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mingigoo · 7 months ago

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oh shit, are we in love? || Jongho (m.)

🏀 pairing ⇢ cheerleader! (fem) reader x best friend/basketball player! Jongho

🏀 summary ⇢ you’ve called Jongho your best friend all your life. You were attached at the hip for ages, and even as you take on college together. With no other relationship experience other than with him, when you decide to go after a cute classmate, you look to Jongho for some help. Asking him to practice “things” with you seemed like nothing—that is, until kissing him made you think that you couldn’t kiss anyone else.

🏀 genre/au ⇢ best friends to lovers, college au, smut, fluff

🏀 warnings/tags ⇢ 18+ MINORS DNI, unprotected sex, oral sex (male recieving), cum shot, Jongho is a virgin, also is a slut for y/n, drinking, mentions of knee injury, best friends to lovers, college love, cheerleader x basketball player

🏀 word count ⇢ 15.8k (so sorry I just couldnt stop)

🏀 taglist ⇢ @jjhmk @yukine-smx @roe-sinning @meowmeowminnie @yeritheloml @y00nzin0 @yesv01 @halesandy @shegotboreddsoo @kangyeosangelic @gayliljoong @sanshineeeeee @kodzukein @baguette-atiny @seokwoosmole @nyeatinyjunkie @juliettechokilo @pockyddalgi @justaqueerbufoin @hwaightme @likexaxdaydream @ssaboala @gtr-skyline-lover @miriamxsworld @daegale @knucklesdeepmingi @naiify @yeoyeoland @arya9111 @mdibby @8tinytings @angelicyeo @wooyoungjpg @lonewolfjinji @asjkdk @charreddonuts @mangishii @yeoyeoland @pink-hwaberry @wooyoluvrr @maru-matt @pearltinyy @loveuwoo @m3chigo @northerngalxy @silverpixiedust23 @interweab @skz1-4-3 (if I missed you please lmk!! bold = can’t tag)

spotify playlist

When you were kids, Jongho gave you a ring—a ring made out of straw paper he kept after a trip to get milkshakes after school.

With the paper straw ring, he stuck it on your ring finger. The wrong one, but that didn't matter to him, anyway. He declared to you that he would marry you someday. Someday, whatever that meant to a young kid. With the ring already on your finger, you couldn't exactly decline his proposal, so you just shrugged and told him, “Why not?”

At seventeen, you went to prom together. Not because you liked each other, no. Because it was convenient, it made sense. How could you go with someone else? You wore a beautiful red gown, Jongho matching you with a patterned red tie. You had a great time, went home together, and nearly kissed at your doorstep—you didn't think too much of it. You blamed it on the atmosphere. So did he.

You sat at your desk in your cramped dorm room, your bed pushed up on the left side of the room and a mess of pillows and blankets covering it.

Suddenly, as you were finally getting to the good part in your book, Jongho barged into your room, dropping his basketball bag onto the floor with a groan. He tossed his slides off, not even meeting your gaze before walking like a zombie towards your messy bed, throwing himself on top.

“Well hello to you too,” you blinked, losing your page in your book. “Get out of my damn bed, you're sweaty as fuck.”

He huffed, crossing his muscular arms across his chest, staring up at the glow stars you put on the ceiling. “Leave me be. My roommate is fucking some chick right now. I just need to lay down.”

“San seems like he gets around a lot,” you scoffed, picking up your book again. You were currently reading a very, very smutty book—although you were supposed to be studying your literature anthology text for the exam you had in the morning. You flipped a page.

“Oh, he does,” Jongho sniffed. You looked over at him, his cut-off t-shirt revealing a good bit of skin on his side, his sweat gleaming on his body. “I mean, practice just ended. He had to have the damn girl in there even before he got back. It’s ridiculous.”

He sat up now, putting his back against his headboard. He winced a bit as he moved, his hand going to the brace around his knee.

You paused, completely forgetting the smut you were reading. “What is it? Is it hurting again?”

“Just a little, it’s no biggie.” Jongho offered you a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Don't give me that look, y/n. I hurt it a while ago. It's normal for it to ache occasionally.”

Back in your senior year, he tore his ACL before the season, causing him to never have his final year of basketball. He was a mess, but at least he had you. He got surgery, had physical therapy, but yet, he still has pain to this day.

You met his eyes for a moment, sighing when that gorgeous smile of his poked through his lips. “Fine, fine. Just get outa here when you can. I got some…important things to do alone tonight.”

He furrowed his brows, confused. “What could you possibly…..oh,” he shut his eyes painfully. “Please, I don't want to imagine it.” He scooted back down on the bed and tossed your blanket on top of him. “My eyes, my eyes.”

“Oh, shut up, you pussy.” You set your book down, crossing your legs. “A girl gotta live out her fantasies somehow, alright?”

“La la la,” he repeated, trying his best to ignore the conversation. “I don't wanna hear it.”

You let out a chuckle, stood up from your seat, and tossed yourself onto the bed with him, tackling him as he thrashed from your grip.

“Stop it, stop it,” he groaned, wriggling away from your hands as you tickled him. He giggled, childlike. You giggled right along with him, not even caring about the damn sweat that coated his skin, his clothes. You tangled together under the blanket, and after a good couple minutes of a tickle fight, you grabbed your laptop to watch your favorite TV show.

Jongho stayed under the blankets with you, his leg strewn on top of your body, his head in the crook of your neck as you watched the show together. He let out a few snide comments—earning a slap from you, but he just chuckled and nuzzled closer into you.

And after a few episodes, he fell asleep on you, legs tangled in yours, your arm wrapped around him.

—

“Dude, you wouldn't answer your phone last night,” Wooyoung mumbled as he stuffed a couple of chips into his mouth. “Do you literally have a new bitch every night?”

You and your friends were sitting at a table in the dining hall, munching on some lunch before you had class. Wooyoung, San, and Mingi sat across from you and Jongho, all of them in workout gear—they were going to the gym after lunch.

“Listen, last night wasn't even that good,” San hummed dully, taking a sip of his protein shake. “She was too damn loud—”

“I thought you liked them whiny,” Mingi deadpanned.

San’s eyes narrowed on the giant. “Your point? She was loud, not whiny—there’s a difference.” San looked to Jongho now, a slight smirk on his pretty little lips. “Where’d you go? You could've joined us.”

Jongho waved his hands sporadically. “No, no, I’d rather not, thank you.”

San huffed playfully, eyes dancing to you. They glimmered knowingly. “Ah, you’d rather be in her bed, right?” he nodded his head towards you, earning a harsh glare from Jongho.

“So what if I'm in her bed, it’s not like we do anything.” Jongho’s eyes went frantic, and his fists balled. “We’ve always slept with each other—wait, that came out wrong—”

“What he’s trying to say is that we’ve slept in the same bed since we were little, that nothing is ever gonna happen,” you interjected, crossing your arms across your chest.

San laughed at that. “Ah yeah, that nothing’s gonna happen, gotcha,” he said, taking the last sip of his protein shake. I’m going to the gym if you guys are ready. Jongho, y/n, you coming?”

You shook your head, but stood up with everyone else, anyway. “I have class, but you guys have fun. I’ll walk out with you.”

As you and your friends left the dining hall, the cool, winter air breezed through you, sending chills down your spine. Your winter coat wasn't enough. You shoved your hands into your pockets, walking stiffly next to jongho, who simply—possibly even without thinking, tossed his arm around your shoulder, warming you up instantly. Your friends continued to talk and carry on, and you snuggled up into Jongho’s warm side.

—

Class was a bore. As per usual. The spring semester had just started, and the new classes you had were far from entertaining. Anything to get through school, though.

As you packed up your things, a phone fell from the seat in front of you, landing right by your feet. You picked it up, but when the person was no longer sitting there, you quickly tossed your bag over your shoulder to follow him.

“Hey, excuse me!” you huffed, chasing after the guy—damn, his legs were long. He moved way too fast for you. “Your phone….dude!” you finally reached him, tapping him on the shoulder, only for the most gorgeous man to grace the earth to turn around.

You forced yourself to keep your jaw from falling to the floor as you met his dark eyes. His hair was even darker, his lips a soft pink, curling up slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, holding up the phone. “But you dropped this.”

The pretty guy blinked, smirking. The classroom emptied as you stood staring at each other, oblivious to the professor giving you a side-eye as he left.

“I don't think that’s mine,” he said blandly, but his eyes glimmered mischievously. He looked a bit older—definitely older than you, at least.

You furrowed your brows, looking at the phone in your hands. “I could've sworn you were the one sitting in front of me,” you wondered, confused. You pushed it forward into his chest. “Just take it I don't have time to find the owner if it's not yours.”

He smiled down at you, his thick eyebrows raising. “I won't take it.”

“Why the hell not?” your patience was running thin—you had to get the cheer practice. This stupidly pretty guy was not allowed to make you late. You were not running laps. Not today.

You were about to just shove it into his pockets until his mouth opened. “Not without your number.”

You frowned. “Is that….is that supposed to be a pickup line?”

He shrugged. “If you want it to be, then yes.”

God, the smile this damn boy had. You were gonna crumble under his gaze like some schoolgirl, but you kept your cool.

His eyes were so bright, so clear. He was tall, much taller than you, much older. You watched as he looked around, away from you. “If not, then I’ll just take the phone back—”

“No, no,” you laughed awkwardly, looking at the phone in your hands. “You just…you’ll just need to unlock it.”

He smiled gorgeously. “I can do that.”

He took the phone, typed in a few numbers, and gave it right back to you. “What’s your name?”

“y/n,” you hummed, forcing your blush away. This was the first time you had been asked for your number, the first time a guy other than Jongho or your friends had looked at you. “You?”

“Seonghwa,” the pretty boy smiled, a name now to the face. You couldn't help but grin at his expression—and the utter insanity that just happened. It was totally random; a pretty guy asking for your number? That’s never happened in all your years. Never.

“If I ask to buy you a coffee,” he started as you fumbled on your phone number. “Would you say yes?”

“Depends,” you shrugged, unable to look up at him. “If you get me food, too.”

“Deal.” Goddamn, that smile, those teeth. “Tomorrow, after class? Before class?”

You bit your lip, handing the phone back to him. “Before, I have practice after class.” actually, you had practice like, right now. You probably looked crazy, eyes wide as you realized where you needed to be. “I gotta go—speaking of which—”

Before you could leave, he called for you. “Hey, where should we meet?”

“Outside the library?” you tossed out, hoping he answered hastily.

He nodded, giving you that smile once again.

“Perfect.”

—

You were in bed after practice, and Jongho was sitting quietly on your desk chair, slowly taking off his knee brace and hissing.

“God, this thing sucks,” he groaned, the velcro tearing as he peeled it off. The brace was like a metal cage, going from his thigh to his lower calf, looking like a deathtrap.

“And it stinks,” you mumbled dramatically, staring up at your ceiling, hands folded on your stomach as your mind wandered. You sat up quickly, startling your best friend.

“What? What is it?” he spat out, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “You just sat up like a goddamn zombie.”

“If, let’s just say, hypothetically,” you wondered, looking out into space. “That I got asked out on a date to a coffee shop, how would I dress?”

Jongho’s eyes widened. “You got asked out? You?” he asked incredulously.

You scoffed, looking over at him with a playful sneer. “Is that so hard to believe?”

He laughed, finally taking off his brace and setting it on the side of your desk. “Oh yeah—y/n, you’ve never once gone on a date in all of our years of friendship. It's shocking.”

You blinked at him, gripping a pillow from behind you and tossing it at him. Of course, he caught it.

“I’m just saying—”

“Okay, but for real,” you groaned, shifting to get comfy again. “You’ve been on some dates, how did the girls usually dress for them? Did you ever go on a coffee date—”

“Who’s the guy?” he huffed out, completely ignoring your worries.

You flattened your lips. “Does that matter?”

“Uh, yeah. What if the guy is a scumbag?” Jongho leaned back in the chair, stretching out his arms.

“He’s definitely not a scumbag,” you sighed, thinking of how dreamy he looked, missing Jongho’s worried expression. “Anyway, you didn't answer my question.”

