He’s shivering, teeth clattering. His hands shake almost too bad to fill out the intake paperwork because he’d rather do it now than later. Park Jimin (registered, Kim) Alpha, weight 165 lbs (give or take a few). Blood type AB. No medications. No known allergies, no known prior conditions. No no no.

No.

Namjoon’s hands shake. He leaves Jimin’s ‘occupation’ blank.

Yoongi sits a few paces back, staring vacantly off into space. On the surface Namjoon would assume that he’s having no reaction and is feeling absolutely heartless about everything that's happened in the last 3 hours. But his breath becomes stuttered every few minutes, like he has to manually force himself to inhale and exhale. Like it’s taking all of Yoongi’s faculties to keep himself breathing and upright and not in a heap on the floor having a mental breakdown.

He kind of wishes Yoongi was crying and screaming instead. Then at least- Namjoon would feel like he had to be the strong one.

He can't get the feeling of stabbing Jimin out of his head, or the sound it it, the wet squelch of knife hitting skin.

Namjoon has cut into people thousands if not hundreds of thousands of times by now. But he’s only cut into someone he loves once, and god Namjoon never wants to do it again- won’t ever be able to touch warm prone flesh and hurt it, not after Minnie. Never again.

The pen in his hand weighs a million pounds. He contemplates asking for a piece of paper and writing out his resignation letter. he breathes in for 5 and out for 9, then sets it down on the clipboard and slides it across the counter for the nurse to take. Namjoon doesn’t hear her quiet tone asking him if he's alright and if there's anything she can do. just shakes his head on instinct.

There is a gaggle of nurses looking around the corner peering at Dr. Kim.

"Do you think he dresses like that outside of work hours?" "I never thought I'd be so attracted to jeans and a tee-shirt." Giggling in quiet voices.

It feels so strange, to hear people laughing while Jimin is dying. Namjoon almost wants to go bite their heads off and report them for poor bedside manner to the hospital manager.

This is Namjoon’s hospital. But Namjoon can’t find it in himself to smile or say thank you to the nurse when she tells him that the second she gets any news on Jimin, he'll be the first to know. He can’t say anything through the mountain of emotion in his throat.

If Namjoon’s love is a mountain, then his anguish is a river threatening to drown him. Yoongi smells like it- the line where water turns clear to brackish, Yoongi’s miserable scent has always smelled like the churning sea and now something that feels an awful lot like seasickness makes Namjoon sway on his feet.

Since he’s done with the paperwork, he promptly returns to Yoongi’s side and sits down. Only once he's sure he's stationary, does he pull a nearby wastebasket over between his knees to upend the contents of his stomach. It hits the top of old gauze pads crumpled up at the bottom and smelling like piss with a surprisingly violent sound, drawing the gaze of more than one person in the waiting room. At least it finally quiets the giggles.

Yoongi’s hand finds Namjoon’s knee, the hole in his jeans, The back of his ribs, stroking once twice. steady and hard the way that Namjoon likes. And Namjoon wishes he could snap at Yoongi. Wishes he didn’t curl into the touch. Wishes he was angrier. Wishes Jimin was perfectly alive and breathing and not going to-

Yoongi’s hand settles on the back of Namjoon’s neck, his throat, pulse hammering, thudding.

They’re just kids and Yoongi's hands are calloused. They've always been.

Deep down Namjoon still feels like he’s only 8 years old. Is just a kid and just starting to understand that the world isn’t all just papercuts and skinned knees; that it means something when people hurt. That it means something when you tell them you won’t let them hurt anymore.

He remembers promising Jimin something similar- a long time ago, the summer they all first met:

Namjoon remembers Jimin, standing in the apartment that wasn't theirs yet, after a movie night, the first movie night that the pack had ever had togeather (not totally togeather, becuase you and hobi hadn't been there yet but still).

It was the first time Namjoon had ever seen Jimin in something other than a designer sweater, sweats and a tee-shirt so ordinary that Namjoon was surprised it didn't make him look less intimidating. standing in the doorway waiting for Namjoon to notice him and look up from his medical journal.

"Yes Minnie? Did you need something?" jimin had shifted from foot to foot. looking up at jimin, a first slice of vulnerability in his eyes.

"Tae and Jungkook, they've got a bit of pain in them. I want to know what you intend to do with it." namjoon set his glasses to the side, the papers rustling as he forgets his reason.

"Make it better hopefully?" Namjoon had been struck with how oddly intense he'd been. Jimin had opened up with time and had gone sweet and trusting with the right amount of love. But he'd looked intimidating in his dark clothes and the wrinkle between his eyes like he was used to furrowing his eyebrows. A cute detail that Namjoon already wants to brush away. To touch. to cradle. To love.

He'll catalogue all of Park Jimin's cutest things in time. He'll treat love as a scavenger hunt, to find the softness in someone who tries so outwardly to be gruff and strong.

Namjoon's stained sleep clothes and promises felt all the more shabby in comparison.

"I need you to promise."

Namjoon had avoided it. Unwilling to meet his words with the same intensity. Jimin doesn't take chances with Jungkook and Tae. Tae's low laugh from the other room, Yoongi's matching grumble, overly fond already. Overly fond from the beginning.

"What about you? Doesn't everyone have pain?"

"Just promise."

"I promise to look after the three of you." Jimin had scoffed. Puffing up like a bird with too many feathers.

"I don't need looking after. Just them- when I go away for work."

"I know, but let me do it anyway." Smiling at the pretty alpha was so easy, so easy with the sounds of Jungkook and Jin's giggles in the other room. Laughter building itself into the walls around them.

"I promise not to hurt you or them. You have my word."

Namjoon lied, Namjoon lied back then and he didn't even know it. He upends his stomach again and Yoongi rubs down his spine.

“He’s not going to die Joon, he’s going to be fine.” Namjoon continues to empty his stomach, it’s pizza mostly, a bit of coffee, and a half-digested protein bar from this morning as well.

“Does hurting the people you love ever get easier?” Namjoon asks. Honesty, not anger in his tone.

Yoongi’s hair has gotten longer and hangs in his eyes. Yoongi never grew his hair out before you, always kept it in that short black sort of coconutty style. It makes him look older and all the more beautiful. Namjoon wonders if that’s why you like it; How regal it makes your mate look.

Yoongi has asked so much of Namjoon in the last few years, from leaving to coming back and bringing you. To hiding the mating mark and now this. Namjoon tells himself he should care more about Yoongi's lies and less about the fact that he just lied, period.

“No,” Yoongi grimaces. He always gets so quiet when things are bad, steady in that consistent way. He still hasn't stopped stroking Namjoon's back. Namjoon knows this is simply all Yoongi knows how to do, his first instinct is to love and not much else. “It was never easy.”

It’s not weird that they re-hash this now. Every time Namjoon learns more about how and why Yoongi left, he understands it more.

“I threw up too, just so you know- when I left, leaving you made me so sick that I hurled the second I got on that train. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” He blinks back wetness in his eyes, “I don't remember if I've ever told you that."

Namjoon nods. He can't remember right now either.

It’s been an hour or so now since Yoongi drove fast but steady steady steady to the hospital. Namjoon in the back while he stabilized Jimin in much the same fashion that you'd done earlier. The rest of the pack should be here soon. The three of you only lingered behind to clean up a bit and change your clothes, covered with blood and muck and who knows what else.

Yoongi sits like a statue and Namjoon can’t even look at him, can’t ask any questions or even start because he already feels like he’s yelling, and Namjoon hates yelling. This isn't isn’t exactly the most private venue for secrets that could land Jimin in jail.

Namjoon's still not entirely convinced that stabbing him was worth it. Namjoon’s brain is dizzy with terror. He’s still dizzy when he turns and sees you walking through the front doors to his hospital, Jin and Hobi trailing behind you.

He remembers the way you’d looked the day they’d gotten you checked out for the first time; how you’d run and pressed your face to his chest and buried your face there like just the sound of Namjoon's heart could make every demon and monster go away. For a moment, Namjoon thinks you might do the same thing. But your steps are measured, slow, and purposeful.

Namjoons eyes train on you, following you as you walk,

Yoongi stands, leaving Namjoon sitting with a cooling pail of vomit between his legs. he says something to you, to jin, but you don't pause, continuing until you're standing in front of him.

You don't say anything to him, just peer into the bucket and make a disgusted face down at it. Namjoon's teeth feel too sharp in his mouth with such a tense jaw.

Hoseok is on the phone, face gaunt and tired-looking. He must have drawn the short end of the stick and has the job of calling Jungkook and Tae and telling them what happened. They really shouldn’t drive themselves, but all Namjoon can reasonably do is restrain himself from cornering you and Jin and start demanding answers. 

He barely even turns to Jin when the omega goes up to the desk and asks if they can have a room, please. A private place for the pack to nurse their worries and not crowd the already-packed waiting room. Namjoon couldn’t name the nurse by name right now if he wanted to but he’s well known here and well-liked too. They give them one of the adjacent exam rooms to wait- Jimin’s surgery will take a few hours more, and there isn’t anything to do but wait.

Terrible terrible waiting, terrible terrible time. (You get a bucket when you want a drop and a drop when you want a deluge. Time only comes in two increments; too much or not enough.)

You drop a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder without a word. After some beckoning Namjoon follows you into the room. Legs shaking and sluggish at first. The pack is quiet even as the door closes. 

But once Namjoon's moving it’s hard to stop, careening like a comet or a bullet in your direction. Staggering.

You’d taken precious seconds to change your blood stained clothes before following Namjoon. You all pulled on the first things you could get your hands on. Which is how you’ve ended up in your mate’s shirt and Jungkook’s jacket, and how Hoseok’s in one of Tae’s extra-large pink sleep shirts stained from hair dye underneath Namjoon’s puffer coat and a pair of jungkook's grey work out sweats. Jin had been a little bit more purposeful- his sweatpants match- his matching purple set.

Namjoon's shirt is dark from blood, the bloodstain drying crusty, sticking to his skin like glue.

To say that Namjoon is angry is an understatement; rage rolls off of him in quiet unending ripples carrying with it the strength to change the pack for good if he’s not careful. He doesn't walk to the chairs no- he bee-lines it to you.

He watches you startle and turn, eyes widening. You do not make to move out of his path. 

Namjoon has never made you feel afraid before, but the pulse of it, the threat of fear is there as he backs you against the wall until your body lies against it. Looming over your head, so much taller and larger than you.

An alpha. An alpha hunting.

You tremble but you do not move to avoid him when he corners you.

He has a tiny bit of blood on his face, and a hairline splatter, almost like a constellation of stars across his temple. His fingers are harsh and shaking when they dig into your cheeks, pinching them until your lips open. Your knees tremble and you press your palm flat against the wall.

His scent thunders so thick and consuming that you can't physically stop yourself from trying to bear your throat. Namjoon stops you, holding you in place.

His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded as he looks down at you, He pinches your cheeks harder, shakinging you just a little. His voice is steady when he speaks, inches away from low snarl.

“Never make me hurt one of our packmates again.” You swallow, although it’s hard. And he pinches again- harder before you get a chance to speak- to try and defend why you brandished that knife at Jimin hours ago. Namjoon holds your face the same way he held the knife- tenderly.

“I mean it. Never.”

He holds you there for a second longer before he lets you go, leaving you gasping. His hand slides down your throat to your shoulder and neck, You would fall over if it wasn't for his touch keeping you up.

“I’m sorry.” You choke out, a few stingy tears making themselves known at the corner of your eyes. Namjoon rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. His spiky silver hair hits your skin. Rough.

After a second, he opens them again. Nodding. And his scent loses its bitter edge. He guides you to rest against his chest. You take big gasps of his scent now that he's giving you permission. Your instincts thunder through you so viciously that you can't physically stop yourself from tilting your neck and bearing your throat. 

Namjoon just drags a finger down it, humming. He holds you up, arms around you, a shield and a cage.

“It’s not okay.” I’m not okay, “but I forgive you.” Your knees do give out when Namjoon’s hand brushes the back of your neck, fingers digging in, a half hearted scruff that feels a bit like an apology of his own.