You couldn't figure out the look on your best friend’s face. He knitted his brows, his eyes raising to yours. “Just dress normally,” he spoke softly. “When’s your date?”

“Tomorrow.” You hopped off your bed and walked towards your closet across from Jongho. He followed you as you moved and hesitated to look as you tore off your top, leaving you standing in your sports bra.

Jongho gulped but rolled his eyes playfully. “Why do you always undress in front of me?” His eyes naturally dropped to your hips as you slid off your sweatpants. “I am a man, too, you know.”

“Pfft, man, my ass,” you turned your back to him as he tried his best not to look. You grabbed a t-shirt—his t-shirt that you kept from a while ago—and tossed it on. You didn't even bother with pants.

Jongho gave you a look as you turned to face him. “My shirt? Really?” He groaned, mouth parted as he looked at you. “Where the hell are your pants?”

“I don't like pants.”

“Then put shorts on—”

“Is it a crime to sleep in my underwear? God, at least I have something on, dammit.” you walked past him and hopped back onto your bed. “I could be completely naked—this is my room, remember?”

Jongho didn't change his expression—he blinked at you while you sat on the bed, bare-legged, the skin up to the top of your thigh visible. He took in a gulp. “I, uh, I got an assignment due at midnight. I’m gonna head back to my room.”

You shrugged and shuffled into bed to get comfy. “Have fun with that, babycakes,” you said, giving him a wink, but he ignored it and left your room without another look.

—

Maybe it was a bad idea to wear jeans on a day like today.

A day when you woke up painfully bloated, bleeding, and aching from your period. Out of all the days, you had to get it today.

You stood outside the library, your back against the red brick building. You wore a cute pink top with the flared jeans you were struggling with, and you added a cute little bow to hold your hair back.

You saw Seonghwa walk up to you. His lower half was also dawned in wonderfully-fitting jeans. They hugged his thighs, loosening a bit at his knees, and fell over a pair of sparkling clean white sneakers that looked like they were worth more than your car.

The white shirt was also slim against his lean frame. You held back any reaction you had like a damn cat in heat. “Hey,” he started as he neared. “Ready to go? We can go to the coffee shop on campus since we have class coming up.”

You nodded, hoping to god the smile on your face was not grimace-like.

“Yep, let’s go.”

You sat with your hands in your lap, fiddling with your fingers anxiously as Seonghwa waited for your drinks. You looked over at him, watching his figure lean against the closest wall, how his long, long legs looked in those damn pants, how his fingers tapped against his arm as he waited. You barely knew him, nothing much other than knowing his name and now his coffee order, and you wondered what it would be like to get to know him.

When he sat down in front of you, he handed you your coffee, a bright, blinding smile on his face. “I pegged you as the type to like ridiculously flavored seasonal drinks….” he paused, smirking, as you froze mid-sip on your….seasonal drink. Highly, highly sugary seasonal drink. “Guess I’m a good judge of character.”

You swallowed the party of sugar and cinnamon before giving him a shy smile. “I’m a sucker for them, to be honest.”

You sat quietly for a good while, sipping on your drink, him sipping on his. The feeling was…nice. However, you were a bit anxious as he looked at you, at your lips, as you drank from the straw.

“You’re a cheerleader for the basketball team, right?” He tilted his head slightly, looking at you. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere—besides class, I mean.”

You nodded. “Yep, I cheer for the basketball team,” you took another sip of your drink. “Do you play? I think I would've seen you before, though.”

“Actually,” he started, offering you a kind smile. “I just transferred in from another university. I start official practice today, but I’ve been to many games already.”

Oh, so he’d seen you and known that you were on the cheer squad even before he approached you?

Cute.

“Oh, wow,” you smiled, leaning closer without realizing it. “So, will you be playing in the next game, then?”

“Yes,” he looked ecstatic, like he can't wait. “We’ll see how much playing time I actually get, though. Those guys are very good—”

“Oh, I know!” you didn't mean to interrupt him, but you would take any chance to brag about your Jongho. “My best friend is the point guard.”

“You know Jongho?” Seonghwa smiled, but it looked a bit weary. “He’s a great guy.”

“He really is.” you took a large sip of your coffee, meeting Seonghwa’s gaze as you did it. His gaze fluttered to your lips once more, and he licked his own.

He tapped against the wooden table. “Would you….want to do this again?”

You raised your brows. “This? You mean, getting coffee?”

“Not exactly,” he blinked, letting out a little chuckle. “Anything, just…we can hang out more, if you're down with that.”

Your heart fluttered a bit. “Ah, yeah, I would like that.”

He smiled. “Good,” he looked at the clock on the wall near your seat. “We gotta get to class.”

“Class, yeah, that’s right,” you were lost in his gaze, not even realizing how captivating his entire being was. You followed him out of the coffee shop, walking next to each other, until you got to the classroom.

He took the seat next to you this time, and you were beginning to suffocate from the feeling of his body being so close.

—

“I think I’m doomed.”

Jongho, like always, is in your room when you come back from practice. He sat up from his lazy position on your bed, eyebrows raised.

“Why’s that?”

You huffed, tossing your cheer bag onto the floor next to your desk. “What if he kisses me? I’ve never kissed anyone, fuck, I bet I’ll look like a fish trying to gulp fucking water—”

“God, you’ve been here for not even a minute, and you're blabbing on like a maniac already.” He blinked, his face deadpanned as he looked at you. “Why are you so concerned? Did the date go well?”

You groaned dramatically, tossing off your sneakers, and balancing yourself on the back of your desk chair. “He asked me for another date, but I know damn well what that means, and I can't let him find out that I am a twenty-something-year-old virgin that’s only ever kissed books and my mother.”

Jongho looked like he was about to burst out laughing at your desperate words, biting the inside of his cheek. He managed to squeak out, “Oh, I think you’re a lost cause,” he giggled. Giggled.

“This is not funny. You're no help,” you groaned, tossing your head back as you walked to your closet—when a perfect idea came to you.

“Wait a damn minute–”

“What is it now?” Jongho sat up on your bed, legs dangling off the side.

You turned around sharply, facing him, eyes wide with mischief. His eyes widened at your expression.

“Lend me your lips,” you said, walking up to him, but he leaned back in confusion, his arms holding himself behind him.

“What?” He scoffed, unable to meet your gaze. “The hell do you mean?”

You leaned over him on the bed, him unable to lean any further back without falling. You held yourself up on both sides of him. “Oh, come on. Just once. You can help me learn how to kiss. Who else could?”

He furrowed his brows. “You’re crazy.”

“I know,” you shrugged. “But I’d rather die than embarrass myself.”

“You do know,” He started, letting out a sigh. “That friends don't kiss each other? Or did you miss that memo?”

“I swear it won't mean anything,” you pleaded, knowing you were acting crazy, immature, whatever.

Jongho huffed, leaning forward, but grabbing your shoulders to move you away. “Listen,” he sighed, meeting your eyes. “Why don't you go ask San or Mingi?”

“Because San scares me,” you shrugged. “He’d probably eat me. And Mingi is….Mingi….”

“What does that even mean—”

“For fuck’s sake, Jongie,” you grabbed his shoulders. “Is this asking too much? We’ve been best friends for so long. How would something so trivial as a kiss mess with it?”

Jongho looked like he had something to say—a lot to say, actually. But he stayed quiet, sighing, as he looked up at you from his seated position on the bed.

“Okay, but if I have to kiss someone as filthy as you,” he huffed, crossing his arms. “What do I get out of it?”

You hummed. “Hmm. well, what do you want?”

He smiled mischievously. “Do my paper for me. For my lit class.”

“Easy, done,” you leaned forward. “Now gimme your lips—”

“Ah ah ah, slow down,” he scoffed. “You can't just toss yourself into the kiss. You have to lead into it.”

“Got it,” you blinked, looking into his golden brown eyes, noticing how…nice they were. “How do I do that?”

“Well, I bet he’ll try to kiss you first,” Jongho ran a hand through his fluffy brown hair, matching his eyes. You took note of it, too. He stood up, causing you to subconsciously step away from him. You both now stood in the middle of your dorm room, the room dimly lit by your desk lamp, the warm hue coloring the tanned skin of his face.

“Okay,” you nodded, almost freaking yourself out for noticing his details, the slight curve of his lips, the way his hair fell across his forehead.

Jongho’s calloused hand slowly, hesitantly, moved towards your face. You watched his eyes as his fingertips brushed your skin, watching them scrunch, watching them focus on his movements. “Maybe he’d hold you like this,” he spoke softly, eyes jumping to yours, his hand twitching slightly.

“But what do I do?” you weakly jutted out, biting the corner of your bottom lip. “Do I…touch you—touch him, too?”

He shrugged, swallowing hard. “I mean, you do what comes naturally.”

He was so close. So close. It's not like you’ve never been closer to him, because you have, but something was suffocating. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

Maybe this is just how it’s supposed to feel.

You stared into his eyes, those brown eyes, those….sparkling, pretty eyes. You swallowed as his hand slid down to your chin, tilting it up softly.

There was an unknown emotion dancing in his gaze. You were extremely aware of the spark that was setting off from his touch.

He leaned in closer, and as he got closer and closer, you felt your heartbeat flutter in your chest. You heard it in your ears, felt your stomach tighten.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said hushedly. You noticed that the tips of his ears were flushed red, and a dusting of the color was across his cheeks. When he pressed his lips to yours, you widened your eyes from the feeling, then shut them to savor it.

His mouth moved across yours, you felt the warmth of his lips, the softness of them. His other hand—the one that wasn't holding onto your chin, rested around your hip, his grip tightening.

You froze under his lips, unsure of how to do this. You moved your mouth against his, then, trying to move with his movements. You hesitantly wrapped your arms around his neck, unsure of what to do with them if you didn't do that. You felt a small smile in his kiss.

You pressed your body into him as his lips parted against yours. You felt the soft tickle of his shaky breaths against your skin—you could only imagine what you felt like to him.

He parted from you, only slightly, and took a sharp inhale. You still had your eyes shut tight, lips parted, as you got lost in the feeling.

You opened them, meeting his gaze, meeting that heart-shattering look he had. His lips were red like his ears, like his cheeks. His eyes were hazy, his hands still on you. You felt your heart crumbling inside you.

Without another word, you leaned back up to him, awkwardly wrapping your hand around his neck, fingers tangling into his hair. He shut his eyes, and let out a pleasured sound, stirring something, awakening something inside.

You kissed him this time, even knowing that you had no idea what you were doing. You just trusted these instincts you were feeling, the emotions that were overtaking your mind. Your body told you to part your lips against his sweet lips, to savor the slightly salty taste against them. To lean into his body. You couldn't help but allow yourself to touch his waist, gliding your hand down his abs, his stomach, feeling his muscles tighten under your touch.

He sighed into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, his fingertips brushing the bare skin under your blouse. His lips felt so good, so soft, so electrifying. This feeling was unlike any other, you were beginning to lose your breath, your senses, your mind.

And when you let out a little moan—without intending to, you were shocked back to reality. You pulled away from him quickly, moving your hands to your sides, trying to catch your breath. Jongho was also huffing, begging for oxygen, as he stood in front of you. His lips were bright red now; his eyes were wide.

“Ah, um,” you cleared your throat, forcing out a laugh. “So, did I do a good job?”

Jongho blinked, still looking out of it. “Huh? Oh, uh, yeah.” He swallowed, nodded, and crossed his arms across his chest. “Mhm. For your first kiss, you did good.”

Good? Good? God, that felt euphoric. Like you were drugged, high, out in space. You still couldn't get your heartbeat to slow. “Great.” That was all you managed to squeak out, now that you were suddenly aware of the ability to just kiss him again. You realized that the air was odd now, that something felt different.

“You tasted like sweat,” you playfully added, letting out an awkward laugh as you gave him a shoulder punch. “Maybe I should've kissed San or Mingi instead.”

“I am a great kisser, I’ll have you know—” Jongho boasted, but you interrupted him.