Even if he wants to be angry, anger won’t accomplish anything. Especially with you. His anger will only make you afraid and although Namjoon cannot be expected to control his emotions all the time, you have no reason to fear him.

He's never going to hurt you. He promised.

He walks you two strides, to put you into a chair next to Yoongi. Your mate takes you from him. The plastic chair makes a loud scraping noise against the linoleum floor. Jin's on your other side looking just as tired as the rest of you.

You'll get no rest tonight, sleeping in Jimin's hospital room when he gets out of surgery. Every fitful dream interrupted by the oxygen monitor on his arm. the first few hours when it will go off twice and prompt examination of his vasculature and operation site as well as a fresh dose of blood thinners. The biggest danger going forward will be blood clots; one too large in jimin's arm could leave his hand with nerve damage, numb for good.

But for now, Namjoon looks down at you, yoongi, and jin sitting in the plastic chairs. Secret, killer, and agent. All there in a pretty little row. Namjoon glares down at the three of you and crosses his arms.

“Explain.” Namjoon can’t wait another minute, another second. “Explain to me everything going on in my pack that I don't know about right now or I swear I'll-"

Yoongi scoffs, "That you'll what? That you'll tear us apart Namjoon? that you'll leave? Look around you- we're already falling to pieces." 

"You don't honestly expect me not to be angry that I had to stab jimin do you-"

"No, but don't yell at her. I have my limits."

"I wish I was one of those limits, but i'm clearly not since you insist on fucking over our pack-"

Jin turns, cutting them off from their argument with the true shock of his next words. You know that's what he's intending- but it sort of backfires. "Joonie, Don't get mad at Yoongi or her for this. Especially since I'm the one who shot Jimin. It was an accident."

You flinch, then put your head in your hands, namjoon's scent goes impossibly thick and angry for a second before he gets it under control. You physically watch Namjoon's hackles raise. watch Yoongi push back in his chair, leg jumping, running his hands through his hair looking from you to Jin, then back again.

"Jin, you should have kept that to yourself."

"What the fuck-"

Namjoon looks like he doesn't know weather to cry or laugh. "You don't just shoot someone on accident-"

Jin's got the best scoff, one worthy of music screens not just the quiet tomb of this room. Your relationship that's dying all around you. "You don't just stab someone on accident either and yet here we are-"

There are some secrets you take to the grave and others that you keep for too long, so long that they make a grave out of you. Keeping secrets is like keeping someone else's heart beating, you run out of blood eventually. 

You might vomit up the truth all over the hospital floor just like Namjoon did a few minutes ago. You feel sick and light-headed and sort of like you might have low blood sugar. namjoon's scent, angry alpha affects you more than you realize.

You start to teater, and their next biting words get extinguished when you almost fall out of the chair, nearly sliding to the floor before Namjoon catches you. One knee dully aches as he picks you up like you weigh nothing, ducking in close, real concern in his face, all his anger gone.

"Shit are you okay?"

"Pup?"

"Just got lightheaded-" Whatever it was, your lightheadedness will have to wait for another time. It's honestly probably just stress. Your heart feels like it's beating extra fast, extra hard.

Namjoon places you gently back in the chair and Yoongi touches your shoulder, the trio of their concerned faces that you swat away.

"We should wait for Hobi." You still owe him an explanation- for earlier and these aren't the kind of secrets you say more than you have to. A cup of water gets thrust into your hands and for once, they fall silent.

When Hobi comes in he’s mostly quiet holding his phone in his hand. Looking at you from across the room. His soulful eyes watching you, head tipping to the side in deference.

"Tae's in-" It takes him a second to gather his words. "Tae's in a fucking state. She was crying so hard that Jungkook had to call them an Uber. I just told her Jimin had been stabbed and nothing else because I didn't know what to tell her."

"That's probably for the best we don't have to-" your mate starts, but Namjoon cuts him off.

"No, no more secrets. Not between any of us."

Hoseok still has a hickey from you on the side of his neck, from you earlier. Jin's fingers skim down the one on your shoulder where a mirrored mark sits knocking you out of your Hobi-induced reverie, red and bruising from his mouth. Jin raises his eyebrow at you, but now is not the time to tell him about you and hobi.

"We've got like- maybe 30 minutes until they get here."

You swallow past a lump in your throat, readying yourself for it, “better make it quick then,” Namjoon waits, Seokjin is silent, watching you, gaze flickering from you to Hobi every few blinks. Yoongi holds onto your knee, sliding his palm down to your hand, your wrist. Finger digging into the sensitive scent gland there and rubbing comforting circles.

You swallow hard. “We’re all on each other's sides, right?”

“Of course,” Jin crosses his arms like he's offended you even had to ask. You bite back your retort. Namjoon nods, so does Hobi.

Your hair flops as you nod. But you still look to Yoongi to wait for permission. After a breath your mate nods and spreads his hands, giving you the floor.

If there’s one thing you know it’s that you can’t do this alone, you and Yoongi, Namjoon and Jin, Jimin and Tae. You and Hobi. There is no separation here, not when it comes to your safety. Each of you cannot keep the rest safe on your own.

“I met Jimin a few months before I met Yoongi, I…Yoongi’s family-”

Yoongi resists the temptation to speak for about 10 seconds when you fall silent. You can sense the moment that the truth shifts, when it explodes at Yoongi’s tongue. Unbidden but frantic and relieving like it's taken Yoongi's whole being to keep all this in.

“My family, I've never liked calling them that. Blood means nothing to me, you guys, you guys were always my family more than them." The pack is silent but you lace your hands with his and nudge his thigh with yours, encouraging him to go on.

"My relatives run the largest network of organized crime on the East Coast, from Boston to Miami. Everything from racketeering to prostitution to production and distribution of pharmaceutical-grade opioids. cover ups, sale of illegal weapons, extorsion of political officials and blackmail. If you can think of a crime they do it. If you can think of a way to make money, they've got their hands in it. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t go home- why my parents-”

Yoongi breaks off, his voice going small and quiet. Wounds he doesn’t talk about- even to you.

“There’s maybe 200 of us now. I’ve got a lot of fucking aunts and uncles. We try to stay in our lanes, our cities, and deal only in our respective crimes. There's a lot of politics and a lot of people vying for control here and there, but only alphas are allowed to lead, omega's increases the bonds of power in other ways and beta's- You know how rare beta's are- in my family- i'm treated as second only to the family head. Being a beta offered me certain liberties. Other freedoms. Not only to avoid most of the violent stuff- but to leave and move around without asking for permission. It's like a get out of hell free card. Not everyone gets that."

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest, “You mean they didn’t exactly expect you to go about popping heirs or advancing the family business through murder and ruining innocent people's lives. not like they expected with me."

Hoseok shrivels his nose, He looks from you to Yoongi- eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “hang on i thought- Are you guys trying to say you’re fucking related or-”

“Oh my god daisy-”

You splutter, “gross- No, we’re not fucking like- blood-related or anything.” You tap your chest. "I'm non family- brought in from the outside. Which means I was just about as valuable as piss to the aunts. In our world the only reason to mate or marry is for power- any other reason and your spouse is considered disposable." you cross your legs, admitting something you've kept to yourself, not a secret just a suspicion. "Geumjae never intended to keep me around forever."

Seokjin makes a strangled noise and Namjoon runs his hands through his hair, “Jesus Christ.”

Hobi raises his hands bare, “Sorry! You’re not doing a good job of explaining!”

"Well, if you just gave me a minute to get to the point-" Yoongi seems to shake himself, to put himself together. “Like she said- I'm not expected to partake in the family buisness, Only alphas are allotted that 'honor'." Yoongi puts the words in quotations and adds an eye roll for good measure.

"Mainly- I’m treated as some sort of glorified advice Column. People call and ask me things and I’m required to answer or else they’d hunt me down and drag me back. They bring me in to coordinate stuff because I'm a beta and I keep everyone calm and keep them from killing each other and shooting out their squabbles. I tried to keep you guys safe that’s why I left but-“

Jin’s hand goes to yours, nodding, because he understands. “But not why you stayed away.”

“No. It's not.” The pack's eyes naturally stray to you.

“The heads of houses report to the family head and she directs them to me if they need a beta's touch. Only she hasn't- the new Don hasn't asked anything of me since taking power. When the last one died- my grandparents- I left to help with the transition. But the new Don doesn't need me."

You flinch, you try to hide it but Yoongi turns, ferreting out that there's a secret there without you having to confess it. Your voice is darker than they’ve ever heard. "It's not that she doesn't need you- it's that she doesn't trust you."

Yoongi tries not to sound accusatory. "Her trust isn't something you should be after."

“It’s not- promise I just-” You pick at a stray thread on your pants.

The linoleum floor in front of you is polished so clean that you can see your reflection in it. "She shouldn't trust me either- and she knows it. Believe me she knows it."

Now it's Yoongi's turn to look at you. To pull himself to the edge of his chair to try and get in front of you. A wordless question that he dares not speak.

"Before you, I was already trying to do whatever I had to survive. including doing what everyone else did back in that hellhole and ask for help-"

Yoongi stands, to much energy and panic in his body to stay seated. “You didn’t." This is a fight and a confession you shouldn’t have In front of the rest of them.

You look up at Yoongi, eyes beseeching. He's quiet and you make your words as measured and soft as you can. "I asked your grandparents first- and then when she told me as long as I did what she said she'd get me out I-"

“She’s more dangerous than Geumjae, you can’t have honestly been trying to trade one captor for another."

The whole pack is silent, watching the two of you. Not really understanding. But Jin- Jin pursues his lips. You don't know how he knows but he does.

Yoongi’s face goes truly white. Yoongi’s hands are shaking. Shaking until he grabs the handles of your chair, knees to the ground, bowed in front of you. Letting your silence stew for a second.

Maybe it’s a terrible thing to blame it on her, you hadn’t fought not to kill. But back then it had really felt like your only way out, the only way to escape the ever-suffocating pressure of trying not to die.

“For what it’s worth, I had no idea what they meant to you when she made me help her kill them.”

Something shifts in Yoongi’s stature, from surprise and shock to resignation so quickly you almost miss it. A tense set to his jaw but a tight-lipped understanding as his eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips and he rests his forehead on your knees.

He's very careful in his words. Slow with them and intentional when he lifts his head and stands. You don't know if they're lies. “Just like my parents, just like all of us in the family, I knew their days were numbered anyway.” But you loved them once you want to say. You’re not sure why you want Yoongi to be angry at you.

“I won’t apologize, not for what I had to do to survive.”

Yoongi cradles your cheek. Something dark and conflicted in his eyes.

“I know, but I’d forgive you anyway, even if you did it out of anger.”

“And Jimin?” Namjoon asks, Yoongi's hand drops from your cheek. "How does he connect to all of that?"

“I met him first, I asked him.” You hesitate. This isn't your secret to tell and you don't even know all of it- like how jimin even became an assassin or started killing. you don't know his motives. It's one thing to confess your own sins, and another to talk about Jimin's to them without his say-so.

Jin darts forward, holding your hand in both of his, “Whatever we say in this room- I’d never dream of recording. I’m not on anyone’s side but ours.” Jin screws his eyes shut tight, willing you and Yoongi to believe him. "Even with the FBI thing."

Namjoon whirls. He doesn't have to ask before Jin's spilling it. telling the truth.

Jin is measured with his speech, but it's his turn. No more secrets, that's what you've all agreed. "I've been working with the FBI for the last 8 years. They approached me back before we met Joonie- because of my proximity to Yoongi. First as an informant, then an agent and now the head of the task force.

"I only did it because I figured out that being a part of them was the easiest way to keep Yoongi out of jail. As long as I could reasonably assume I was the only one trusted and close enough to keep an eye on him, I could keep all the truly damning evidence out of their hands."

Jin turns to you, resisting the urge to reach out to you for his own comfort, you're looking at him like he's got three heads, but he smiles down at you, that pup-soft smile that he saves just for you when you're both nesting.

"I kept your name off of the photocopies of the recipie you used to kill them. Don't worry, no one but us knows." You look at Jin with new eyes, not a double agent but not an enemy either. Somewhere in between. Your heart pulses, and you grip his hand back.

Yoongi pulls his hands through his hair, angry, his tone grave "Well there's your reason-"

Hobi has been so quiet you've honestly almost forgotten he was there. Elbows balanced on his knees and watching the three of you on trial for Namjoon. "Answer to what."

"You don't understand Jin, you don't understand the laws of the family much less the one you've broken."

"The reason why someone's trying to kill you, if anyone finds out that Y/n killed them- everyone connected to them is fair game."

"You mean-"

"We're all done, if anyone finds out, that's probably why the new head of house was trying to take Jin out- to tie up a loose end."

"Hang on, I'm getting confused again." Hobi runs his hands through his hair, and it fluffs up. "Jimin's what again?"

“Jimin is an assassin, I asked Jimin to kill my husband for me but he said no.” You pick at a strand of thread on your pants, unwilling to look up and meet any of their eyes, not Namjoon’s or Jin’s. “Met him back when we meant nothing to each other. He still feels guilty for not saving me. We talked it out a while ago. It’s okay- I did it myself eventually- didn’t need anyone’s help.”

You look up at Yoongi and he looks like he might want to laugh or cry and can't pick which. “I don’t know much else about Jimin other than that he kills for the family."

"They've got people for everything, a few assassin's they keep on retainer," Yoongi clarifies. "People that anyone can hire if you've got the money for it. There are a few names that the family puts on a no-kill list, Children, the pack mates of the ruling pack, the heads of houses and their immediate packmates. If anyone kills a person on the no-kill list- their life is forfeit. I'm on it by default. The pack mates of the beta are on it too, All of you are on it. No one should be trying to kill you."

Yoongi's never paid much attention to the list, the waxing and waning names and faces and photos. he's been on it since before he was born and with no intent to kill or harm anyone and put himself even potentially in harm's way, he's never sought it out.

Maybe if he had, things would go differently.

A cold rush of realization rushes over you. "That's why Jimin and Jin ended up there" You stand up, adrenaline in your hands. "She was hoping they'd take each other out so she wouldn't have to break family law to kill them."

Yoongi shakes his head, "Something about this doesn’t feel right- something about this isn’t normal.”

Hobi’s phone dings before you can hash it out anymore. He looks down in his lap. “They're here,” he’s up and out of the chair, heading out the door and into the hall so quickly that the rest of you have to chase after him. Namjoon tugs you to your feet, staring at Yoongi and Jin. "Was that enough?" you ask.

"We'll talk more later." is all he says. But he does lace his hands with yours and pull you after Hobi. Your legs are so short you have to take two steps for every one of theirs.

“I wish Tae and Kookie were here for that-“

"They should know” your mate agrees, keeping pace with you in the hallway, dropping back with you when Namjoon accidentally lets go in his haste to get through the door. You make eye contact with Yoongi when you turn. Your back to one of those push doors using your body weight to push through it.

You pause, waiting with Yoongi on the other side of them.

“If anyone tells her about Minnie- should be me.”

(You know exactly how you’ll do it, you’ll tell Tae the story of you just like this. You’ll tell it like a story, with author notes and playlists near the end. You’ll talk about Jimin just like this; all of the good parts and all of the bad all in one. So that she might truly understand that having a choice doesn't always mean you're free to do whats right.)

Yoongi nods, “I can tell Jungkook. I think if I do it gently, he won’t get shocked enough to have a seizure.”

You pause before the doors open, to have just a moment with the two of you, just you and him leaning against it. He shifts closer, not holding you, hands by his side but he's close enough that you could rest your head on his shoulder. You do rest your head on his shoulder. Just to hear his heartbeat thud sluggish and heaven-sent against your ear.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” It feels like it’s been ages and ages since you’ve had a quiet moment with him like this. You resolve to have one, to make space for him when this is all over. A private date with just the two of you maybe. Whenever Jimin comes home. “To help with Jimin.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I killed your grandparents.”

“They weren’t good people,” Yoongi shrugs, you've never seen a sadder shrug. “I always knew that. They-” yoongi breaks off, stealing himself for a quiet confession. "I think they might have had a hand in killing my parent. She didn't like it- that they had so much power over me. Future of the family and all."

"You've never said-"

Yoongi pushes through the door, and a high pitched keening cuts off your next words. "Later."

You push through the door and Tae and Jungkook are already there. Entering through the outside doors with a puff of air into Namjoon and Jin's waiting arms. Namjoon holds Tae up as she wails and wails. Her cry high like a nightingale. Jungkook looks pale and shaky, settled under Hobi's shoulder clearly in shock.

You cut through them, ducking under Jin's outstretched arm and colliding with Tae before anyone else can join Namjoon in holding her. falling to little heap on the linoleum floor, just at the precipice of the long hallway that connects to the patient rooms and the nurse's stations to other surgical suites. Drawing countless stars, countless looks from passersby as Tae's sobs renew themselves, loud and broken.

You clinging to each other. Her arms around your shoulders, cradling your head like it's the last safe thing in the universe.

“Jimin,” her voice breaks, throat closing around nothing. Sobs wet and angry, hot tears dripping down her cheeks, big and unabated by hope. "Minnie- My Minnie-"

You cling back, getting your hands on her cheeks. “He’s gonna be fine, he’ll be alright- here- here let me help you up. We've got you Tae-”

Jungkook looks a bit better, a little bit less like he’s drowning. Jin reaches for him while you hold onto Tae. And JK’s nostrils flare, he steps back, looking Jin up and down. Tae clings to you on the floor of the hospital and you look up at them. At Jin and Jungkook, standing a pace apart. Jungkook's hands keep Jin from coming any closer.

“You smell like Jimin does when he comes home from his trips, you smell like gunpowder. And mucky-” Jungkook's voice breaks, "Jin? Why do you smell like blood?"

There are too many people around, too many people for something like this. You're just glad It’s a quiet omission, Jungkook’s scent is level and so is his breath.

Maybe you should give him a lot more credit. Yoongi might not have to tell him much.

Tae's tears hit your collarbones as she crushes you, sobbing loudly in your ear, immune to the string of sweet nothings that fall from your lips. Whispered against her temple.

To everyone else in the hallway, rushing in the late-night hum, you and Tae look just the way that you’d expect; Two girls clinging to each other, one tall and the other short. One an alpha and the other an omega.

The rest of the pack is so blinded by their concern and their terror that they don’t look up. They don’t look down the hall to see the figure standing there watching them. One second the hallway is empty of the dark figure and then next she's there- waiting for you.

Her pine and medicine scent is disguised by the smell of death that lingers here. Although more than 2 of the people there might recognize it if they had the patience to sniff it out. They're too distracted by Yoongi dragging Jungkook close and whispering in his ear to keep his voice down.

Moonbyul watches the scene from the end of the hall. Two coffees in her hands. One for her and one for you because she always assumes that you'll go with her when she asks. No matter what’s going on with your pack, Moonbyul is not the kind of person who you say no to. She’ll ask nicely for you to come one more time.

Or so she thought. Looking at you and Tae holding each other is giving her other ideas.

To love a man is something she's always been able to dismiss as a mistake. Little pups just don't know what they need and even less what they want. She'd been prepared to deal with you loving them, the alphas, on paper, even the admittedly pretty omega male currently in her cousin's arms.

But another woman? Even one like that?

Rage is not like other sorts of anger, it’s not like fire burning to take. Achieng to burn until all the heat has worked itself out. Rage is quiet, rage is darkness and a hunger that needs to consume. That will destroy even if you try to stop it.

It's one thing to know that you love a woman besides her, and another to see you peck kisses along her tearstained cheeks. The rage builds as she watches you cup that female alpha’s cheeks. She watches you brush her hair back from her eyes and tuck it behind her ears. She’s got honeyed skin and smudged lipstick (so inelegant) you wipe her tears away and kiss her cheek.

But what makes Moonbyul’s hands tighten into claws, her metal-tipped nails piercing the coffee cups and making them drip onto the ground, wet and hot, is the way you smile at her.

Moonbyul’s rage is like a tidal wave.

By the time the rest of the pack looks up, the hallway is empty except for a puddle of coffee on the linoleum floor and two discarded cups. One with red lipstick stains and the other without.

~-~

(18 hours later, Jimin)

Tae’s cheek is so soft. That’s the first thing that Jimin’s aware of as he wakes from surgery.

Coming out of general anesthesia feels like being a rickety buoy on the busy ocean. One second bobbing to the surface and the next crashing below the waves and taking on water. Sloshy. Everything feels sloshy.

He only feels her at first- not the hospital bed, not the scratchy sheets, Just the feeling of her cheek resting against the palm of his hand. Her gentle breath tickling his fingers in her sleep.

Jimin will always know the particular beat and cadence of Tae’s body. Would know it if the sun got snuffed out like a candle. Would know her breath anywhere because it’s the very fuel to Jimin’s soul, the very thing that sets the tempo to the heart monitor beating out a pleasant rhythm in the midafternoon hum.

Her skin is pillowy and sweet beneath Jimin’s flayed fingers, limp and cold to the touch because of the whole almost bleeding out thing. He doesn’t know it yet, but he's needed 9 units of blood in the past 24 hours. 4 right away, and 3 during the surgery where they removed the knife and stitched his arm together. And another two units just after.

Compared to his own body, Tae feels so warm.

At least Jimin can still feel his left hand. The doctors that stitched him back together must have done a bang-up job, Namjoon even more so. a lot of people can put an arm back together, a whole slew of them, but not many surgeons could stab someone carefully enough so as to not permanently injure them. There are only so many people that he would trust to stab him.

But Jimin trusts Namjoon with a whole lot more than just that.

When he opens his eyes (a task of herculean proportions) Namjoon isn’t there, it’s just Tae in one of those absurdly uncomfortable hospital chairs. She’s bent over his hospital bed in what must surely be an uncomfortable position to sleep in. Her back arched like invisible wings weigh her down. She slept like that, sprawled as close as she could get to Jimin without the nurses waking her up and telling her not to crowd him.

The smudged mascara on her cheeks flake like falling stars, little trails there were tears rendered it useless. Jimin wipes away a black droplet like he's banishing a ghost. She’s cried so much over the last 10 hours, most of her makeup gone and sporting a bit of 5 o’clock shadow too. The faint roughness that Jimin feels no more than once. Because to derive sensory pleasure from that feels…wrong.

He looks at the ceiling, wondering where the others are. He feels the edge of his body, the spot where the wound begins and the pain ends. Who knew gunshots and stab wounds could make you feel so sore? and tired too? Exhaustion pins his body to the bed like a butterfly to a corkboard.

A wire connected to his good hand tugs, But he ignores it in favor of cradling Tae's head and combing through the tangles in her hair. It's gotten so long now, just to her shoulders, but the bits feel so soft and gauzy against his fingertips. He wishes he could feel it forever. It’s much much better than the 5 o’clock shadow.

It takes a dozen passes for Tae to stir.

And then she startles awake, flinching into being. Fresh tears disrupt the mascara flecks as she beholds her soulmate and nearly tugs herself across his bed to get her hands on his face. To hold his cheeks.

To say that Tae has looked better would be accurate for jimin to say but the words would never grace Jimin’s lips. Not even close. Even with a crusty face and greasy hair- Tae looks gorgeous- so pretty that his heart pulses dangerously quickly. so quickly that jimin's suprised the nurses don't come by and check on him.

Maybe they haven’t given him enough opioids for his shoulder because for a second he feels his heartbeat ricochet through his whole body. To his fingers where he's touching her and back to his heart. Every echo and ripple Tae Tae Tae.

Tae bends over Jimin’s body. Her hands go to his face, fingers touching his smile, and thumbs pressed to his faint crow's feet and twinkling eyes. Clutching at him like he’s her lifeline (he is, a red string of fate that keeps her from drowning, always. She was stupid not to use it like an anchor).

“Pup told me.” She says, a note of finality in her voice, lower lip trembling, tears falling anew “told me you kept talking about me even when you were stabbed" she goes quiet, whispering the words like she's scared someone might be listening in.

"Pup told me everything."

Jimin’s eyes flick from her lips to her face, her body, everything. His hands are trembling, chest building with breaths until they’re heaving and the realization of just how much everything she must know hits him.