“Pfft,” you waved a hand as if you weren't just about to hyperventilate from his kiss, his touch. “You sucked, you’re a horrible teacher—”

“Oh?” he huffed, gripping your arms just below your elbows. “I’ll kiss you again, I’ll prove it, I’ll do you one better—”

“Fine! More practice for me, anyway.”

Jongho let out a grumble of incoherent words before grabbing you by the back of the neck and pressing his mouth to yours once more, his lips gliding against yours.

You grabbed the fabric of his shirt, tightening your grip as he pushed his tongue through your lips, into your mouth. You let out a sigh as he did it, his fingertips gripping your hair on the back of your head.

After a long few minutes of eating each other, He pulled away this time. He let go of you, his hands falling at his sides. “There,” he breathed. “Now you know how to handle a kiss like that. You know, just in case.”

You licked your bottom lip, sparks still flying around your body. You tasted him still, the saltiness of his sweat. You smelled the woodsy cologne he used, the minty taste of gum.

“Thanks,” you smiled, trying your best not to let these thoughts of him overtake you. “For helping me with this. You’re such a good best friend.”

“Ah, yeah,” he sniffed, forcing a smile. “I should, uh. I should go, I have something to submit before midnight, so,” He gulped, taking a step away from you. “But happy to help, of course. Now you owe me my paper.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you scoffed, smiling playfully as he walked to the door to put on his shoes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he called out as he opened the door, leaving after you offered him a wave goodbye.

And once the door shut, you nearly lost your breath, falling onto your bed.

“Oh god,” you breathed, putting a hand to your mouth. “What was that? I—ugh!” you groaned, thrashing your legs around. “Why the fuck was he so hot? Get a grip, get a grip.” you ran your hands aggressively through your hair and gripping it. “Fuck I think my brain lost too much oxygen.”

You couldn't sleep one bit—not at all. Every time you closed your eyes, all you saw was Jongho, and all you felt was him.

—

A few days pass and you barely see your best friend.

It's not that he’s ignoring you or vice versa; it's that he had an away game a good distance away and was off campus for a good few days.

While he was gone, you wondered if he was thinking the same way you were, if he felt something, too, or if it was just normal to have feelings during a kiss.

Irritated by your stupid mind, you were unsure about the feeling in your chest when you saw Jongho in the library; his baseball hat flipped backwards over his soft brown hair.

You would look odd if you ran away, right? Right.

You strutted over to where he was sitting. He always loved the window seats, mainly to people watch. You sat down in the seat across from him.

“When’d you get back?”

He lifted his eyes to yours. “Last night,” he grumbled, flipping a page in the book in front of him.

“What are you reading?” you leaned forward on your elbows.

He reacted much worse than you thought, flying backward into his chair, a terrified look on his face.

“Yo, I’m not gonna bite you, Jeez,” you raised a brow, moving your gaze to the book. “Oh, ew, anatomy. No thanks.”

He scoffed, picking off an invisible—or maybe an extremely small—piece of lint from his black hoodie. He didn't say anything in response, he just continued what he was doing.

“So,” you tried to continue the conversation with him without it turning to mush. “I’m gonna be going to Seonghwa’s frat tonight. There's a party or something.”

He looked at you with shock. “You’re going to a party?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” you rolled your eyes, leaning back to cross your arms around your chest. Jongho’s vision dipped to the movement.

“Well, given that you hate crowded places,” he trailed off, not really having another excuse. “I just can't see you going to—”

“y/n?” a voice softly murmured from your left, and both you and Jongho turned to see Seonghwa walking up to your table, a bag slung across his broad shoulder. His hair was pulled up in a half up half down do, little black strands framing his unfathomable face.

Jongho, in the corner of your eye, looked away from the tall basketball player, opting for the view outside the library.

“Seonghwa?” you smiled, uncrossing your arms to look less like a grumpy bitch. “What’s up?”

You didn't even look to see the irritation on Jongho’s face.

“I was coming in to study but then I saw you in the corner of my eye,” he smiled, beamed, really, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. He then nodded to Jongho, offering him a smile, too. “Hey, Jongho.”

Your best friend managed to give him a smile back, although you knew his face all too well—that was a damn grimace. “Hey.”

You looked between the two boys as seonghwa spoke again. “Hey, me and y/n are gonna be at the party tonight. You wanna come? The other guys on the team will be there, too.”

“Well, I can't imagine San missing a function,” Jongho scoffed, cracking his knuckles aggressively. “But I guess I’ll come, too.”

You nearly dropped your jaw onto the floor.

“Really?” you interjected, shocked. “I can't imagine you going to a party—”

“Anyway,” Jongho cleared his throat, ignoring you. “What time?”

Seonghwa furrowed his brows as he tried to recall. “Uh, I think ten? It goes till two, no later,” He looked to you then. “Do you wanna go for some lunch?”

You blushed. Jongho huffed. “Oh, yes. That would be nice,” you smiled, to which Jongho rolled his eyes in response. You stood up from your seat and offered your best friend a playful wink. “See you tonight, jongie.”

When you walked away, seonghwa slugged an arm around your shoulder on the way out. Jongho, still in his seat, tightened his grip on the textbook as he watched you leave.

And then he couldn't even enjoy people-watching when he saw you walk down the sidewalk with that string bean.

—

You didn't hear from jongho the rest of the day, and even when ten o’clock came, he was M.I.A. You shrugged it off, trying too hard to ignore the tug in your chest, the desire to go to his room and kiss him again.

You made it to the frat house that sat on the end of the Greek life strip in town. It was a tall, skinny building that looked way too nice to be lived in by a bunch of boys. You made sure to wear your filthy Converse, knowing damn well whether booze, puke, or a plethora of other fluids would end up all over them. Despite not going to many parties in your lifetime, you still had common sense.

You walked into the house, getting bombarded with tons of odd smells, some good and some bad. The interior was dark, lit with random colored lights that danced all over the walls, the people.

Loud, ungodly music blared through oddly positioned speakers in the wall, and there was a sea of people talking and carrying on. You weren't sure how the fuck they could hear each other over the awful music.

You walked further into the house, making a B-line to where you assumed the alcohol was. There was a bunch of beer cans, and you grabbed one with ease, cracking it open and chugging it like a champ. However, the beer sucked ass, leaving an awful taste in your mouth. You must've made a face.

“Icky?” Seonghwa’s smooth voice envelopes you with comfort.

You turn to him, offering him a sincere smile. He looked great, as always, with his hair growing even longer. “Very, but if it gets me drunk, I’ll handle it.”

“So brave,” he chuckled, standing closer to you by the second. Your mind wanders to the thought of him touching you. Would it feel as good as it did with Jongho? Would his hands be gentle? Would his lips taste as sweet?

His hand on the small of your back interrupted your thoughts.

You needed to be drunk. Quick, so you can handle these stupid ideas.

“It’s good to see you here,” he starts, but you can't help but look at his lips. You weren't thinking about them—no, rather, you were thinking of Jongho’s. Would Seonghwa feel the same?

You took another sip of your drink to get the last drop before grabbing another. “Do they have something else? This shit sucks.”

Seonghwa looked at you for a long moment before nodding in a direction. “There’s vodka in the cabinet if you want it?”

You let out a sigh of relief, but still, you kept drinking the shitty beer. “Yes, god, yes.”

After you got ahold of the vodka, you regretted your choice against the beer.

You must've blacked out for a bit—you don't remember how you got in the living room, how you got onto Seonghwa’s lap, how his lips were on your neck. You delightfully craned your neck to feel it better, to feel his hot breaths, his hands on your waist. However, when you opened your eyes, you realized that you were imagining someone else under you.

You pulled away from him, but you didn't get off him. You looked into his eyes, seeing the desire drip from them. You were too messed up—blame that on your shitty tolerance, to care what you were doing right now. “Can I try something?” you fluttered your eyelashes, not meaning it in a sultry way, but it came out that way.

“Of course,” Seonghwa mused, a little smile prickling at his lips.

Lips that you wanted to kiss—not because you needed to, but because you needed to see something, feel something—have something to compare to that ethereal experience you had with your best friend.

And at his approval, you leaned forward, doing everything that you were taught, and pressed your lips to Seonghwa’s. He responded well, gripping the back of your head as he kissed you back, and you slid your tongue in his mouth, half expecting to feel something, anything.

But there you were, imagining Jongho, his smell, his taste, the way he cautiously touched you and held you. Nothing can compare, not even this.

You pulled away from him, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. He looked confused at your reaction but put on a sloppy smile. “Everything okay?”

You were going to say no. you were going to cry out and say that you were going to die because you kept thinking about Jongho. You couldn't even kiss a hot guy, a guy you wanted to date, without thinking how much better it felt with Jongho. Everything felt better with him. It was comfortable, unnerving, exciting, all at the same time.

You smiled, but with how drunk you were, you could assume that it looked like a grimace. “I uh, yeah, I just gotta….go do something—-bye,” you huffed out, offering him a little, awkward wave, before you ran out of the spinning room.

You ended up on the back porch, not sure how you got there, but the world was spinning. Your chest was aching. You needed air, anything, you needed to breathe.

The cool air hit you just right, enveloping your lungs, helping you breathe. Your skin was hot, flaming underneath your clothes, and you were sure your cheeks were bright red. After noticing a couple making out in the corner, you grimaced and ran back into the house.

God, what a shitshow.

You avoided seonghwa narrowly, making your way up the creaky, thin staircase to get your own space. You opened the first door you got to, tossed yourself in, and slammed your back against the door with a sigh of relief.

That relief didn't last long.

“y/n, what the hell?” Jongho nearly screeched, turning his body slightly as he stood over the toilet, zipping up his pants in a frenzy. “The fuck? Don't you know how to knock?”

You didn't say anything. You just took a deep breath, your gaze falling over him.

“y/n?” He repeated, standing a bit awkwardly on the other side of the room, leaning over to flush the toilet. He looked a bit rough around the edges as he washed his hands quickly, looking over at you as he dried them. He walked up to you now, hesitantly, unsure about your expression.

You fiddled with your fingers as the world slowed around you.

“Are you gonna talk?” He scoffed playfully, his eyes raking your body, forcing themselves up to your face. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you swallowed, shaking your head, the door behind you the only thing holding you up.

He gave you a concerned look, running a damp hand through his silky hair, and you couldn't help but think about how wonderful it would be to rake your hands through it, too. “No, that you're not okay, or no, that you’re not gonna talk?

You blinked. “....yes.”

He sighed. His eyes looked hazy, not quite to the extent yours probably looked, but still, he was not in his right mind, either. You took a shaky breath, watching those brown irises fall to your lips, to your chest.

You clench your fingers together, your body, dying to do something your heart would regret. You swallowed hard, sighing.

“Aren’t you acting like this because you have something to say?” He asked, his words dripping like honey from his lips.

You shook your head. “No.”

He looked like he was fighting a smile. “I think you are.”

“No, I’m not–I’m not acting like this because I have something to say.” Your mind was already screaming at you, begging you not to do anything. Begging you not to say anything. “Because I want to do something.”

The air was stuffy. The bathroom was filthy, the window was cracked open, blowing in a slight breeze, gently running up your arms, sending chills down your spine.

Jongho tilted his head. “To do what?”

The vodka in your basically vodka-virgin body was bubbling under your skin, infiltrating your mind, your blood. It was taking control over your every move, every idea, everything. So when he asked you that, when he looked like the most beautiful person in the world as he spoke, with his pretty ass hair and his lips and his flushed cheeks, you knew what you wanted to do.

“To kiss you,” you didn't stutter. You stayed put against the door despite your words. “I just wanna do it again. Every time I look at you, I want to do it.”

Jongho’s eyes widened, but he didn't run away like you thought he would. He just stood there, breathlessly, his hands at his sides and his mouth parted. It’s like he wanted to do it too, with the way his fingers twitched as you spoke, with the way his lips almost curled up completely.

You pushed off the door, taking a step towards him. When he didn't back away, you took another step. You were so close to him that you were able to feel the soft, hot breaths he was letting out against your skin. His breath smelled like that disgusting beer, but it didn't matter at all—actually, you wanted to taste it on his lips, on his tongue.