Tae knows Jimin well enough to know what a panic attack looks like- knows enough how to soothe it. Knows just to hold on and wait for it to pass. jimin's hands splay and flex, rubbing her skin once, twice, and then a third time in an effort to self-soothe.

"It's okay,"

"You mean you're not-" Jimin's heart monitor is going so wild that Tae has to tell him to calm down. Has to run her fingers up and down his scent glands on his neck, nipping at them to settle him. "You're not angry that I'm-"

That I'm a killer, that I'm a monster. That I've kept everything from you. Jimin readies himself, preparing himself for the speech he always knew he'd have to give. You don't understand, I didn't have a choice, I wouldn't have chosen this- I didn't I just. I never killed people who didn't deserve it- because I know that you'd hate that.

For the first time in their lives, Tae and Jimin are sitting across from each other- without a single secret to each of their consciousness. both of them free and perilously unmoored for it.

But there are no words that Tae needs when she looks up at him and smiles. Wetness at the corner of her eyes.

Seeing Jimin in the hospital bed had not felt like Patroclus and Achilles, it hadn't even felt like Orpheus and Eurydice. There was no roaring anguish. The kind that follows when people leave you too soon. Or the bitter vindication that happens when people leave at just the right time (it’s the worst when people leave like that. Either linger or make me miss you. Stay too long or leave me early. Either way is fine. I’ll feel more human if I’ve got longing or hatred to feel).

In truth seeing Jimin in the hospital bed, wires and hooks connected to him- keeping him alive and keeping him breathing, had felt like a second chance. She's not going to let something as simple as a secret spoil it.

Tae knows she should want to know more about Jimin's job as an assassin and should want to ask more questions (if not to understand her soulmate better, than for writing material). She Should be more revolted or disturbed or upset that her literal soulmate kills people for a living, but at the moment, all she can find in herself is just to be glad that Jimin is fucking alive.

It’s funny, how much your priorities can shift.

Jimin looks like he doesn't believe her. "Tae, you can't even kill spiders."

"Would you care?" Jimin falls silent. "Would you care if it was me in your position?"

Jimin swallows hard and winces. He doesn’t have to ask for a sip of water, because Tae has already gotten it for him by the time his good hand closes over his throat. His shoulder is bound so tightly in bandages that he can hardly shift it. Can't reach up to stop himself from spilling a bit of the water down his chin. Her nails (red polished and chipped) wipe away a drop on his lips.

(There's more that you weren't able to tell her just yet; a lot about you and Yoongi and Jin. You've decided to save the bulk of how Jimin ended up in the hospital bed until after Jimin woke up. Later when you can get her on her own you'll tell her. Probably after Jimin's discharged from the hospital. But the other secrets can wait for now).

It won’t really hit her until later. When she’s in her closet looking at all of her pretty things and designer clothes. Fingers toeing along the fine black cashmere sweaters, to the maroon dresses, to the scarlet ones, stopping just before she reaches the pink. The Dior, the Versache, the McQueen. It will only be then that she'll put two and two together and realize they were all paid for with blood money. With people’s lives.

It will bother her then; it doesn’t bother her right now. It will never bother her enough to think about leaving jimin.

How do you make the choice? What to condemn a loved one for? How do you pin down your line of intolerance when it's someone you love with your whole being? Can you decide at all or is it something that your soul chooses for you? The weight of one sin for another. what you're willing to go through.

They would have died anyway. Even if Jimin hadn't killed them, they had someone out there willing enough to pay for their death and they'd have died anyway she rationalizes. We're all going to die anyway.

Maybe it’s a silver lining that Tae no longer believes in the same kind of sin and wrongness that Jimin does. Doesn’t believe in God and heaven at all. Tae has always believed in soulmates more and believed in Jimin the most. More than any god or afterlife.

“I should be angry, anyone else probably would be but-” Tae turns her cheek into Jimin’s fingers, pressing her lips to his trigger finger. Eyes shining when she looks at him. “I’ve wasted too much of my life being angry at you, wasted too much of it feeling anything but love for you- Jimin- if you died, I-”

Jimin cradles Tae's cheek. “I’m sorry for Namjoon’s rut- for what I said. Didn’t mean it. Never mean it if I'm mean-” Jimin’s finger rubs across Tae’s lips, the wide part of his palm splayed across her jaw, and so much is said in that little touch. But they look at each other and laugh. "Not like Noodle."

It shocks a laugh out of Tae and she presses her temple to Jimin's jaw, feels his smile when the joint moves. She realizes that Jimin's still a little high. Probably too doped up on pain medicine to have this conversation but oh well.

“I never thought it would take you getting stabbed for me to realize it,” her lip trembles, “I don’t want to waste another second being angry with you.”

“I don’t want to waste another second with you either. Won't even sleep,” his eyelashes flutter, struggling to stay awake.

Tae pulls herself more firmly on top of the bed and Jimin shifts a little, wakes a little more when she slings a leg carefully over his hips. Being gentle, still conscious of his physical state. He uses his good arm to pull her up and up until She’s splayed across his lap.

Kissing Tae never loses its edge, it always feels like their first kiss, sweet and with that knotted bundle of anticipation. Jimin sits up into the kiss, sits up until his shoulder protests and he hisses into the kiss. "Don't strain yourself minnie-"

"Don't care just-" he pulls her hips snugly. After that words are sparse as they kiss, again and again, lips working together. Sloppy messy love kisses. Every breath tastes like love, every second of it. She giggles pulling apart for a second to get her breath, the heartbeat monitors in the corner going wild. Breath that washes over Jimin like a gust of spring air, cinnamon flower sweat, and heady. Tae’s kisses are better than a first sip of coffee or a breath of fresh air. (They’re better than living, just a little bit).

“If I was any less sore, I’d ask you to bite me right now.”

Tae grins, and it’s a special secret smile. “You said something like that to Pup too."

“I’m so lucky I get to be yours- don't want to waste the luck-" Tae shakes her head stubbornly pulling back.

"I don’t think that you should say you’re lucky. I’m so lucky that this person loved me, or I’m so lucky that I got to love them. Because when it comes down to it, love and luck are not the same thing. Love is not a single event, like winning the lottery, or finding a 100-dollar bill. Love is a choice and you have to choose it a thousand times. Every day you choose it. Luck is such a cop-out. It’s been really nice.”

“God, I hope I’m more than just nice.”

Tae smiles, “Shut up” She goes a little pale. “Actually don’t shut up with me like- ever. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.” She plays with Jimin’s hands, “Is that when either of us- whoever- goes first-“ Jimin’s grip goes knuckle tight on her waist, he's coming out of it, a little more lucid with every breath. Waking up more.

“When one of us dies- I don’t want to question if I ever loved you enough, I don't want to rely on just luck. I don’t want to think about the days that I could have gone for coffee with you or could have kissed you longer. I don’t want to think that I didn’t get exactly what I wanted and you didn’t get exactly what you wanted too.

"I want to give you one extra kiss every time so that you get twice as much as you would have gotten otherwise. I just want to think that it was nice, that every moment of it was nice- even when we fought, I want to look back on it and think ‘even the sad parts were nice and I got more than I thought I would.' No luck involved.”

She grins down at him, that same youthful grin she’s had her whole life, Jimin thinks of it sometimes- how many times she’s smiled this way and he hasn’t seen. How many more he will see.

“Also, y/n says that you’re allowed to mate me, but not marry me. She says my ring finger belongs to her.”

Jimin slides up the bed, flipping her over, supporting himself with his good hand, sending her sprawling and giggling. His growl is half hearted but promising. Tae laces her hand in his greasy blonde hair and it stays there.

It stays there.

~-~

The rest of Jimin’s hospital stay goes a bit like this:

There is a pair of suits outside the window, dark and imposing. plain clothes police officers watching and waiting like vultures. They’ve already taken statements from the pack but demand to hear from Park Jimin himself.

Lies from the source always taste the sweetest.

There is a story ironed out and penned in stolen moments, you curled up in one packmate's lap and transferred to another, "the pup" Jin had said, the youngest, was not taking her alpha's stabbing well. "She just needs a bit of soothing, sorry." The suits are charmed enough by two cuddling omega's that they don't notice your mouth pressed to their ears, like a game of cuddly murderous telephone.

The story gets ironed out easily, you’d all gone out for pizza, had come home to find Jimin bleeding in your kitchen.

“It’s pretty normal for Jimin to be reckless with his health. I’m not surprised he tried to come home and see if I could stitch him up himself. I'm a doctor at his hospital- Dr. Kim, pack alpha and head of neurosurgery. The knife- you should know I touched it on accident he wanted to remove it himself and I just had to stop him- I’m sorry- I should have known better I was just- so shaken.” Namjoon is a passable liar at best.

Jungkook has folded himself under your mate’s arm, and Jin’s too. He’s still vaguely shaking, bunny eyes wider than usual. In a little bit, Namjoon will drag him over to an empty exam room for a quick check-up. Just to make sure he isn't about to seize on the floor. Yoongi will go with him, Will tell him the truth about all of this then.

But what, with his comment earlier, you wouldn't be surprised if Jungkook has already figured it out on his own.

Jimin doesn’t even need to be coached into remembering it. The police don’t even think of not letting the pack see him, after seeing Tae’s teary eyes. A pretty girl is the best distraction, and the pack has two pretty girls that smell sour and need to tend to their alpha before the police get a chance too.

They’re impatient as they watch you and Tae fold yourself over Jimin’s barely aware body, more preoccupied with looking at your asses than they don’t see your lips moving against Jimin’s ear, mistaking your shaking for the racking sobs. And your quiet words for sweet nothings.

Hobi had barely leashed a growl, and resisted the urge to step in front of you and block you both from their sight.

The story is so easy and simple- a true case of Ockham’s razor. The simplest story with the least details is the most likely to be believed. the story Jimin tells the police goes like this;

Earlier yesterday, a crazy fan of the idol group he guards that must have followed him from his schedule with intent to learn his schedule and get closer to them. Her description is so ordinary that they’ll never find her because she doesn’t exist. Any person found will easily be made inculpable; either by alibi or honesty. Not that the law cares much about honesty, nor that any of you care about possibly implicating a stranger.

Love always did make people go to extremes, it's easily believable.

Nothing else matters. Besides keeping everyone safe. You're united against this.

Once they're gone, other promises get made:

“I want you to quit, this is too dangerous, if something like this happens to you again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

“We need to make sure we travel in pairs until we figure out what’s going on, why they're targeting Jimin and Jin.”

“I can ask some of my contacts-“

“You’ll do no such thing Yoongi.”

“Do you think we should be like- Armed? Just in case?”

“I don’t think more guns will solve anything but…Maybe.”

In a stolen moment, Namjoon corners you outside Jimin's hospital bedroom, he's holding three bags of takeout, not that Jimin will really be able to eat much of it. The opioids keep down his appetite. That doesn't meant the pack won't try to fuss. As it is, Jimin hasn't been interested in anything but kissing Tae and holding her hand. Pouting whenever the nurses make tae leave.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier," Namjoon has always found apologies easy and has never had so much of an ego that it would get in the way of any of it.

"It's alright, between you and me, I think it was kind of justified." You'd probably yell at all of them if they convinced you to stab Yoongi or tae or any of them.

"No more secrets, okay? Promise me this is the last one." It's easy to promise Namjoon that, so easy. To let him scent you, rubbing his coffee liquor scent all over your shoulder.

(But it's not about the promises that you make, it's about the ones that you break.)

You sit out in the hallway the following morning, still in the same clothes and starting to feel a little bit filthy because of it. None of you have gone home yet. Hobi sits next to you and Jungkook's on the other side.

They’re just checking Jimin’s stitches again, and his hospital room just got a bit crowded. The prospect of checkout is maybe a day away. Tonight is the last you'll have to spend at the hospital.

It was also time to talk over Jimin’s opioid regimen, and the doctor had been nearly delighted when Namjoon had stepped up and taken the lead, reassuring the doctor under no uncertain terms that Namjoon would manage them. You can forgive him for thinking a little too much with his hindbrain. If Namjoon leaned any more into his instincts you'd be worried he was close to going into a rut again.

“Is this what it’s like when I’m in the hospital?” Jungkook asks, sucking on some skittles. It's more sugar than he should be allowed to have especially during a high-stress situation. But Jungkook’s taking the panic to get a little bit of freedom. You cast a glance at Tae, at Yoongi and Jin, standing by the door looking like he’s about ready to twitch out of his skin with the effort it's taking him to stand outside.

Jin had apologized- him and Namjoon both, and Jimin had accepted it instantly. "If I trust anyone to shoot and stab me- it's you two so-"

"But-" they'd argued, but eventually Jimin had turned a little scary, a little threatening. showing a hint maybe- of a persona they're all unused to but you're not. Jimin can be firm when he needs to be. A quick retort of-

"Forcing me to comfort you over something I'm not upset about is not the way to make me forgive you." Shut them up for good (or at least for now).

“Yeah, pretty much.” You hold out your hand for some skittles and he gives you a few. Hobi grimaces and reaches over to take the orange ones out of your palm. He knows you don’t like those. He replaces them with a few green ones.

"It’s fucking boring. I should get you guys like- a DS or something for Christmas.”

“Don’t tell Minnie or he’ll blow all his money on-“ You cringe at your words and Hobi flinches. Jungkook just chews on his candies, they smack against his teeth with a hard clinking sound.

There is still some of Jimin's blood under Hobi's fingernails. You see it when he reaches over to take your Skittles.

The next time Hobi moves to take your Skittles, you grab his hand and pull him to his feet. "Come on."

You lead Hoseok into the women's bathroom, underneath the curious eye of the nurses, all the stalls are empty so you pull him over to the counter.

“You’ve got some- stuff- under your nails- let me.” You rip a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wet them. You clean Hobi’s hands diligently and he lets you.

He stays quiet, Hobi's been quiet for the last day or so. He hasn't done more than whisper a few quiet words to Jimin and stay close. He didn't say anything during your secret confession yesterday. Didn't ask a single question and the silence bleeds now as you scrub the clean-smelling soap against his skin. Your anxiety builds, and you scrub a little harder. His fingers remain limp in your touch.

“Say something- say anything okay? I need to know that you’re not-” not angry with me. That you don't hate me- that you still love-.

Hobi pulls you against his shoulder in a single clean movement. His wet hands hit your stomach when he grabs your hips. Your nose brushing his throat, his nose skimming your hairline.

“I’m trying not to take too much energy from Jimin- trying not to- be a mess- because he's the only one who deserves the packs attention. I'm not even sure if I am a mess about it. Sure that sucked but-" he sighs, "you and I are kinda like- uniquely able to handle things like this cuz of-" he doesn't need to finish his sentence. Hoseok's lips brush your ear, lips touching your skin, and- he pulls back, smiling softly. It's a tired smile but there it is- soft and special and just for you.

“You’re taking things, remarkably well considering the last time we…”

“The last time we had to deal with something like this?”

You hum, scrubbing a paper towel hard over the ends of Hobi's hands. The white paper goes orange-red with dried blood. "Give it time. There’s still a few weeks for me to go crazy this time.”

But this time, you have a feeling that it will be different. Although Hobi was there the last time- and played an instrumental role in making sure you didn't literally fall apart. It's different now. Right now, your hands tangle on the counter, holding on, even though you try to clean his hands of blood. Holding on is more important, neither of you tries and pull away. You don't have the energy for shyness.

What's more intimate? Sex or murder?

He huffs a small frustrated sound and stoops to rest his forehead against your shoulder, leaning almost all of his weight on you. You take it.

“Maybe this time I’ll take a crack at going crazy.” You laugh, stopping your brushing and just settling for holding him. Hips resting against the counter. The two of you rest, just for a moment.

Your nose against the side of his face where his undercut presses to your skin, spiky. "Still have that train ticket?" Hobi humms, taking a deep greedy breath of your scent to steady himself.

You're not expecting him to pull back and kiss you, but his lips are dry but warm, faintly chapped but yours are too. Pressing soft but demanding against yours. Hobi kisses you just as sweetly as last time and you grip the front of his jacket.

No sooner has he heaved you up on the counter, fingers hooking under your thighs to kiss you stronger- than is the door clanging open and a nurse comes barreling in.

"Ugh- uhm." She's a little stunned, but you're already hopping down, faces flushed and apologizing for the inconvenience.

You don’t throw the bloody paper towels in the garbage, but the toilet, flushing them once, then twice, to make sure that they’re down. Mumbling one last apology before you exit the bathroom together.

Hobi doesn't let go of your hand. You wonder if this is what loving him is going to be like; making out in places you shouldn't, special secret stolen glances when you keep holding hands even around the pack and keep stealing kisses.

You wonder if the kissing will stretch to the cars- to the late night drives, if he'll hold your hand like this around every hairpin turn. If Hobi's going to make you a make out playlist later, full of songs that make him think of you, songs that match the cadence and pitch of your heart. You wonder if loving him will be like this, stolen innocence, like finding sea glass on the beach. There and pretty for the taking if you only look for it.

Your heart feels all warm and tight with it, swaddled. Protected as Hobi tugs you back into Jimin's hospital room. You can't wait to find out.

The next few hours look like this; Namjoon sitting on the foot of the bed his hand on Jimin’s knee, feasting on hospital food. Jungkook giggles, and nearly throws himself across Jimin’s lap so that the alpha can put his hands through his hair. Looks like more takeout, living off of it because no one wants hospital food and you can't go home and cook. You refuse to leave right now.

It looks like Tae smiling for the first time In what feels like years but has logically been only a few hours. Rubbing a hand across her jaw and wincing when she feels the stubble.

Her wince quiets the sounds of the pack happy. And you look up from your plate.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, always stupidly attuned to her and her needs, always watching and waiting.

“I need to freaking shave and I just- I haven’t had the chance to.” Tae lets out a tired sigh, the kind of deep frustration that comes with things that you have no choice but to do.

You take her hand from her chair and tug her up. Because this- this source of angst can be fixed.

“Here- come on,” A shaving razor gets found for her, Namjoon goes to the surgical ward to get the right kind. Sharp and medical and disposable along with a tiny tube of shaving gel. You drag her chair into the bathroom and make her sit while you do it. Lathering up her cheeks and tipping her head back. The whole pack a cacophony in the other room. The shock of skittles and other candies falling onto the floor. Muted words then soft laughter.

You drag the shaving razor up her chin, over her chubby cheeks. Your gentle touch, the soft scrapping of her hair against the blade a gentle accompaniment to the sounds of the pack passing the time until Jimin wants to go to sleep. Jungkook's phone plays a tictok loud, "Bunny- headphones, Minnie's trying to rest" Yoongi reminds him.

Jimin is struggling not to fall asleep, shifting to one side of the hospital bed just to get a better vantage point to look into the bathroom at Tae. Jimin cranes his neck.

Tae's face twitches, and underneath the white froth you see her reddening cheeks. “Stop looking at me.”

Jimin grins from the hospital bed, “Can’t help it, love you.”

“Love you too Minnie” She choruses back, and the pack joins her.

that night, namjoon and yoongi push three hospital cots togeather around jimin's bed and the pack piles in, sweet bodies and kissed cheaks, whiped down with sanitary towels, you end up tucked between tae and hobi, your cheek pressed to her back.

the following morning it becomes impossible to ignore both how purely filthy the 8 of you are and the fact that Jimin's doctors won't let him check out until tomorrow (and even then he'll have days of bedrest and won't be able to use his arm until he gets his stitches out.) You haven't been home in two days, no one can remember if you even locked the front door with how crazy leaving was.

It’s hard to convince Tae to go with you and leave Jimin's side. But she's less resistant when Yoongi reminds her that Jimin needs new clothes to go home in since all of his bloodstained clothing was discarded as medical waste.

“Honestly we should get like- to go bags full of a change of clothes for all of us when like, JK has his seizures,” Maybe it’s just because you’ve done overnights twice in the last week at the hospital- but the idea doesn’t seem like a bad one.

Jin drives you, Hobi, and Tae home in silence; no one tells Tae any of the other secrets yet. Tired as she is, almost falling asleep in the car. Waking with a start when you turn onto your street.

It's a little shocking. When you get home to a cold and quiet house. Jimin's blood has dried up into dark waxy puddles, on the kitchen table and the floor. There are fingerprints from someone, rusty and red on the doorframe. It's stark to see the evidence. To see a bit of it on the butcher block countertop all the terror and the color leached out of it in the grey afternoon light.

Tae is so stumbly that Hobi has to grab her twice just to keep her from walking into walls when he gets her inside. Noodles immediately yowl has you feeling terribly guilty, he circles your and Hobi's ankles. But you push at Hoseok's hands when he stoops to pick him up.

"Take Tae upstairs and shower with her, will you? I'll be up in a second, just gonna feed him and get some stuff together." She's blinking and looking at the bloodstains, eyes already looking glassy with fresh tears.

You need a second, a second in quiet, a second alone just to steady yourself. Jin comes in, dragging in a mountain of mail from your box, "I've got them, come on pups, grooming time."

Jin pecks a kiss along your forehead, "Come up the second you finish?"

You nod, "Just want to get some food first too- hungry."

Jin nods and makes to follow Hobi and Tae but pauses on the stairs. he looks like he wants to say something to you. Eyes full of something unreadable and warm. Unspoken words hover.

If he had to choose anyone, I'm glad he chose you.

But before he can get it out Tae calls from upstairs. "Jinnie? Can you grab one of my comfy sets from the closet down there before you come up?"

You stand, solemn in the kitchen, listening to the sound of them on the creaky stairs, the sound of their quiet voices. The creek of the house as they walk around upstairs.

"Here you go baby," you say, giving Noodles an extra spoonful of food. You know you left enough for him in his bowl and that he didn't suffer too badly. But still, his purring chirping is music to your ears. You pet over his back, his fluffy tail.

He's Still chubby, still good. You aren't too bad of a pet owner then.

There's the gun still there, sitting just to the left of Jimin's blood splatter on the seat of one of the dining room chairs. You're at eye level with it from where you crouch down to pet Noodle. It's the same one that you pulled out from under the bed when you found out he'd been shot. You should probably take it with you when you go back to the hospital, just to be sure.

"You got any secrets for me nu? Are you the long-lost prince of some cat kingdom?" Noodle chops down in response.

You go to the hallway closet to get a duffel bag, where the pack stores their larger bags and luggage.

"Hey!" Hobi calls from upstairs, muffled through the roar of the shower. There isn't much other noise in the house. The birds outside aren't chirping, probably because you haven't been home enough to fill their birdfeeder.

Probably.

"Yeah!?" You call back up, upending the duffel bag and sending a bit of loose change, some quarters and pennies scattering onto the floor. you stoop down to pick up a few of them, tossing them back into the closet with a metallic clang (to be dealt with later.)

“Can you grab Tae's phone charger? It should be by her computer.”

"Got it!" Tae's library room is much the same as it was when you left it, her computer is closed. The walls are green, the window dusty. You find it easily, the cord long and white, tangling in your hands.

You're not sure why your hair raises on the back of your neck.

Noodle stops his chomping.

The push of cold air startles you- the change of pressure in the house like a door being opened- the front door. The windows in the library room are leaky. You're used to being in here and feeling it, used to feeling that same draft every time one of your pack mates comes home.

You freeze where you stand.

The metallic jingle of the doorknob is so much softer than usual. You could almost convince yourself that you don't hear it, that you've made it up.

And then you hear it- Noodle's low hiss.

Call it a habit or a trained behavior but you still make your footsteps quiet everywhere you go. A thing learned from your years with Geumjae when you needed to be quiet to be safe and needed to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible to avoid pain. A vestigial survival instinct.

It serves you well now because no one in the house hears as you slide from Tae’s library through the pantry area, you don’t call out Tae’s name again, or Hobi’s. You don’t know exactly why you don’t.

Your house is an old house and you know every inch of it. You know this house that Yoongi’s built for you from the top of the eves to the shutters, from the windows up top to the ground floor and dusty half-finished basement. You know every creaky floorboard and which steps are the ones you skip when someone’s sleeping upstairs because it always sounds so high-pitched and it wakes Jimin up, light sleeper that he is.