You reached out a hand, the room spinning around you. Your fingertips met his cheek, his hot skin. You felt a surge of electricity run through your body as you touched him, as you looked into his eyes. His gaze was unlike anything else you have ever seen. His eyes were zeroed in on you, shutting slowly as you rubbed your hand against his skin. He let out a soft breath, a content sigh, and his eyes were on yours again.

He took in a breath, eyes on your lips. You were too drunk to think about how the look on his face made no sense—friends shouldn't look at each other the way he was looking at you.

You leaned forward, and when he didn't flinch away, when he actually leaned forward as well, you smiled to yourself, and pressed your lips to his.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his body to yours. His hips knocked into yours, his mouth parting, swallowing you whole. He shoved you against the sink, the countertop stabbing the small of your back, but you felt absolutely no pain. You arched your body into his, as if it were instinct, and his hands ravaged your bare skin. He was desperate, trying to catch his breath as best he could while he kissed you.

Your hands found the nape of his neck, fingers tightening in his brown hair. He let out a little moan into your mouth, his hands caging you in against the sink. Accidentally, his forehead bumped yours, causing you to bite his lip.

You pulled away, but just for a moment, smiling at him, at the redness of his lips from your gloss and your bite. He looked breathtaking in front of you, so human, so perfect. So you leaned in to kiss him again, nose knocking into his, but it didn't matter if you were sloppy. It just mattered that he was the one you were kissing.

“y/n,” he breathed against your lips, his hands now on your hips, one curving around your ass. “We shouldn't be doing this—”

“Shh,” you hissed, slapping his shoulder, keeping your lips against his. “I don't care right now.”

You deepened the kiss, and as he pressed up against you, you felt something hard press into you; you felt a deep rumble from him into your mouth. The pool between your thighs.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened. Mingi stood there, his jaw down to the floor, as he took in the scene in front of him. Jongho must not have heard the door, as his hands were still clawing at you like a goddamn animal, his lips on your neck now. You quickly gripped Jongho’s shoulders and pushed him away.

“What? You just said—” He took notice of where you were looking, turning his head to see Mingi’s shocked expression. “Oh.”

“Oh, dear god!” Mingi looked like he couldn't hide the smile peeking through his lips. “I knew it!”

Jongho took a whole century taking his hands off you, finally stepping away, leaving you cold, empty. “It’s not what you think—”

Mingi threw his hands up in the air, smirking. “Ay, I didn't see anything. Carry on.”

With one last look, Mingi shut the door, leaving you alone with Jongho. The feeling in the room was completely different from a moment ago.

“I….” he started, then sighed, unable to look at you. “I gotta go.”

“Jongho—” You went to move toward him, but he left the bathroom as quickly as he could, stumbling into the doorframe, and out of sight. You were left to your own devices, standing in the middle of the bathroom, hair a mess, lips bright and painful, and a mark on your neck from your best friend.

If you could call him that…

—

It’s as if he disappeared.

You haven't seen Jongho in days. You were even too nervous to go to his room this time, not knowing how to approach him after kissing him like that. After you felt the hardness of his cock against your stomach. The wetness between your thighs. Something you have never felt before.

After a few, empty, lonely nights in your room, you took the initiative to go find him at the late hour of midnight—To ask if he feels this intense craving for you just like you do for him. But when you arrived at his dorm, San told you he wasn't there.

“He’s been super sick. I thought he was with you,” He shrugged, confused.

“He’s sick?” your eyes widened.

San nodded, messy hair from sleep. “Sorry, maybe he’s with Mingi?”

After your encounter with San, you made your way to Mingi’s dorm. But, once again, Jongho was nowhere to be found.

So you went to the only place you thought to look.

And there he was, under the bright lights, taking a shot at the three-point line on the courts near the rec center. He missed the shot and stood there a moment before going to grab his rebound.

But the ball rolled to where you were, as if it meant to. Jongho stood still as you grabbed the ball.

He stayed silent. You weren't sure whether to move closer or just pass him the ball back.

“Are you going to give me it?” He spoke blandly, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cold air surrounding him.

You sighed, putting the ball under your arm. “Jongho, it’s cold out here.”

He sniffed, his nose red. He didn't look at you. “Just give me the ball, dammit.”

You blinked, watching the cold air show as you exhaled. “Why are you ignoring me?”

He rolled his eyes, taking in a breath. “Dammit, y/n—”

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you began to dribble the ball—very sloppily, but it didn't matter. You dribbled past him towards the hoop, tossing the ball up, watching it go through the net. “Ignoring me, I mean.”

“No, I’m not,” he huffed, moving to grab the ball from your shot. He made his way back up to the top of the key, away from you.

“Yes, you are.” you walked up to him, putting your hand out so he couldn't shoot. “Just be honest!”

With a huff of cold air, jongho tossed the ball away, an aggravated look on his face. “For fuck’s sake, y/n, Yes. I’m annoyed.”

You blinked, standing only a few feet away from him. “Why?” you asked, probably stupidly, given the irritated look on his face.

He sighed, tightening his hands into fists. “...Because….because I’m a man, too, you know.” he started, running his hands through his hair aggressively, clenching his jaw. “ You change in front of me, kiss me, do everything that causes my brain to spin. I’m sick of acting like I'm okay with it.”

You stood there, frozen. The air felt even colder as winter wrapped its arms around your bare skin.

“Does that mean you didn't like it?” you wondered out loud, possibly too immature, too inexperienced. You had no idea what you were feeling, why you felt this way. All you knew is that you wanted to spend every moment with him, to kiss him, to lay in bed with him. Things you did normally, but things felt different.

“Didn't like what?” He asked, his eyes wide.

“The kiss,” you looked into his eyes. “The kisses.”

Jongho stood tensely, unsure of what to do. You watched his eyes flicker up to the sky as little flurries fell, catching themselves in his hair.

“y/n,” he took a sharp breath in. “don't you get it? I can't kiss you. You can't kiss me. You can't….touch me like that, change in front of me, and not expect me to get flustered!” He nearly shouted the last part, and turned to the side away from you, aggravated beyond words.

“I….I’m sorry,” you spoke out, taking a step towards him. “I’m sorry that I feel this way—”

“Feel what?” he scoffed, turning back to you, a pained smirk on his lips. “You should be sorry for making me feel this….for causing me so many headaches, for god sake why the fuck am I out here when it’s fucking snowing, jesus christ you piss me off—”

“Jongho,” you interrupted his freakout, his word vomit. He stared at you with those beautiful eyes of his. “What are you trying to say?” you spoke in a small voice.

His eyes were frantic, going back and forth from eye to eye. “I…. can't do this.”

“Do what?” you felt the flurries dance against your skin, dance as they fell around you.

“I can't act like your friend anymore.” He bit his lip. “You have no idea what you do to me. What you’ve been doing to me.”

You took a step closer, but he backed away.

“I don't understand—”

“Just go,” He pleaded.

“You do things to me too!” you groaned, finally done with his attitude. “Will you knock it off? You’re not the only one confused here—”

“Oh, I confuse you?” He looked at you like you had two heads. “I’m sorry, I only kissed you because you were trying to get another guy. I kissed you so you could know how to do it, but you want to know something?” He paused, suddenly right up on you, the space gone between you. “I haven't kissed anyone either. I just…you. It’s just been you! I didn't know what I was doing, either!”

“Is that so bad?” you pleaded, your eyes bleeding into his. “Is it so bad that you had to kiss me? Should I apologize for wanting to do it again? That I haven't stopped thinking about you since?” you frantically looked into his eyes.

“Just…” Jongho sighed, his eyes a bit watery. “Lleave me be.”

The look on his face was enough. You took a step back, and then another.

“I won't apologize for my feelings, for whatever this feeling is,” you admitted. “But I am sorry I caused you trouble.” before you left him there, you looked up to him once more, snow falling around you. “Good luck at your game, tomorrow.”

You turned on your heel, not understanding a single thing that just unfolded, that was just said. He made no sense; you made none, either. It was just a bunch of words, unnecessary words, rifting your friendship. But one thing was for certain—you couldn't repair this without a few missing pieces.

Jongho stood as still as a statue as he watched you walk away.

—

You sat on the bench in your cheerleading uniform, your heart beating a mile a minute as you watched the game unfold in front of you.

It was approaching halftime. Jongho was sprinting down the sideline, limping slightly as he moved. He passed the ball beautifully to San, who was wide open for the layup.

You couldn't focus on anything—didn't even cheer when San made the shot. You just sat and stared into space, your eyes following jongho, watching his wince as he backed up down the court.

“He’s hurt,” you muttered under your breath, stomach tightening.

Jongho continued playing his heart out, but you knew something was wrong. However, as halftime came, he walked away from the court just fine and into the locker room, not giving you a single passing glance as he walked past you. Seonghwa did, however, but you weren't even paying attention to that.

After a few long moments, the team came back out. You had to cheer, but your heart wasn't in it. Jongho, once again, walked right by you, and when you were about to jump up and ignore everything that was said yesterday to make sure you were okay, the buzzer rang.

The game went on, the score going back and forth until the last quarter. Jongho stood at mid-court, calling a play, but the guy guarding him was aggressive. He tried to make a move around him, squeaking his sneakers against the hardwood, but it was no use. The defender followed him with ease, sliding his feet in perfect position.

The gym was in hysterics as Jongho pushed for the bucket, taking a side step into a euro step, but suddenly, oh so suddenly, Jongho crashed to the ground in a thud before getting the shot off.

The gym went silent. Jongho hissed in pain, his eyebrows knit tight. The athletic trainer ran out to see him as the game was put on hold with less than a minute to go. You stood up, not even realizing what you were doing. All you could feel was a pain in your chest as you saw him hurt, the intense feeling to take his pain away. You watched in despair as he was lifted off the floor, as he was carried out of the gym.

You swallowed hard, your ears ringing. Your teammates tried to get you focused, as the game was going to continue, but you jumped up and pushed through, making your way to the locker room desperately.

“Jongho?” you panted, turning the corner to enter the boy's locker room. You sucked in a breath as you see him in pain, lying down on the bench, a few others around him as he nearly cried in pain.

“Jongho!” you cried out, rushing to his side. His eyes were frantic, wide, a mess. The trainer took off his knee brace slowly as you approached. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

Jongho met your gaze through his watery eyes, every other emotion gone other than…whatever this was. He almost let out a sigh of relief as he saw you. You knelt down next to him, gripping his hand, and he held yours tighter.

“y/n,” he murmured, sucking in a sharp breath as the trainer surveyed his leg. “Did I…did I do it again? Please tell me I didn't—”

You looked at the man who was assessing his injury. “Did he tear it again?” you panicked, remembering how awful this was for him back then. How traumatizing it was, how horrible it was for him to gain his strength again. You couldn't stand to see him in pain.

“I…I don't know,” the man admitted. “It’s too swollen to tell. You’ll need to get this checked out—”

“Goddammit,” Jongho hissed, shutting his eyes tightly, and swallowing hard. That was when you realized that it might not even be the pain from the injury—no, it was his trauma. The memory of his hard work all down the drain.

“I’m here,” you breathed, tucking his hair behind his ear and away from his face. “It’ll be okay.”

The buzzer rang, and screams followed. Jongho looked at you, not a care in the world other than that you were there with him, just like before.

“You’ll be alright,” you repeated softly, your heart aching at his pain. “This will be okay.”

—

“From the MRI, it looks like everything is still intact,” the doctor spoke with a tone of arrogance. “You did weaken your surgical graft, however. You’ll need some PT and rest.”

Jongho stared down at his leg, his hand still gripping yours. He breathed a sigh of relief but didn't say anything else.

“I’ll write up a referral for that, so just hold on a moment.”

You were left in silence in the middle of the emergency room, Jongho sitting up straight on the bed with a big icepack on top of his knee. He was starting right at it, his lips downturned.

You wanted to ease his troubles. To make him feel better. Nothing felt worse than seeing him like this.