You hear the subtle creek of the floorboards now, the small slide of heavy boots across the wide floorboards. A creak. Someone is about to ascend the stairs, up to where you can still hear Hobi and Tae talking softly. The shower off, they're probably just getting dressed.

Softly, you hear the sound of a heavy boot hitting something metallic, one of the pennies you dropped earlier and missed.

Jin might still be in the other room, that's what you tell yourself. You're just being paranoid. stupid paranoia you almost want to laugh. you're just jumpy from the last few days- that's all. Funny of you, to make it up.

The danger is all in your head.

Only it's not,

Because the first thing you see when you peek around the corner is the pitch-dark barrel of an extended gun.

~-~

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Notes:

There are some parts in this chapter, some facts about yoongi's family that haven't been touched on since the very begining chapters or jimin's secret chapters and i repeated them just so that people get a bit of a refresher but some of it feels a little monotonous to write! i hope it's not too hard to get through.

in an ideal world i would have given myself an additional week to edit this chapter, it's not the most edited and because of that i feel like it got repetitive or arduous in places.

i'm also realizing that this is like, 9th longest bts fanfic in existence. look it up on ao3 if you don't believe me. i think giving people a refresher of the begining is fair. In terms of the harry potter series (it really is a shame that no one knows who wrote it) we're just into the 6th book in terms of word count if you need that for context.

on that same vein. moonbyuls brief rant that is implied to be transphobic and sorta is- is not a reflection of my views she's just...you know...the villain?

this chapter also literally went from 8k to 14k during editing what the fuck. i stayed up till 2 am to get this done two nights in a row. i have this little nagging voice in my head that says its stupid to care about something like this but i can't help it- i love this story so much. even if this isn't the best chapter.

when the m/c has her freak out in the room where she almost passes out- that is called adrenal fatigue and it's soemthing that i struggle with as someone with ptsd. you know the feeling when you go on a rollercoaster when all of your adrenaline unloads it's self all at once? if i go through that my body goes a little haywire like- dizziness, exhaustion, dysregulation, memory fog, all of it. i still like rollercoasters though so as long i like rest and drink alot of water it doesn't affect me too much.

it's really important that you notice that no one says moonbyuls name during the moment when they're talking about their secrets between namjoon, jin, hobi, yoongi, and the m/c. i'm not telling you why just PAY ATTENTION.

Every time i think about the proverb "The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." i think of the m/c and how thats her storyline with the family like- she really was like "either you love me or i'll kill all of you" and i think thats cute <3

In terms of why the last don and Beta killed Yoongi's parents- i think it's because yoongi's mother found out that she was pregnant with another beta and the don and beta didn't want to deal with such a divided power. They already had yoongi under their thumb and another possible successor would have over complicated things. Yoongi would have had a little sister, i don't know if he'll ever know thats why his parents where killed- he was between the ages of 16 and 18 when they died.

although this chapter was the least edited in terms of the most recent chapters- i will also say that there are two moments in this chapter- where i 'fuck up' and write things a certian way but heres the thing- they're not fuck ups and they're actually hints so! lets see if anyone notices!!

i'm gonna be honest with you guys the part where it goes "it stays there" left me fucking winded i can't even think about it too hard or else i get misty eyed.

i am catheterizing a lot of emotions writing this i am sorry it took so long to write, there is a reason why this update took a month and thats cuz yeah- my grandmother is dying. She's got cancer and She's 91 so they're not treating it. death is gonna be a /theme/ for me over the next couple of chapters, don't be surprised if I go off on a tangent or if it takes me a second between updates.

i wish i could write the m/c just a little dumber you know?

i wrote this series with the intent to write about people in realistic relationships- showing the moments they make mistakes, the moments they react too much or not enough, the way that trauma affects us all and how we handle it and love. it feels very full circle to have this chapter come out like- this is what bily is about you know? even though they'res alot of dialouge in it.

oh~ shits about to go down~

Mini-Playlist

Dominic fike- acai bowl (kinda hobi and the m/c's song for this chapter, they're going through it)

Hozier- Eat Your Young (Bekon's Choral Version) (this is literally bily's unoffical theme song at this point)

JID, Kenny Mason - Dance now (the beginning when moonbyul setting the industrial park on fire)

Frank sinatra- thats life (the song i picture playing at the end when tae and jimin are talking out their issues).

[stariikis]

operation : be your boyfriend | yang jungwon

synopsis ; thousands of ways to say, 'i love you,' and jungwon can't even carry out one special procedure without messing up. that is, until your birthday rolls around and you're greeted by the kitten you've always dreamed of owning, at your doorstep...

pairing ; clumsy!jungwon x fem!reader | genre ; fluff, crushing, confessions | wc ; 2721 | warnings n notes ; you're not oblivious, you're just a little bit of a mastermind sociopath! appearances of sunoo riki heeseung and eunchae in this fic!

baby... i'm just tryna play it cool... but i just can't hide that... i want you ઇઉ

OPERATION 1 : SECRET ADMIRER

“Clearly, he’s not listening to us.” 

“Yang Jungwon…” 

“Yang Jungwon!” 

Jolting back to the present, Jungwon coughs awkwardly and jerks his gaze away from the girl across the room. He didn’t realise he was staring at the mere back of her head the whole time… how embarrassing for him. Shifting his gaze back to his groupmates, staring at him with a bemused expression, he clears his throat. 

“I’m on task,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a pathetic croak from the roof of his mouth. He has to clear his throat again. 

“What a liar,” Riki scoffs, following Jungwon’s prior gaze all the way to the front of the classroom. Doubled over with laughter by the board, yn seems to have an aura of gold surrounding her figure. In between rays of sunlight and flecks of fairydust, the way she smiles lights up the whole room like she’s in a fantasy book. 

Barely trying to conceal it, Sunoo stares towards her direction. Ironically, the words that leave his mouth as he does so are, “can you at least try to hide it? You’re too obvious.”

“I can’t believe she can’t tell yet,” Heeseung mutters. 

For some reason, the whole table goes quiet. In the middle of the silence, Jungwon can only hear the clacking heels of their Maths teacher walking around and the soft rustle of papers, amiable chatter as groups begin to complete their assigned project. But a single voice stands out in the crowd. 

Never mind. Jungwon only hears her now. 

Isn’t it ridiculous? How he believed that his initial crush on her would be short-lived, nothing more than an impulsive attraction that would fade once he got to know her. When she walked up to him, however, saying nothing but a simple ‘thank you for sending me notes for yesterday’s class!’, he felt like his heart would race out of his chest. Unfortunately for him, she was too charismatic. 

With a perfect all-kill streak of grades, she’s never gotten a grade below 90. Not a point out of place. It’s the kind of person Jungwon aspires to be, a much better version of himself. Yes, he gets straight As every term and yes he’s been the class president for three years on end, but it’s nothing compared to her level. 

For the past two years, ever since she joined the class with an air exuding and radiating sheer confidence, Jungwon has been trying hard to beat her. Once would be enough for him. He’s been trying so hard to defeat her, however, that he’s forgotten to try to tame his feelings for her too. 

About a week after he met her, the butterflies churning deep inside his stomach were already too much for him. In her locker, silver letters Jungwon begged Sunoo to help him calligraph donned the bottom of an indirect, vague love letter. From your secret admirer. He doesn’t even remember now what he wrote inside, but he does recall many descriptions of her pretty smile and easygoing personality. 

It was only a day later he found out that he had accidentally dropped it in the locker next to hers. Lee Heeseung from the class beside them walked past, a basketball under one arm and the other hand holding the letter and reading it aloud to Riki, walking briskly beside him. In an instant, Riki looked straight at Jungwon across the hallway and facepalmed. 

OPERATION 1 : SECRET ADMIRER : FAILED

wait a minute, what is this? my heart is going lub-dub, just keeps pounding

even from afar, oh, my, gosh! ; pulling me close, you're, my, crush, like a superpower

OPERATION 2 : INDIRECT CONFESSIONS

Daydreams. Flitting endlessly through your mind, like a paradox. It’s impossible to zone out during Biology. How dull you find the zoomed in aspects of all the systems in your body. Sure, you want to pursue something medical-related, but this class just isn’t it. 

“Jungwon’s staring at you again,” whispers your seatmate, Eunchae. She uses her pen to gesture behind you. Two seats diagonal to you both, Jungwon notices your glances his way and pretends to look elsewhere. He’s resting on the palm of his hand, the paper he took out to take notes on completely blank. 

“I can’t believe he’s the class president again,” you mutter with a tinge of bitterness. 

Eunchae sighs. She’s clearly heard enough of your one-sided disliking towards the student leader, and it shows in the way she decides to disregard you. “You don’t have to hate him. He obviously doesn’t reciprocate the hard feelings.” 

Of course he doesn’t. 

You try to hide a triumphant smile. Of course Jungwon doesn’t harbor any hatred towards you. Rather, it’s quite evident in the way he always asks you to be the first player in his team during PE, asks you if you want to group up with him, makes excuses to brush past you in the hallway – he’s always wanted something more than friendship. 

The one time you did agree to do a Korean Language project with him, however, when he came over to record the podcast you had written, all that got done was a bunch of giggles into the portable microphone. Jungwon, admitably, had a good sense of humor. And it, unfortunately, matched well with yours. 

You’re making this more solemn than it needs to be, you think to yourself, biting back a small smile to yourself. Shouldn’t it be a good thing that you’ve got Jungwon wrapped around your finger? 

Spinning your pen smartly, you sit up. Right. You’ve gotten out of many late homework submissions and responsibilities because Jungwon would literally cover for you with visible hearts in his eyes when he talks about you. You know you should feel guilty for exploiting him, but it’s just what a friend does, isn’t it? 

Friend. Another memory fades in. 

“Yahh, you’re so down bad you can’t even let her do her own work,” Sunoo mutters to Jungwon, quietly rearranging the papers. He thinks you’re out of earshot, but you can hear their conversation clearly from your desk. 

Jungwon shrugs his shoulders in the corner of your eye, and you swear he glances over at you for a second. “She’s my friend. Are you trying to say you never copy my homework?” 

Sunoo tsks loudly. “It’s different. She doesn’t need the help! You’ve seen her grades.” 

They divert into a small argument about whose grades are better, but you’re not really listening anymore. Your heart is starting to race uncontrollably, and you look desperately down at your chest. You’re trembling from the fact that Jungwon called you his friend? How pathetic. You bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut as if juicing your brains of unwanted thoughts. 

But you can’t help but let out a short curse when your heart doesn’t slow down, your cheeks don’t cool off. Only Jungwon wants this. Not you too… 

And so when Eunchae finally gets bored of Bio once again, she leans in and pokes you. “Anyway, you know Jungwon has the fattest crush on you.” 

“Oh really?” you murmur, averting your eyes back to the liver diagram in front of you. Where you’re supposed to label, ‘oxygen-rich-blood’, you’ve scribbled ‘only jungwon’ in illegible handwriting. You pretend to act surprised, hiding the words with the palm of your hand. “He didn’t ask you to say that? Did he? As a prank?” 

Eunchae rolls her eyes. “It’s not a prank.” 

“So he asked you to say it.” 

“...” 

“I see.” You reach into your pencil case and pull out an eraser to wipe away the traces of your daydreams. It’s a good thing you do, because Eunchae suddenly looks over and teases you for falling asleep in lesson when you’re usually such a good student. If only she knew about the homework incidences. If only she knew about the thoughts that run through your head. 

What he’s trying to do is kind of… cute.

OPERATION 2 : INDIRECT CONFESSIONS : FAILED

my heart feels like a giant magnet, everything about you sticks to my heart, boy

we're magnetized, i admit it. this time, i want!

OPERATION 3 : LET'S GET IT!

She’s got to be joking, right? There’s no way… 

“Yeah, idiot, you’re invited to my birthday party. You got a problem with that?” (Name) scoffs at Jungwon, retracting the simplistic black and white invitation card in her hand. “Maybe you don’t deserve this?” 

“No!” He says a little too fast, reaching out to snatch it from her playfully. 

He reads it with a poorly hidden smile. Is he even trying at this point? He’s been on the verge of a proper confession for a while now. Why would he want to hide the fact that he really really really wants her to be his? 

“15 May?” He sighs, feigning disappointment. “Too bad, I can’t make it.” 

Wait for it…

“Really? That’s too bad,” she replies monotonously, walking away without a care. Not the reaction Jungwon was expecting. He releases a breath of air, only now realising that he’s been holding his breath. How boring of her. 

“I was lying!” He calls, smoothing out his school uniform and running down the hallway after her. “I’m definitely coming!” 

She clearly starts to laugh as she runs away from him, yelling, “come or not, it doesn’t matter to me!” 

Jungwon doesn’t give up. With a hand running through his hair, he chases her down the halls. He would chase after her for eternity if he had to. Eventually, he catches up to her with a tap on the shoulder. WIth a mock-annoyed look, she slows down, shoving his shoulder.

“What’s your problem?” She huffs, “Can’t I get a break around here?” 

Jungwon smiles. With just the right amount of delusion, maybe he can convince himself that whatever she’s spouting is just a white lie. Untruths to cover up the truth. She wants him back, he swears!

“You’ll never get a break,” he mumbles, suddenly going shy as he leans in closer. Just like I practiced with Riki. Just like I practiced…

“Annoyi–”

“From running through my mind all day.” 

When Jungwon finally dares to open his eyes (yes, he was so scared he closed them), he’s shocked to see an empty spot next to him. When he looks up and down the hallway, (Name) sticks out her tongue at him, taunting him. The unbothered glimmer in her eyes reveals that she hasn’t heard a thing. 

Once again, Jungwon leaves school with a pit of mild disappointment in his stomach. Not so upset that it hurts like hell, but the wound’s deep enough to leave a scratch.

OPERATION 03 : LET'S GET IT! : FAILED

completely opposite, our type ; you're J and i'm so P

S and N, polar opposites, but that's what pulls us in

INTERMISSION : BABY YOU'RE MY CRUSH

You hear it all.

What would Jungwon say when he finds out, that for a while now, you’ve been wrestling with your own complicated feelings, playing a game of tug of war inside your own heart? Nobody even knows you know. Nobody would even suspect you, of all people, to reciprocate Jungwon’s feelings. And, by this encounter, even Jungwon himself has no idea. 

i'll make it have a green light, girl's gotta have guts. so, let's go let's go, let's go let's go!

don't wanna hide it, the magnet in my heart. gonna follow my feelings and get with you, boy

OPERATION 4 : CATCH SOME FELINES (FEELINGS)

What would Jungwon do for love? Just ask him this one question. He’ll probably lie and tell you he doesn’t know, and doesn’t fall for the traps set out by catching feelings, but it won’t explain why he’s outside (name)’s house on her birthday at 8 in the morning. He could very well have come at 9, an hour before the party starts, but he wants to have some time alone with her. 

To present his gift to her, snugly bundled up in his arms. And to, uh, say some other stuff. 

He looks down at the pearl-white fluffy being, purring contently in his arms. Just a while ago, he got his inspiration for a birthday gift for her. She may have casually brought it up in the midst of discussion for yet another group project, but miniscule things like that stick with Jungwon for ages. 

“I want a cat…” she whines, when their group’s gotten sidetracked from their discussion topic. (what do you think the rate of pet ownership is like in Korea?) “they’re so cute. Oh, even better, a kitten!” 

“Just get one then?” Eunchae rolls her eyes, and Riki hums in agreement. 

“I would. Even my mum wants one. But it’s so much work to adopt one.” 

So much work to adopt one? Jungwon scoffs in his mind. Now take a look at the lengths I’ve gone to for you. And I don’t even know if you like me back. Am I stupid or am I stupid? 

“Yes, Jungwon? Can I know why you’ve summoned me so early in the morning?” Suddenly, the front door opens after many persistent tries to ring the doorbell. “I know you’re excited for my birthday… but this is just weird.” 

She doesn’t notice the kitten squirming in his arms, still rubbing her eyes blearily. She looks so exhausted that Jungwon wants to apologise for awakening her and almost runs away to save himself from the awkwardness. But he stands his ground. This time, he will succeed. 

The chronicles of Yang Jungwon’s confession story. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

“Happy birthday.” He murmurs softly, daring to take a step closer and hold out his arms. At first, she squints down at the blur of fur in his hands, face smeared with confusion. It’s only when the furry ball lets out a small mew that she gasps and jerks her head back up. “I… I, uh…” 

Seeing her so amazed, with tears gathering in her eyes from the euphoria, he loses track of his words. His mind goes blank. Not knowing whether to continue calmly, or panic and die on the spot, he struggles to speak and feels his cheeks quickly growing with warmth. 

What if, just like we practiced doesn’t reassure him anymore, with the last time he used it as an affirmation turning out to be the greatest embarrassment of his life? Just like we practiced? He’s never practiced to be fluent and smooth. He’s always naturally been that way. He’s never had to fumble for the right words to say. Just like we practiced? When would he ever practice worst comes to worst with Riki? Come to think of it, he probably should have. He can’t handle standing here with such shame any longer. 

“I’m sorry for being so annoying I just really really like you and I don’t know whether you’ll like this gift or not, but I can’t go another day thinking you probably don’t like me back you can just reject me that’ll be better than misleading myself forever and ever…” 

He blurts in a small voice. 

And then, he repeats himself, louder and more confident. Like he usually is. “I like you…” 

“You must be blind, Yang Jungwon,” she says, laughing through the tears. A moment of silence passes as Jungwon tries to comprehend what he’s just heard. Blind? Why? She’s not going to say… “I like you, too?” 

It’s a question. It makes his heart race, but it doesn’t seem like enough.

“You do?” He chokes, his voice failing him. Blood rushes to his ears. “You don’t.” 

“Wait.” She clears her throat and claims, “I got nervous. I do. And it’s not the kitten, I know what you’re thinking…” 

Taking a step back, she receives the kitten into her arms and coos while Jungwon tries to process everything. “Though I’m so surprised, and so grateful. This gift is the most thoughtful thing ever. No joke.” 

She knows what I’m thinking… 

Jungwon frowns and steps even closer. He’s so close and she’s so pretty, teary eyelashes gleaming in the morning sunlight. “So you’ve known what I’ve been thinking, huh?” 

“I have.” 

The hard, challenging tone that seeps into her voice is all too familiar to Jungwon. When she leads him into her house for the second time in his life, all he’s thinking is, what a way to reminisce the moment he fell in love with her. 

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh, but I do!” 

A game of wits, you could call it, is what sixteen year old them are playing. Head to head in number of points, they’re competing for first place. Jungwon hides behind his whiteboard, eagerly awaiting her response. She’s never going to guess what he had in mind. She’ll never write the same exact thing, letter for letter— 

“I know what you’re thinking.” She whispers mockingly, smirking as she reveals her answer while peeking over the top of his board. The answers match up. She’s won. “I know exactly what goes on in your head.”

OPERATION 4 : CATCH SOME FELINES (FEELINGS) : SUCCESS!

no push and pull, gonna run to you ; our chemistry yeah, i'm in too deep now no push and pull, no regrets, gonna zero in on you ; never holding back straight ahead, yeah 

this time, i want!

more of my works >

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[ellieslovr]

A Visit To Mr.Miller’s House

CW: age gap, daddy kink, dirty talk, creampie, unprotected sex, mentions of pregnancy. This is a dbf joel miller fic. Reader has no physical description, Joel is able to pick them up. Joel Miller x F! Reader. wc:3,071

A/N:wow, it only took me a month to upload this time! Look at that. Anyways, this is my first Joel fic, so let’s see how it goes. Enjoy! I have many more ideas for him.

Summary: After your dad asks you to go pick up something from Joel’s house, you get a lot more than you bargained for.

You really hadn’t been thinking when you’d borrowed one of your best friend’s shirts. You’d had an impromptu sleepover, leaving you without a shirt to wear to bed. She dug through her drawers and tossed one towards you, laughing.

You scan the text on the front. “I LOVE DILFS” it read. You glanced up at her. “Seriously?” You said.

She just laughed. “You’re just wearing it to sleep, you’ll be fine.” You just roll your eyes and slump onto the bed next to her, nestling under the covers.

You’re awoken the next morning by your phone repeatedly ringing, and you yawn as you reach for it.

Seeing that it’s your dad, you groan and hit accept. “Are you just waking up?” He asks. Hello to you too, you thought.

“Yeah, I spent the night at a friends.” You reply. “Oh, well I have a favor to ask.” He said, and you could hear a shuffling noise in the background. “What’s that noise?” You ask him.

“I’m working on repairing this old car, but I need one of the parts for tomorrow.” He told you.

Before you could respond, he continued. “Since I wasn’t gonna be home when it got delivered, I had it sent to Miller’s house. Think you could go pick it up? I won’t be home till late, so you can just leave it on the table.” You groan internally. Of course he’d have it delivered there.

Your dad and Mr.Miller, or Joel as he’d insist you call him, were lifelong friends. They’d known each other since high school, and still hung out from time to time. It’s not that you didn’t like Joel, in fact it was the complete opposite. You liked him too much.

As a kid, you’d always seen him as a sort of uncle figure, but that changed as you got older. Now, you couldn’t be around him without being reduced to a blushing and stuttering mess.

You snap out of your thoughts and realize your dad is still waiting on a response. “Yeah, I’ll grab it. I’m leaving here in a few minutes.” You say.

“Thanks sweetheart, I’ll see you later tonight. Bye.” With that, he hangs up the phone. You turn around and see your friend grinning at you.

“What?” You ask. She smirks. “You have to go to Joel’s house~” She sings. You toss one of her pillows at her. “Shut up.” She laughs and throws it back at you, and you place it down onto the bed.

You finish packing your stuff, and your friend walks you outside to your car. You wave her goodbye and she wishes you luck with a wink, which you scoff at.

The drive back home is about twenty minutes, so you decide to take the longer route. The less time you have to see Joel, the better. You pull up to your house, and exit the car.

Once you’ve put all your stuff away, you pull a jacket on and head over to Joel’s house. It’s winter time in Texas and although it wasn’t freezing, it was still pretty cold. You walk up the front porch steps, and ring the doorbell. You wait a minute or so, and there’s no answer.

As soon as you lift your fist to knock, the door swings open. Joel peers down at you, dressed in a stained white muscle shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He must’ve been working out.

You swallow hard, trying to remember what it is you’re here for. “Oh, it’s you. Hey kiddo, c’mon in.” Joel says, ushering you inside. You smile at him.

“Thank you, Mr.Miller.” He shuts the door. “Call me Joel, sweetheart.” He tells you. You know the name doesn’t hold any weight behind it, but it still gives you butterflies nonetheless.

“You caught me right in the middle of my workout.” He says, using a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. You try to not let your eyes wander to the droplets rolling down his neck, no doubt cascading down his abs.

Joel doesn’t seem to notice that you’re distracted, and carries on. “How about you take your coat off and stay a while?” He asks.

Your heart skips a beat. “Actually, my dad just wanted me to pick something up.” You told him. His face dropped slightly. “Oh, right.” He replied, gesturing to the package sitting on his table.

“I could stay for a little though, I’ve got nothing to do today.” You told him, mentally cursing yourself for being unable to say no to him.

He brightened up. “Atta girl, I’ll grab you a beer.” On his way to the fridge, he stopped. “You’re old enough to drink right?” He asked.

You stifle a laugh. “I’m 24 Joel, yes.” You reply. He just chuckles and rummages around the fridge, pulling out two cans. He sits at a comfortable distance from you on the couch, and cracks his open.

You inadvertently watch the way his muscles ripple as he lifts the can to his mouth and takes a sip. He groans and places it down on the table.

“So, how’ve things been? Staying out of trouble?” He asks. You shrug your coat off, nodding.

“For the most part, yeah.” Joel’s eyes “accidentally” flick down to your chest as you do so, and his breath catches in his throat. He’s blushing. “Interesting shirt you got there.” He says.

You give him a confused glance, and then look down. “Oh, shit. This is my friend's shirt, I completely forgot I borrowed it from her.”

Joel’s grip on the can tightens, the metal bending under his grasp, his veins popping out slightly. “So that’s what you’re into these days?” He asks. “Dilfs?”