You didn't know what to say. You really couldn't say anything. You were so overwhelmed with the pain you felt as you looked at him as if it were your own. You hated his tears that begged to fall and never did.

“Hey,” you mumbled softly, squeezing his hand. It took him a minute to move his gaze to you, and when he did, his eyes spoke a thousand words. “See? It will be okay.”

He sighed, his face contorting as he fought his tears. “I…I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you weren't thinking of anything else other than what was in front of you. You rubbed your thumb against his knuckles, trying to soothe him.

“For how I acted.” He looked down at your hands, how yours was touching his, how his fingers were tight around yours. He didn't want to let go—neither did you. “I was just upset.”

“I know,” you nodded, swallowing. “I was, too.”

He looked into your eyes. “y/n, I…” he paused, the beeping of his heart rate speeding up in the background. “I just don't know why I acted like that I…I guess I got caught up in how I feel about you, and it confused me.”

You blinked. “How do you feel about me?”

He let out an uneasy laugh. “Isn't it obvious?”

You shook your head. “I… don't really know much of anything. Much of these feelings,” you acknowledged, biting your bottom lip anxiously.

He let out a genuine laugh. “Me too.”

“So, how do you feel?” You tucked a piece of your hair that fell loose from your bow, suddenly aware of how much of a wreck you probably looked like. You were still in your cheer uniform, Jongho in his basketball one, and you were sure you had smeared mascara everywhere. “About me, I mean.”

He took in a sharp breath. “This isn't fair, I’m like, high from pain meds. I don't know what i’m saying.”

You smiled widely, feeling such immense love for the man in front of you.

Oh shit.

Are you….in love?

“All I know is that I haven't stopped thinking about you since I met you,” He chuckled anxiously. “I don't understand why, and it's just increasingly worse after you keep kissing me, it's making my head spin.”

Jongho yawned slightly after his somewhat confession, his eyes fluttering.

He was so pretty. So, so pretty. You wanted to sleep with him. Next to him, cuddle with him, kiss his face, his eyelids, his cheeks, his everything. You wanted him to do everything to you that you dreamed of.

Oh fuck, you definitely are in love with him.

“Holy fuck—” you paused, staring at him, wide eyed at your realization.

“What?” He furrowed his brows.

You tried to control your overwhelming thoughts. “I just realized something…” you met his gaze, holding onto it tightly. “Are we…are we in love? I mean, I think at least I might be—”

“Holy shit, we might be,” Jongho gulped, a knowing smile curling at his lips. As if he knew this, at least on his end, for much longer than you have. He looked at you, then at his leg, and back at you. “Are you in love with me?”

“I think so?” you questioned, your chest aching. Jongho’s heart began to beat faster and faster, as seen on the monitor next to him. You leaned towards him, blushing as his heart rate jumped over one hundred.

Jongho let out an anxious laugh. “You sound super confident.”

You would've kissed him right then and there, prove to him that you loved him, if it wasn't for that awful doctor.

You helped jongho hobble out of the hospital, his leg wrapped in ice and his arms wrapped around you. You were hyper aware of the smell of sweat, the light remnant of his woodsy cologne. You heard his breath hitch as your fingertips curled around his arm as you walked toward the street for a cab.

“God, standing up really messed me up.” he wobbled a bit. “I don't know what they gave me, but fuck, I feel wonderful,” he giggled, nudging his head into the crook of your neck.

There was a mix of comfort and chaos as you got in the cab, his head on your shoulder, his hair a mess. His arm was slung over you, his eyes closed, his lips parted against your collarbone. He felt comforting, yes, but also his damn lips started to move against your skin.

“Jongho,” you breathed, trying to keep quiet as the cab driver carried on. “Stop it—”

“Mmmh,” he groaned into your neck, kissing it again, trailing up towards your jawline.

“The fuck, did they give you viagra?” you nearly choked as his hand that was around your shoulder fell to your waist, tightening on the curve above your hip. His hand moved lower, past your hip, meeting the curve right before he could reach your—

“Hey,” you whisper yelled, smacking his cheek lightly.

He opened his eyes, those brown irises sparkling despite the dark car. “Oh, its y/n,” he smiled, meeting your gaze, but you watched it fall to your lips. “You look pretty.”

You scoffed. “You don't know what you're talking about right now—”

“Oh, I do,” he smiled lopsidedly, his hand now coming up to cradle your cheek. “I know what i’m doing.”

You smirked. “I think you’re loopy.”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugged, smiling, his eyes curving into smiles too. “But I know what I want to do.”

You tilted your head, raising your brows. “And what’s that?”

He smiled villianously, teeth barred. “Do you really want to know?”

You held in your laugh, but managed to nod.

He took in a breath, letting it out in an exaggerated sigh. “I want to fuck you so bad,” he huffed, his head falling right back onto your shoulder. “So, so bad. I’ve always wanted to—”

“Jongho,” you blinked. “You’re high from pain meds, you don't know what you're—”

“Oh, but I do know,” he sat up quickly, eyes dazed, hair a mess on top of his head. He reached out a hand, tucking your hair behind your ears with a boyish smile. He focused on your face, on your eyes, your lips. His expression changed, his smile falling. “I wanted to tell you about how I feel about you.”

You bit your lip. “You did.”

He waved a hand, flopping it around. “Nah, I didn't.”

“Yes, don't you remember?” you scoffed playfully. “We just had this whole talk like twenty minutes ago—”

“Aye, stop it, I had something to say but now I forgot!” he groaned, tossing his head back against the headrest. He then turned his head to your direction. “Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?”

“You just did,” you smiled.

“Oh, that’s right.” he swallowed, looking at your lips. “Did I ever tell you that I want to kiss you? Like, all the time?”

You shook your head, giving up on the fight against his high ass.

“Well, I just want to kiss you, over and over again, and then when you started kissing me, I think I went crazy,” he blinked slowly, eyes covering every inch of your face. He leaned forward. “You really fucked me up, you know?”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Pfft,” he huffed. “Are you kidding? You would change in front of me, lay in bed with me, touch me, everything I….” he swallowed hard. “How was I supposed to react to your tits? Your ass? You think i’ve never gotten hard from it?” you wanted to shut his nonsense up, but he kept going on. “I’ve had to literally leave just to jack off so you didn't find out—”

“Woah, woah,” you rose your eyebvrows. “You’re a mess right now, youll regret what you’re saying tomorrow—”

“I wont,” he sniffed, eyes meeting yours. “I’m done with acting like I don't think about you naked—”

“Jongho, shut it, we’re not alone—”

“We should be alone so I can do everything I want to you,” he pressed a sloppy kiss to your temple. “God, I want to do everything to you.”

You wanted to push him away. You wanted to tell him no—but…his lips, his words, his breath felt so good, so intoxicating. He pressed a kiss to your jaw, to the corner of your lips. “Can we fuck now?”

You closed your eyes, taking in a breath. “The hell is wrong with you? We’re in a cab—”

He ignored you, his lips continuing to find their way around your face. “When we get back?”

You looked down at his knee, how it was wrapped, how much pain it had caused him. “You just hurt your leg, and you’re not in your right mind.”

“Oh, i’m completely in my right mind,” he kissed your ear, letting a little breath of air tickle you. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

You sighed, your breath shaking, your chest tight. You had absolutely no experience—you’ve never had sex, never did anything with a man other than what you were doing now, and the little kiss you gave seonghwa.

“I’m a virgin,” you whispered softly, embarrased. However, you felt the most comfortable with jongho. He was your everything.

“So am I,” he admitted, smiling. “We can learn together.”

“God, we’re so lame,” you breathed, smiling.

Jongho, however, did not care about any words. He nuzzled into your collarbone, pressing a kiss there, over and over again.

“So, does that mean we can have sex?”

—

You assisted jongho into your building, helping him into the elevator and pressing your floor while he leaned against the wall.

The silence was deafening. You were sure he was able to hear your heart beat through your chest.

As the doors closed, you let a sigh out.

“y/n,” he breathed. Behind you, his eyes were on you.

“Hm?” you hummed, afraid to turn to him, afraid of what you would do, what he would do.

“I love you,” he spoke.

You’ve both basically said it only an hour before. Only then, it didn't feel real. Now, maybe it was the fact that Jongho’s eyes have cleared up, his expression was raw. He looked nervous, he looked anxious. This was all new, all foreign—but Jongho wasn't new, wasn't different. He’s always been him, been by your side, your rock, your everything.

“I….love you too, dummy.”

When the elevator reached your floor, it took you a second to move. You helped him down the hall, and when you reached your door, you paused.

“Do you…want to…” you trailed off, unsure if that was only the drugs talking earlier.

When you turned to jongho, he had a sinister smile on his face.

“You mean,” he nodded toward your room. “What I think you mean?”

“Well, jeez,” you scoffed, turning around to open your door. “As if you weren't the one all over me in the cab—”

A second later, you both stood in the entrance of your room, both of your hearts beating like crazy.

He entered the room after you, slowly shutting the door. The room was dark—you weren't even trying to turn the lights on.

You turned to jongho, watching him stand with his fists at his sides, his fingers gripping the fabric of his basketball shorts.

“How do we…” you took in a sharp breath, meeting his gaze. His eyes were wide, dripping with love, lust, with so much. You weren't sure if they always looked like that, if they looked at you like that. Those eyes….

“Let’s just, he winced a bit as he stepped closer. “Just stay where you are.”

When he got close enough, you saw the worry in his expression. The hesitancy, the love. He looked up, and his eyes spoke a thousand unspeakable words. His hand reached out, pausing at the hem of your cheerleading uniform.

You let out an anxious laugh at his face, as he looked so conflicted. You didn't say anything though, and after a moment, he tugged your top right over your head, grinning like a goofball at the red lacy bra you had on.

“For me?” he murmured, his hand subconsciously drifting to run over your skin, his fingertips pressing against the thin fabric of your bra. He met your gaze, his jaw tightening.

You reached for his top now, the loose jersey easily pulling over his head—the jersey that was hiding the soft curves of muscle. You’ve seen him shirtless many times, an unimaginable amount of times—but this time, it was different. You ran a hand down the pane of his chest, across the mounds of muscle, down his soft but muscular frame. He was perfect, absolutely sexy, breathtaking, gorgeous.

He shivered under your touch, meeting your gaze. He moved to take his shorts off, but winced. “Hold on, i’ll take them off—” but you both leaned down at the same time, crashing your heads together, causing a storm of laughter.

“God, we’re so not good at this,” He chuckled, smiling bright even in the dark room.

“No, not really,” you grinned, reaching down at his hips, pulling his shorts off, tugging a bit at the erection that bulged out. You held in your pride, the fact that he was already so turned on by just taking your clothes off.

His shorts fell down to his ankles, his underwear with them, leaving him completely naked, completely vulnerable in front of you. He looked at you with those damn eyes, those irises that held every emotion possible for you.

You took a second to take him in, his thickness, his length. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware that…that would go inside you, and it would probably tear your virgin self to shreds.

He then gripped the waistband of your skirt, tugging you to him. He was slightly taller than you, so when your body hit his, you felt his cock against your lower stomach, feeling a pulsing ache in your body. His fingers glided against the bare skin of your waist as he pulled your skirt over your hips, and when they fell, you were left standing in your mismatched underwear, begging him to take it off of you, too.

However, he just stood there like a deer in headlights, staring at the curves of your body, and the smoothness of your skin. His mouth parted, his eyes grew wide, and his hands twitched to touch you, to ravage you, to swallow you whole as if you were roadkill and he was a vulture.

An anxious vulture.

He reached around you, the heat of his body warming you, and his hands clasped around the clip of your bra. He fiddled with it for a good moment, and as he started getting irritated that he couldn't get it, you laughed. “Goddamn this thing has you locked up like fort knox—”

“Do you want me to get it—”

“No, no, i’ll be extremely embarassed, let me do it.” he continued to try to get it off you, and finally, it fell off you, onto the ground, and Jongho stood with a proud smile on his lips. “Fuck yeah, finally.”

But, right after his words of triumph, his eyes fell to your full breasts. His eyes widened, and he gave into his desires, letting himself grab one, calloused fingers gliding against your nipple.

“Oh, fuck y/n,” he breathed, both his hands coming up to cradle your breasts, to feel you up. He took in a breath, eyes unable to leave your body. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

He dipped his head, taking in a breast into his mouth, flicking his tongue over your nipple. You felt your stomach tighten, felt your wetness pool at your thighs. He looked up to your eyes as he sucked, and when he saw your ecstatic expression, he quickly pulled away.

He didn't spare an extra second to claw at your underwear, satisfyingly watching them fall to the ground, leaving you both completely naked in the middle of the room. He looked at you, love dripping from his chocolate eyes.

And thats when you gripped the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I don't do this very well,” you admitted, twirling your fingers in his hair. He didn't seem to even hear what you said as his eyes remained on your lips.

“God, we cant be friends anymore,” he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, he hesitated, lips hovering over yours, his breath shaky, tangling with yours. “Definetly not, fuck.”

You tilted your chin forward, lips so close, so so close. His hands found your hips, fingernails leaving marks in your skin.

And with one last look into your eyes, jongho sighed, letting go of everything. He pressed his soft lips to yours, taking you in like he hasn't kissed you before. Like he’s always wanted to. He breathed into you, moving his hands to cradle your face, to get as close to you as possible.

You arched your body against his, bucking your hips into his, and he grunted in response. You fell backwards onto the bed, him on top of you, but as you fell, he bit your lip so hard you let out a little yelp.

“Oh shit,” he gasped, parting from you, eyes wide with worry. “Are you okay? Did that hurt? I didn't mean to do that—-”

“Shh, shut your face,” you patted him on the cheek, giggling at his reaction.

He adjusted himself on top of you. “Here, make sure you’re head’s on your pillow, I want you to be comfortable.” he adjusted you, too, and he looked so sincere and serious it made you laugh. “Why are you laughing?” he asked, but couldn't help but let out a little chuckle, too. “Stop, this is serious.”

You laughed even more. “Sorry, sorry, you’re just really cute.” you watched his eyes twinkle as he looked at you. “And you look so pretty on top of me.”

He smirked, holding back his giggle. “Stop it.”

“I’m just saying,” you reached a hand out to wrap around his neck, tugging his lips right back down to yours, kissing him softly. “Mhm. I cant get enough of this.”

He smiled into the kiss. “Me neither, I cant believe you’re under me right now.”

You couldn't help the blush that heated your cheeks. You were suddenly aware of his dick against your thighs, of your skin against his. You looked into his eyes, looked at how they were looking at you, how he held himself over you.

And then, after a look of utter love, he smiled and kissed you. This time, he stuck his tongue into your mouth, running over the ridges of the roof of your mouth. You opened your mouth wider, deepening the kiss, knocking your nose against his.

His lips parted as he gasped for air, his chest heaved against yours. His hand delicately glided up your ribs, meeting the skin of your breasts. He gripped your breast in his hand, moaning into your mouth, hips bucking into yours. You couldve sworn you felt his heartbeat through his chest as he made out with you, as his hands covered you. He pulled away only to make sure you still wanted this, and when you nodded, he reached down to line himself up with you. The concept of sex always felt so difficult. So worrisome, so new. But with jongho, it felt like you've done this forever.

“If it hurts, tell me,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you gently. “I’ll take care of you.”

You literally couldve came at those words. You swallowed hard, and forced out a nod.

He pecked your lips, smiling, kissing them again. His hands hesitated, not knowing what to touch as his tip pressed into your cunt, his breath shortening, sweat dripping down his forehead.

You reached out, gliding a hand across his cheek, across his lips, smiling up at him.

“I….” he hesitated before entering you. “Are you wet enough? Should I spit?”

He looked terrified. Absolutely terrified. So you ran a hand soothingly through his hair, watching his eyes shut tight in pleasure, in delight. “Don't worry about anything and just do it.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, letting out a little laugh. “Okay, okay.”

And then, his eyes bled into yours as he tilted his hips, pushing his cock slowly into you, so gently, as if he was terrified of hurting you. You watched his mouth part, watched his expression change to euphoria as he filled you, every inch sparking a new feeling.

He snapped his hips, his length fully in you, and you nearly cried out from the feeling. You moaned as he moved slowly, clawing at his shoulders, this feeling unlike anything else—your damn vibrator held nothing on Jongho.

He relaxed his expression, his eyes fluttering open, looking right down on you. You met his gaze as he moved in and out of you.

“Does it hurt, if it hurts, I can stop—”

“Shut the hell up and fuck me, jongho,” you grumbled, your hands finding a home on his hips, the feeling of them snapping under your hands sent you spiraling. You moaned as his dick reached a new spot, as you felt your walls tighten around him. You wanted to cry out, rip your hair out, tear at his skin as you felt the intense crave for him. The way he looked down on you fueled the fire in your hips, in your back. You felt an ache in your hips, slamming your head back, fighting the urge to claw the bedsheets.

But then you sae his grimace, and you frowned. “Oh my god, you’re knee, you’re in pain.”

He kept moving, but he was definitely in pain. “I-I think the meds wore off—”

Without thinking, you pushed him off you, making him roll over so now he was the one on th bottom. You straddled him, looking at his shocked expression, how his breaths quickened, how his cock twitched for you. To be inside you.

You had an unimaginable amount of knowledge from all your smutty books, so you might as well try to use what you know, right?

“y/n, what are you—”

“Let me please you,” you breathed, and with a slow, calculative movement, you sat on his dick, sliding his length into you, once again gaining the extreme pleasure of his expression and the absolute desperation he expressed. He gasped as you moved up and down on his cock, and he watched you, watched him dissapear into you. He slammed his head back into the pillow, his face contorting, moans fluttering through his lips, his eyebrows knitting together in pleasure and a million other things.

“God, fuck,” his hands gripped your hips as you rode him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, his breaths shallow. He gasped for air. “You feel so good, oh my god. So fucking good.”

You tossed your head back, resting your hands on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the smoothness of it. He blinked up at you, a smile on his lips, completely in bliss.

He moved his hands with you, nearly lifting you up as you moved on his cock, moved on his body. You forgot how strong he was.

“You sure you’ve never done this?” he gasped, his eyes shut tight. “Because fuck, this is better than I ever imagined.”

You smiled down on him, giddy at his words. You moved even faster, causing him to moan, and moan, and moan.

You didn't even know what to say—you just enjoyed his little commentary as he took you in, his gaze dripping like honey.

“Godamn,” he hissed, eyes meeting yours. He looked frantic. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he seethed, hips slamming up into yours. “Fuck, you’re so hot, so so hot.”

You felt him twitch inside you, felt your walls collapse. You began to see spots in your vision as he moved his hips, too, just as you were. You felt so much pride as he looked absolutely pathetic underneath you, his gaze hazy, his lips bright red from your kisses.

“I love you, I…love you,” he hissed out. “I love you.”

You reached your climax just from looking at him, crying out in a moan, leaning forward over his body. His hands flooded all over you, sending sparks at every touch, every spot of your body. And when you came, when you felt the rush of cum, the rush of the high finally hit, you continued to move as he did. Then, suddenly, his eyes grew so wide, he lifted you off his cock hastily, gasping for air.

You leaned back on his legs, onto your heels, trying to breathe, trying to see, as his hands grasped his own dick, moving up and down before he came, his cum shooting onto you, over your chest, your boobs, your stomach. You watched him gasp as it happened, his lips curling up in an embarrassed smile.

“Oh, oops,” he laughed, looking absolutely delectable with the hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes wide with pleasure. “Totally meant to do that….”

Something burned under your skin, something foreign, something you never felt before. You’ve only read about this feeling, this moment. But now, here you were. You just had sex, sex with your best friend, and it was the best thing you’ve ever felt before. You needed more, so so much more.

“Please tell me we can do that again,” you breathed, falling onto him, sticking to him, feeling the beat of his heart as you pressed your ear to his chest.

“Oh, fuck yes,” his hand wrapped around you, holding you to him. He pressed a gentle, exasperated his to the top of your head. “You don't even have to ask that, i’m planning on doing that all night.”

You moved a bit so you could lay against his side, totally forgetting about the cum on you that now got all over the place. “You seemed like you knew what you were doing for a virgin,” you side eyed him. “You have to be lying.”

He smirked, a light blush on his cheeks. “Uh, well,” he swallowed, eyes looking all over your face. “I mean, I have been thinking about what I would do if I ever got to sleep with you.”

You furrowed your brows. “You’re so cheesy.”

“Well I didn't get to do exactly what I wanted,” he looked down at your lips, at your body pressed to his. “Because of my damn knee, but,” he pressed a kiss to your nose. “That means we have to do this again.”

“Oh, baby,” you pinched his cheek. “We’ll be doing this way more than we probably should.”

He smiled, that blush still on his face, across his nose. He looked so beautiful, so so pretty, it actually hurt you to look at him.

You kissed him, kissed his lips, his nose, his flushed cheeks.

And you looked at him, at his eyes, the same eyes you’ve known forever.

“I love you, Jongho.”

—

The next morning, you parted ways with a sleepy jongho, late for your early class. You couldn't stop thinking about him all day, that is, until you ran into Mingi and San in the library cafe.

Mingi grinned like the cheshire cat, an eye smile brighter than the sun. “Well, hello there, you.”

You rolled your eyes as the line for the coffee moved. San and Mingi stood behind you, giggling like little kids.

“So, Jongho didn't come back last night,” San started, and you quickly cut in.

“So? He always stays in my room, its not anything odd—”

“Oh, sweetie,” Mingi crossed his arms, grinning. “But it is odd.”

“Why?” you crossed your arms, too, facing him. San stood by with a little chuckle.

“Because he came back to the room before his class and his jersey was on inside out—”

“So? He likes to sleep shirtless—”

“His lips were covered in red lipstick—”

“I don't know what you were talking about—”

“Oh, and he told me that he had sex with you—”

You slammed a hand against San’s mouth, giving him a death glare while mingi giggled like a school girl. You grimaced, pulling your hand away. “Shut up, or i’ll make you.”

“Ooh, so scary,” San waved his hands in the air dramatically. “Anyway, are you dating him now? You better date him, he’s been dreaming of that for so long.”

You blinked. “I mean, we said we loved each other, but nothing about dating….”

Mingi smirked. “Welp, guess you better go figure that out.”

After class, you found yourself in front of Jongho’s door, a shake in your breath as you knocked. He opened the door, shirtless, a smile on his face the minute he met your gaze.

And then he grabbed you by the waist and planted a big kiss onto your lips, smiling into it, and then pulled away.

“Hi,” you smiled.

“Hi.” he tilted his head, looking you up and down.

“I heard you told San everything.”

He bit his lip. “Was I supposed to keep it to myself?”

You shook your head, smiling.

“Do you want to come in?” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mhm,” you nodded, following him in.

The minute the door shut, Jongho slammed you up against it, swallowing you whole with his mouth as he kissed you. His hands gripped the side of your head, tugging at your hair, causing you to let out a hiss. He took the opportunity of your open mouth to shove his tongue into you, exploring your mouth with pleasure. He moaned into you, and you couldn't help but moan yourself.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up, slamming your back into the door as he held you to him. He then started to walk towards his bed, but you realized his injury.

“Jongho, you’re leg,” you breathed with worry, trying to get him to put you down. “You’ll hurt yourself—”

“Shut up,” he spoke into your mouth, indeed shutting you up immediately. You sighed as he kissed you, as he touched you. He gently set you down onto his bed, and you went under his duvet since he kept his room like an icebox.

He followed you suit, crawling on top of you under the covers, but you had a better idea. Once again, you flipped him so he was on his back, and with one quick look at the shock in his gaze, you kissed his collarbone, then his chest, down his sternum, over the soft muscle of his stomach. You slowly pulled his pants down over his cock, his underwear along with them.

You felt his muscles tighten underneath your lips, you heard his breath hitch as you moved lower and lower, until your lips met the soft skin of his hard cock. He gasped his hands searching for you under the covers, his legs moving in pleasure as you licked his tip.