You laugh. “I’m surprised you even know what that means.” You reply. Joel smiles, some of the awkwardness dissipating. “Hey, I’ve been around. I’m not that old.” He teases. You watch as he leans back against the couch. “Your dads been good?” He asks.

You nod your head. “Yeah, he won’t be home until late because he’s working on something.” You tell him. You don’t miss the way Joel’s gaze darkens at your words.

“Yeah?” He says. He’s staring at you now. You shift a little under his gaze, big doe eyes staring up at him.

“Mhm. Might be out all night.” You murmur. He’s so close now. You can feel his breath fanning across your cheek. “Tell me to stop.”

He whispers it almost pleadingly, hand coming up to cup your cheek. Part of him knows this is wrong, that your dad will kill him if he finds out. The other part of him doesn’t care though, he just needs you so bad.

You lean into his touch. “Don’t stop.” You tell him. Joel curses under his breath and then he’s kissing you, his lips warm and slightly chapped.

You moan into his mouth and he loses control, wrapping his arms around your waist. When you pull away to breathe, he starts to kiss your neck. “Joel..” You mewl, moving to tug his shirt off. He complies, helping you pull it off.

You drag your nails up and down his bare skin, and he shivers. “Take me to your bed?” You ask. He nods and scoops you into his arms, heading towards his bedroom. He kicks the door open and places you gently on the bed, before shutting the door.

He immediately begins to remove your shirt, dropping it to the ground. He kisses down your chest, pulling a hardened nipple into his mouth. You arch your back, whimpering softly. Joel nearly growls at your reaction, and moves to pinch the other between his fingers.

You’re squirming underneath his ministrations, and he decides to take pity on you. He helps you shuffle your jeans off, leaving you in just your underwear.

Your arousal is evident through the fabric, a wet patch staining it. Joel groans low in his throat, dragging a single finger up your slit. You buck your hips into his touch, a soft whine leaving your throat. “Joel..” You mumble.

He leans in and kisses you to distract you, while he slips his fingers into your panties. He quickly finds your clit, brushing his thumb across it.

Your breath hitched. He slides them off with ease, adding them to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. Something about him being fully clothed while you were naked sent a rush of arousal through you.

Joel stands and pulls his tank top up over his head, wiping the sweat off his face with it. You catch a glimpse of his chiseled abs and the happy trail leading down his pelvis. He notices you staring and slips his gym shorts off.

Your eyes drop down to his bulge. He’s huge, bigger than any guy you’d ever been with, and he wasn’t even fully naked yet. You wait with baited breath as he slowly pulls his boxers down, revealing his hard cock. Jesus Christ.

He takes it between his hands, stroking it gently. “Open.” He tells you. You comply, letting your mouth drop open. He guides himself into your mouth, and you close your lips around him. He groans. “Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He barely gives you time to adjust and he starts rocking his hips back and forth, his cock hitting the back of your throat. The sounds he’s pulling from you are obscene, wet and messy. You swipe your tongue across his tip, and he curses under his breath.

“I gotta pull out baby, m’ not gonna last long.” He tells you. You let your jaw go slack, and he pulls out. He begins to dig through his drawers, and you peer over at him.

“What’re you doing?” You ask. He grabs a box. “Condom.” He replies, pulling one of its package. You chew your bottom lip. “I’m clean.” Joel sighs.

“That ain’t my concern, sweetheart. I don’t need to be knockin’ you up, your daddy would kill me.” You pout. “I’ll go get a plan B after.” He groans. “You’re a stubborn one, ain’t you?” He asks.

“I mean, we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable with it.” You told him. He shakes his head. “That’s not it, I just didn’t want you to feel like you have to.” He said. You smile.

“What a gentleman.” You tease. He grins bashfully, looking down. “Yeah, you know me. So what’ll it be?” Your cheeks flush. “We don’t need it.” You tell him. He nods.

“Sounds good to me.” He tosses it to the side, and positions himself between your spread legs. He drags himself slowly up and down your slick folds, groaning quietly.

“Joel, please.” You urge him. He shakes his head. “No baby, you gotta beg me. C’mon, use that pretty mouth.”

“Please fuck me Joel, I need it.” You plead with him, looking up at him through your lashes. He gives in, and pushes into you agonizingly slow. Despite not being a virgin, it still stung a bit because of his size.

Once he was all the way in, he kissed your forehead. “Stay still baby. Get used to it.” He tells you. You do as he says, and a few minutes pass. You wiggle your hips, and a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. “You ready?” Joel asks. You nod.

He lifts one of your legs over his shoulders, and repeats the process with the other. Your body is pressed against him now, his skin flush against yours. He slowly starts to fuck you, reveling in how tight you are around him. “You’re so fucking pretty..” Joel murmurs against your lips.

You let yourself melt into his touch, knowing he’ll take care of you. His cock drags up and down your walls, lighting a fire in your belly. Joel grunts.

“Fuck, look at you. All spread open for me.” You whimper and lean up to kiss him, which he happily obliges. He gives you a hard thrust, and you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck, you feel that in your tummy, princess? You feel how deep I am?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. “Feels so good, Joel.” You tell him. He smirks. “That’s not my name baby.”

You wrack your brain, trying to think of what he means. Then, it hits you. “Daddy?” You say.

His smirk widens, and you feel his cock throb. “There you go.” He replied. You look up at him.

“Didn’t think you were that much of a pervert.” You tease. He raises an eyebrow. “The way you’re squeezin’ around my cock says otherwise, baby.” He tells you.

He hikes your legs up onto his shoulders, pushing deeper into you. “Oh, fuck-“ He grunts, muscles straining. You watched his arms flex as he held you in place, thrusting in and out of you.

“Christ, you’re tight. Them college boys ain’t doing it for ya, huh?” He asks with a smirk. You moan, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts. “No daddy.” You reply, reaching between your legs to find your clit.

“You let them fuck you like this, baby? You let them fill you up?” He asks you, a possessive edge to his tone. You whimper.

“No daddy, just you.” You reply. He laughs, reaching down to cup your cheek. “That’s right baby, this is my pussy from now on. Understand, sweetheart?”

You’re so cockdrunk now, that all you can do is nod dumbly as he continues to thrust into you. He just grins and slips his thumb into your mouth.

“Atta girl, just needed to be taken care of, huh?” He murmurs, pushing it deeper into your mouth. “Yes daddy.” You sigh contentedly as he continues at a steady pace.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, dragging your manicured nails down his back. You wince, hoping you hadn’t scratched him too hard.

He groans and speeds up, the tip of him pressing right against your cervix. He has you in a mating press now, thrusting wildly. “I’m getting close sweetheart, you sure you don’t want me to pull out?” He asks you.

You lock your legs around his waist, your pussy gripping him tighter. “No. Want you to cum inside daddy, want you to fill me up.” You tell him, dragging your nails down his bicep.

He curses under his breath and spills inside you, muttering obscenities. You climax shortly after him, and slump down further into the bed. You both bask in the afterglow of your orgasms, while Joel presses gentle kisses all over your face. You sigh happily and look over at him.

“You’ve been real pent up huh?” You ask with a smirk. He playfully shoves you. “Shut up, I usually last longer than that.” He replies.

You chuckle. “I’ll have to put that to the test next time.” He raises an eyebrow. “There’s gonna be a next time?” You blush.

“Well, I just figured maybe-“ He cuts you off with a laugh. “I’m just teasing, baby. Listen, how about I take you out to dinner? You free Sunday?” He asks. You nod.

“Yeah, I’m free.” He grins. “Good. C’mon, I’ll help you into the bath and then we can order take out. That alright with you?”

You nod and lift your arms up, causing him to chuckle. “You wanna be carried, princess?” He asked, gathering you into his arms.

You slump against him, exhausted. He holds you with one arm as he turns on the water and warms it up, letting the tub fill.

He gradually adds bubbles, to which you raise an eyebrow. “You take bubble baths?” You ask him. He chuckles sheepishly, hand coming to scratch his cheek.

“They say it’s supposed to help relax you.” He replies. You shrug, sinking down into the water. “I’m not complaining.” The scent of lavender hits your nose as Joel climbs into the tub with you.

He looks a bit funny, hunched over and hugging his knees to make room for himself. He grabs a bottle of flowery shampoo, and you smirk.

“You got a lot of ladies showering here, Miller?” He rolls his eyes and uncaps the bottle. “It’s for when Sarah visits. Now do you want me to wash your hair or not?”

You respond by leaning your head back, dipping your hair into the water. Joel smiles at that and begins rubbing the shampoo into his hands.

He massages it through your scalp and you close your eyes, sighing in contentment. He finishes up with the shampoo and cups the water in his hands, washing it out.

He repeats the process with the conditioner, and starts washing his own hair. Once he’s finished, he turns the water off and stands up, pulling you with him. He grabs two fluffy towels from the closet, and wraps one around you.

“You good with Chinese food?” He asks, ruffling his hair with the towel. You nod. “Yeah, get beef lo mein too.” You tell him. He laughs, shooting you a glance.

“Demanding.” He teases. You roll your eyes, crossing the room and letting the towel drop. Joel falls silent, his eyes dropping down to admire your body.

“What were you saying?” You ask with a smirk. He blushes. “The beef one you said?” He asks. You nod, moving to tug his towel off. He bites his lip.

“I’m not sure I have another one in me, sweetheart.” He tells you. You hum. “I know. Just wanted to take a look.” He laughs and exits the bathroom, dropping the towels into a laundry basket.

When he gets to his room, he dresses in a pair of boxer shorts and an old t shirt. When he hands you one of his shirts, you pull it on over your head and smile at him. “It’s big on you, but you look good in my clothes.” He tells you.

You grin. “Not the only thing that’s big.” You tell him, leaning into him. He rolls his eyes. “Oh, and I’m a pervert?” He asks jokingly. You don’t respond, instead opting to pull him into a kiss.

Joel kisses you back, his tongue sliding across your bottom lip. Your stomach growling is what forces you two apart, and you blush.

“You gonna order that food?” You ask him. He grins and wraps an arm around you, leading you to sit down on the couch.

“Sure thing sweetheart.”

[anistarrose]

This is my online accessibility (especially image descriptions) masterpost, which I update periodically whenever I find a new resource or guide. I worry this has the side effect of looking overwhelming in scope, so if you're learning about IDs and/or Tumblr-specific accessibility for the first time, I recommend you start with the first five starred posts. All post titles are clickable links!

*Why and how to write image descriptions

*Accessibility on Tumblr for new users (has templates, also talks about how to tag for flashing lights to accommodate photosensitive folks)

*I see an image and want to describe it: a step by step guide

*Fanart-specific and Tumblr-specific advice for image descriptions

*How to describe screenshots of tags

Why a short ID is always better than no ID

The key word for writing IDs: "Relevancy"

I want to make my posts more accessible, but can’t write IDs myself: a guide

Google Doc full of template descriptions for memes

Online image to text converter

Describing skin tone and describing hair (heads up that the posts themselves are undescribed and were written with fiction writers in mind; potentially still very useful)

How to remember to write descriptions (spoiler: by putting yourself in situations where you see descriptions more often)

Related, a Google doc of described blogs (almost all the blogs linked earlier in this post have tons of described posts and resources too)

(In my opinion, writing IDs is easiest to learn by doing — but especially if combined with watching other people do so. So follow some described blogs!)

Why not to put image descriptions in small fonts/italics (also, some non-definitive thoughts on IDs vs alt text, and why "both" actually makes sense as an answer in many cases)

More on IDs vs alt text from a visually impaired Tumblr user

Alt text vs IDs vs Captions with examples

Brief Intro to Transcripts/Video Descriptions

The People's Accessibility Discord sever (a very friendly community for crowdsourcing image descriptions)

How to make your blog's colors visually accessible - one of the easiest thing on this list!

Other easy things: show love to artists who describe their work, edit descriptions into your original post when someone provides one in the notes, and copy-paste inaccessible (eg, small text or italicized) descriptions as plain text when you reblog!

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, how to continue writing image descriptions while avoiding burnout.

Let me know if any of these links break! I personally don't describe nearly as much audio/video (got those audio processing issues), so this list is sparse on those resources, but if anyone has good guides/blog recommendations for that too, feel free to add on!