“Oh my…oh…” he arched his back against your kiss, your hands holding onto his hips as you surrounded your mouth around his erection. He thrashed against you, absolutely liquid in your embrace.

But before you could take him fully, the door of his room opened, and in came san blabbing about god knows what.

You quickly moved, trying to lay flat the best you could to hide. Jongho sat up fast, pulling the blanket up and bunching it around his dick, making sure it wasn't so obvious that you were under there….and that he was literally throbbing hard.

“I ran into y/n earlier, she admitted to it!” san roared, and you assumed he was taking his shoes off considering the sound. “Good for you buddy, I know how long you wanted to tap that—”

“Ah, yeah,” Jongho awkwardly laughed. You wish you could see the look on his face, the embarrassment. Just how long did he want you?

You couldn't help but stroke your hand against his dick, causing him to gasp.

“You alright?” San questioned, now making his way to the other side of the room.

You continued to rub him. Jongho gripped the blanket tight.

“Peachy,” Jongho grunted.

San didn't speak for a while.

“Are you gonna finally ask her out?”

You paused.

Jongho sighed. “Huh?” he was totally out of it.

“I mean, you’ve been in love with y/n for ages, you might as well make if official while you can.”

“Am I?” Jongho swallowed hard. “Am I in love with her?”

“Ah shut up, you know it,” San scoffed,and a bed creaked—assumingly his. You decided to continue to suck Jongho off, taking him in your mouth, causing him to jolt.

“I uh, i’ll ask her out later,” Jongho took in a breath. “But, um, do you think you could….you know, give me a moment?”

“A moment, why—”San paused, then gasped. “Are you beating your meat right now? Oh fuck man, my bad!”

You nearly cackled against Jongho at the way they conversed with each other, how normal it seemed. It made you wonder how often this happened, how often Jongho did this to himself, how many times he thought about you while doing it…

That turned you on even more.

The minute you heard the door shut, you tossed the covers over your head, meeting Jongho’s shocked, mind-boggled expression.

“Jeez, y/n, fuck,” he couldn't help but smile as he looked at you, as you sucked him. “You’re a freak.”

“Well, you should see the things I read,” you chuckled, and then licked up the column of his cock, causing him to take hold of your head.

He shoved you up and down on his dick, his fingers tearing into your scalp, causing you to choke on him. He groaned, moaned, hummed every note possible, and then without warning, he came into your mouth, his body going still, his eyes open wide as he watched you swallow his load.

Oh, he tasted better than you ever imagined.

His saltiness still coated your lips as you leaned over to kiss him, his eyes lost in you. He looked so in love, so in lust, in everything.

“Are you gonna ask me out?” you asked in between kisses.

“Mhm,” he leaned into your kiss, not wanting to break apart.

“Are we dating now?”

Kiss.

He blinked, looking up at you. His smile defined beauty, his lips desire.

“If you’d like.”

“Of course.”

You kissed him once more, wrapping your arms around his neck, rolling around in bed with him. He chuckled, smiled, nuzzled his head into you.

“I have practice,” you kissed his cheek, trying to get up, but his arms wrapped around you, holding you to him. “I have to go.”

“One more minute,” he mumbled into your ear as he nibbled it, then kissed it. “Just a minute.”

You smiled. “Okay, fine, I guess I can spare a minute.”

He held you, breathed in your scent, his scent on your lips. He didn't let go, even after the minute, and you hand to force yourself out of his hold.

“Meet me in my room tonight?” you raised a brow,

He nodded. “Of fucking course.”

You quickly tried to fix your hair up, tucking it behind your ears, before you gave your boyfriend a wink while you walked out.

And, funny enough, when you shut the door behind you and turned around, San stood there, smirking devilishly.

“Well damn, when’s it my turn?”

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez angst #jongho #jongho smut #ateez jongho #choi jongho #jongho x reader #best friends #best friends to lovers #colle #college au

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erosmutt · 3 months ago

Text

　⯌　𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡　⨟　𝗝. 𝗞𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘆, 𝗦. 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗿𝗼𝗲, 𝗦. 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿

〣 ﹒▨﹕CONTENT WARNINGS﹒foursome, incestuous activities, free use undertones, objectification, somnophilia, double penetration, degrading, face slapping, pussy eating, bukakke, large age gap (James is 46, Scott is 21, Sam is 20, reader is 19).

┄﹒WORD COUNT﹒⤹ 4,152

BNUUY'S NOTES┆Finally, the long awaited fic! Part of the "Partnered Up!" series, which is a series of fics where all the characters are paired up and are with reader. The first installment is this one! Titled after a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Originally, I was going to title it after a Rob Zombie song, but here we are! I'm so excited to share this with all of you. Eat well my loves!

≻ㅤ﹒ㅤlet's have a coffee together!ㅤ﹒ㅤノ

"You're welcome over anytime y'wanna be, sweetiepie."

You snap out of your daydream, lifting your gaze. In front of you stood your best friends' dad, James, a spatula in his hand. The kitchen was filled with the scent of seasoned beef, the familiar sizzle in the cast iron skillet on the stove a comforting sound. Your eyes rake over his broad shoulders, his waist, and down to the curve of his ass in his dark blue boxers. His jeans rest low on his hips, barely held up by his butt. Man, he really needed to invest in a belt.

Right as you open your mouth to respond, the sound of heavy boots hitting the creaky floorboards accompanies the sizzle of the patties James was flipping. "Hey dad, hey babes." One of James' two sons, Scott Kelly, greets the two of you as he sits a hefty 30-count case of beer on the kitchen table. His brother, Sam Kelly, was scrolling through his phone as he nodded to you. "What’s up?"

Scott's hand slams down onto the top of the large case of beer. "Found a new flavor. Peach Busch." He grins triumphantly, while Sam snickers, shoving his phone into his pocket and sitting down in a chair next to you. "A girly drink." He sticks his tongue out at his brother, making the blond sneer. "Go fuck yourself." He mutters, tearing the flimsy cardstock handle to reach a can.

James kills the heat on the stove then tosses the spatula down onto the counter. "Watch your fuckin' mouths, alright? Jesus," he shakes his head, gathering the condiments - barbecue sauce, ketchup, mustard, mayo, and an assortment of other burger toppings - then he sets them down onto the counter. "Now sit down and hush so we can eat."

Sam licks his lips as he gets up, grabbing a few paper plates off the top of the microwave. "Huh," he hands everyone a plate, then plops down in the creaky kitchen chair, making it scrape against the dirty linoleum floor. The four of you join hands and a quick prayer later, you all take in the assortment he cooked. "So," his father begins, cracking open a beer. "How's it been goin' babygirl?"

You look up at him, in the middle of squirting ketchup onto your hamburger. "Uh, what does that entail?" You ask with a lopsided grin. Scott shrugs. "The usual, you know? Like, I dunno, any boyfriends or somethin'?" His baby blues flick up to glance at you before focusing back on his dinner. "You coulda made the fries last, Jesus." Sam mutters from next to you before taking a massive bite of his burger, brows furrowed as he hums in satisfaction.

After chatting, hot beers, and dinner, the four of you were piled on the couch, watching whatever movie you caught on TV. James had his socked feet kicked up on the busted up coffee table, his arm around you, the stench of cheap cologne and potent motor oil clinging to his skin and clothes. His hand caresses your shoulder, fiddling with your sleeve, squeezing, tracing shapes. Your eyelids flutter closed, feeling heavy. James looks down at you. "Sleepy, babygirl?" He pulls you closer up into his side. "Snuggle up buttercup." He chuckles, ruffling your hair affectionately as he removes his arm from around your shoulders to put it around your waist, large hand resting on your stomach.

As the movie goes on, Sam and Scott end up on the floor, playing UNO, oblivious to their father and best friend up on the couch. James' hand slips up your shirt, rubbing over your soft tummy, over your womb. His dark gaze falls on you, eyes half-lidding as he rubs over your warm skin, your stomach distended with all the dinner you ate. "Sheesh..." He whispers to himself, teeth gently digging into his bottom lip.

He'd be absolutely lying to himself if he tried to say he didn't have dreams about you full and round with his baby. Disgusting, he knows. He's pushing 50 years old, his knees creak when he gets up after sitting awhile, he has to be in bed before 10pm or he'll get pissy - he has zero business wanting to knock up his young sons' barely legal best friend. You kept him young, kept him on his toes, kept him wanting to keep up with the times. He'd do nearly anything to get just a glimpse of your teenage pussy. Oh, he could already imagine how tight, how warm, how wet, how -

"Dad!" Scott's grating voice snaps James back to reality. He looks down at his son. "What?" He hisses, rubbing his hand over his dark stubble. Sam turns around and looks up at his dad, then at you, then back at his dad. "Wanna play cards with us?" He asks, waving the cards as if tempting James. You stir out of your half-asleep state, then you smile, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. "Mmm, UNO?" You move away from James, standing up. You turn to look at him and hold your hands out, giggling as he lets out a heavy sigh, taking your hands and rocking back and forth before using you to get up off the couch with a groan that makes your stomach coil. "To the kitchen. I ain't gettin' down on that damn floor." James says, making his way to the kitchen. You follow as Sam and Scott gather up the cards.

"James?" Your voice calls, your hand resting on the door frame of James' bedroom. He groans, opening his eyes to look at the digital clock on his nightstand - 2:52AM. He turns his head to look at you and waves you into the bedroom. "Mm, what's wrong dollface?" He sits up, rubbing his hands over his face. You make your way over and sit down, a pout on your lips. "I can't sleep. Sam and Scotty are up playing games." You go quiet. James listens, and the resounding sound of his sons’ joint bitching at the TV reaches his ears. He rolls his eyes and licks his dry lips. "C'mon, you can lie with me." He pats the mattress. You climb into his warm bed, and once the two of you are settled in, the only sounds that grace you are your breathing, the muffled voices of the boys in the living room, and the rhythmic clicking of his rickety ceiling fan above the bed.

"Usually you're out like a light." James comments. "Well, 'least you used to be able to sleep through anything. Guess that changes when you ain't a kiddo no more." He says, a warm hand rubbing your arm to soothe you to sleep as he did when you were little on nights you would sleep over, when you would come crying to him about a nightmare. Even now, all these years later, it was incredibly endearing to him. The way you suckle around nothing and end up sleeping on your stomach. That wouldn't do if you were pregnant, though.

Throughout the night, James found himself unable to sleep. He had a raging boner, his cock aching, boxers nearly sopping with pre from all the leaking his tip had been doing. You had your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your arm draped over his doughy middle. He stares down at you in the dark, the moonlight streaming through the dusty blinds helping him see your parted lips as they catch the pallid glimmer.

James brings his hand up and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip and the corner of your mouth, collecting the drool that accumulated during your peaceful slumber. He brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks the drool off it, his eyes fluttering closed and nearly rolling back in perverted satisfaction. Removing his thumb with a gentle 'pop,' James rests his hand on your side, beginning to rub up and down, up to the side of your chest then down to your hip. "Christ," he whispers, digging his fingers into your flesh with a gentle squeeze. He finds his way into the side of your camisole, calloused hand rubbing over your breast and soft nipple, thumb caressing the bud.

He was at a really horrid angle, his joints beginning to ache already, but he deemed it worth the pain to be able to grope you in your sleep. James' other hand goes down to his crotch, slipping into his boxers and grabbing at his velvety shaft. After hearing noise he stopped for a second, then went on, rubbing his thumb over his damp tip, assuming the boys were packing it in for the night.

"Dad?" Sam's voice calls, and right as James snatches his hand out of his boxers, the bedroom light flickers on. He stares at his sons, his hand still around your soft, fatty breast. Sam's lips part as if to comment, and Scott just stares at the print of James' hand through your thin navy blue camisole. Oh, he was fucked.

“Um, are we interrupting something?” Scott finally comments, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. “We came to see whose bed she wanted to take, or if she wanted to stay in the living room. For fucks sake…” He sneers, and his brother watches, fiddling with his labret as he watches his dad slowly retract his hand from your top.

Sam's big blue eyes travel down to your now exposed stomach, blinking silently. "Hey hey, calm down," James coos, pushing himself up into a sitting position, unintentionally making you stir awake. His cock strains against his soft boxers, tip threatening to peek out from underneath the fabric scrunched around his thigh. "She can stay in whichever one'aya's bed she wants. No need to fuss." He says, and you lift your head to look at the twins, returning Sam's slow, cat-like blink. "Huh?"

With a disgusted scoff, Scott turns on his heel, his hand resting on the wood of the doorway as he readies himself to leave. "I can't believe this." He mutters, walking out and down the hallway. Sam took a moment before making a move to leave, though, but he soon followed his brother, disappearing down the hallway.

Left in a tense silence, neither you nor James commented. Just sat, oddly content, until he spoke. "I know you might think this is gross," he begins. "But... do you mind helpin' me out, babygirl?" He asks, and the two of you make eye contact, his gaze pleading while yours was surprised. "James," you murmur, your hand finding his hairy thigh. "I can try."

You make your way between his thighs, your hands resting on either side of his penis. “Can you show me what to do? I’ve never seen a guy’s thing in real life before.” You admit, examining his cock curiously. When you wrap your hand around it, a bit harshly, James hisses. “Gentle, dollface, gentle.”

“Here, slow. Slowly. Up and down. Yeah, just like that.” He watches, a smile coming across his face. “You got the hang of it already.” So, you began to stroke him, getting a feel for it, taking in the warmth, the scent, the texture, the way his shaft twitched in your grasp. You watch as his hands fist the sheets beneath him, his nostrils flaring as he nears what would be his first orgasm of the night. With a shudder, James comes undone, warm semen spurting onto your hand. “Oh.”

“You’re a natural,” James pants, his hand coming up to brush some wispy hairs away from your face. “Good job sweets. My boys are missin’ out.” He grins lazily, then falls back onto his pillow with a sigh.

You get up and adjust your top. “I should get to bed.” You make your way over to the bedroom door, and as soon as you open it, Scott and Sam stumble in sideways. Those little creeps, they had their ears up against the door, listening in. You yelp in surprise, and step back from the door. “What the hell is wrong with you two?!”

Scott’s eyes go from your face, to your cleavage, then over to his dad’s exposed cock, then back up at your face. “No fucking way his jizz is on your hand right now.” Sam chimes in, glaring at your hand with contempt. Overcome with embarrassment, you look down at your sock-clad feet, eyes tracing the checkerboard patterned fabric. “Are you listening to me?”

You and Scott were so preoccupied that neither of you noticed James come up behind you, hand coming to rest on your shoulder, his dick still out of the confines of his boxers. “It ain’t somethin’ to be ‘shamed of, you know.” He reassures, caressing your shoulder as he looks between his twin sons. “I never got to give y’all the talk, did I? Maybe now’s a good time, yeah?”

Scott was a bit more enthusiastic than you anticipated. Sam, on the other hand, seemed more hesitant. Though judging by the tent in his shorts, he was far from unaffected. With a deep breath, you settle down onto the bed, the boys on either side of you. James stands in front of you three, his cock noticeably hardening. “What the fuck,” Scott whispers to himself, meanwhile Sam was shifting around, trying to relieve the friction in his bottoms.

James begins pacing, starting his impromptu sex ed lesson. “It’s not a weird thing to talk about. Sex is how we all got here. ‘S a natural thing.” He reaches down and tucks himself back in, thankfully. “It’s not just a way to make life, but to pleasure yourself, too. Everyone likes it.” Their father turns and looks between his sons, then his eyes settle on Sam. “Especially you,” he points. “You think I don’t hear you?” He then looks at Scott. “You? Don’t even get me started on the shit I hear you watching.” The blond raises an eyebrow, parting his lips to bitch back when James goes on. “Both’a’ya think she and I are disgusting for doing shit like this when really, we not. You just ain’t mature enough to get it through your heads that you two not the only ones that think with their dick.”

Sam looked especially uncomfortable now, doing his damndest to not make eye contact with any of the others in the room. “Then give us a hands-on lesson if you give so much of a shit.” Scott quips, making everyone look at him. Realizing his mistake, he widens his eyes. “Wait! I’m fucking with you, I’m fucking with you, I’m fucking with you!” He rambles, making you snicker, until Sam finally chimed in. “Can we?” He asks. The other three of you turn to look at Sam, his cheeks reddening a deeper shade.

“Fine then,” James says, making his way to the bed. “Lay down sweetpea.” He urges you, gently pushing your shoulder, a silent instruction for you to lay back. “Usin’ you for some edjumacation, just relax dollface.” He smiles, and you make a noise of confusion as he runs his hand over your stomach. “Watch boys,” he instructs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down, your thighs jiggling as your hips plop back down onto the bed.

You can’t help but feel embarrassed, you were being put on display for a less than ideal anatomy lesson, and the two boys you’d called your best friends since you could remember were staring at you like they could just devour you. The room fills with the nervous laughter of the two others as your body unfolds before them, eager to learn the intricacies that make you so unique. Your stomach was revealed first, followed by your thighs. As Scott giggles, you flush, feeling a sudden heat fill your face.

With your underwear the only thing keeping your intimate parts hidden, James gives a shit-eating grin to his audience, who tap their feet and shuffle in anticipation. James then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and gives a swift tug down, revealing your fat, squishy mound and puffy pussy lips, soft and inviting. The sight of your hidden treasure causes the boys’ eyes to widen, taking in every detail of your body.

Your cheeks flame with mortification, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and arousal. The twins sat gazing at your exposed body, their eyes raking it in all its glory. You shudder, goosebumps forming on your skin as you sense their unabashed curiosity and lust. Pleased with his handiwork, James steps back, hands resting on his hips. “Go on, you two always were hands-on learners anyways.”

Scott, on your left, reaches out and touches your breast, his palm cupping the mound, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. You were overwhelmed with humiliation and pleasure, which was only amplified when you felt someone between your thighs. When you lifted your head to look down, you saw Sam on his knees before you, lips inches away from your pussy. “There you go, touch on ‘er.” James encourages the boys before taking a seat on the bed to your right, his large hand coming to rest on your stomach. “You’re such a trooper babygirl.”

You felt heat coursing through your veins, and you were unsure whether to be disgusted by the incestuous display or to just continue going with it. The feeling of being stripped of your dignity and autonomous power left you in a state of confusion, but your stomach coiled with a twisted thrill that came with the degradation. “Eat ‘er out, Sammy.” Scott tells his brother, sitting up straight. He swings one leg over your body and straddles your chest, then pulls his sweatpants down enough to remove his cock comfortably. His musky shaft bounces free before hitting you in the face. “Open your mouth- open it,”

You open your mouth willingly, the tip of Scott’s cock gliding past your lips and into the warm sanctuary of your mouth. Your tongue traces the underside of his shaft, sending tremors through his body. James watches in satisfaction as his sons take turns pleasuring you. Scott’s rough, unskilled hands gripping your head to guide his cock into your mouth contrast with Sam’s gentle, teasing tongue that flicks at your clit. As you begin to get into it, the twins sense it, their eagerness increasing tenfold. The blond bottoms out, balls against your chin as he groans, barely able to hold himself up, his thighs tensing. “Fucking- oh my- oh fuck,” he hisses, fully intent on keeping the two of you that way until James had to guide him back out. “Off.”

When Scott and Sam move out of the way, James settles between your legs and with a firm grip, finds your hips and snatches you to the very edge of the bed, his lips meeting yours for a slow, deep kiss. He groans softly against your lips, cock resting on your mound, the taste of peach beer like honey on his tongue.

James breaks the kiss and looks up at his sons. “Fuckin’ hell, Sam, play with ‘er tits.” The teen nods, hands finding your breasts, kneading the flesh gently. He drinks in the sight of the mounds jiggling beneath his touch, the curves and contours calling to him like a siren. “Scott, get under her.”

Scott doesn't waste a moment, his bottoms getting kicked across the room and hitting the floor, joining all the clutter and shit in his dad's room. He maneuvers underneath you, arms wrapping around your middle. “You good doll?” James asks, and you nod, hands on top of Sam's, guiding him to play with your nipples in a way that'll bring you the most pleasure. “Yeah, ‘m good,”

“Good.”

With the help of James’ hand, Scott's cock pushes into you, pulling an embarrassingly loud moan from your lips. “Oh, fuck!” You arch your back and Scott pulls you back down. “Stay,” he whispers hotly against your ear. “Stay right there.” In the heat of the moment, you didn't even notice that James was beginning to push into you as well until your poor cunt was being stretched to the brim. “James! James- ‘s so- ohhh, can't fit it,” you slur, making the man chuckle. “Yeah you can. Cunts are made for this, it's just a lil’ difficult ‘cause you're so young, babygirl.” After a bit of struggle, James penetrates you, your warm walls enveloping him. A guttural moan escapes him as he starts to grind against you, the friction from his son's cock against his paired with your wet heat almost too much for him to handle. “Atta girl, grippin’ me tight.” He smirks, drinking in the moans and cries that came from your lips.

Sam leans down and captures your lips in a soft kiss, much different from the other two on a mission to ravage your poor body. One of his hands tangles in your hair while the other is shoved down his pants, palming his shaft over his boxers. He was waiting, itching to have a go at you.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy gaze meeting James', whose eyes were sparkling with a devious triumph. “You gonna let us cum inside ya sweetiepie?” He asks, moving his hips in a rhythm that compliments Scott's. Since you were stretched so far and the friction was so great, the two of them had to find something that worked.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” Scott moans, his fingers digging into the flesh of your sides, tugging at you. The desperation in his voice is almost laughable. Sam breaks the kiss with a snicker. “Think it’s been like two minutes, dude. Pull out, let me.” Scott nods and does so, his cock glistening with your juices as he crawls out from underneath you.

With everyone out of the way, the three of them looming over you like a hungry pack of wolves, you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The others join in, the sound of their laughter mixing with the shuffling around. “I can’t even sit right,” you giggle, running your hands through your damp hair.

“I know. It’ll be fine babycakes. Get up.” James grins, turning you over so you were now on your tummy. “Gonna run a train through ya baby. Ready?” He lifts your hips, hands coming to rest on your ass. “Gonna take all of us, yeah?” His sweet talking distracted you from the way the teens were maneuvering your body, putting you in a position they wanted you.

James spits down onto his cock, lubing it up before he pushes the tip of it against your tight cunt. He grunts, feeling the resistance, but he’s determined. With a swift thrust, he breaches you, his cock sinking deeper with each rock of his hips, making your pussy stretch open. The boys, not to be outdone, get to work on their part. Sam guides his cock into your inviting mouth, your tongue swirling around his cockhead while your saliva bathes him. Scott groans, smacking your cheek with his own member, smearing precum onto your skin. “Fuck yeah,” he grins. “Take it like that baby, take Sam’s dick in your mouth.”

“Ghhk- hhg, kkh-” you gag on Sam’s cock, eyes shut as you struggle to breathe. Your body is a mess of pleasure, tits bouncing with every thrust, your pussy gripping James’ cock and your mouth moving up and down Sam’s. Your moans are muffled, but it only makes it all the more arousing. Sam pulls out and his dick is replaced with his brother’s, Scott’s tip hitting the back of your throat. The springs in the old, cheap mattress squeak and creak underneath the combined weight of the four of you.

Scott’s fingers tangle in your hair and grip your skull, being fed off the sounds of you choking and struggling. “Fucking take it, don’t fucking stop,” he growls, teeth gritting. “I wan’ cum on ‘er face,” Sam chimes in, getting off the bed, hand beginning to fist his cock as he waits for the other two. Following suit, James pulls out and so does Scott, the pair pulling you down onto the floor.

You cough, attempting to catch your breath before they get their hands on you again. You steady yourself with your hands on the dingy carpet, getting ready for the facial. “Fuck babygirl, close your eyes and stick that tongue out.” James commands, watching as you oblige. “Oh shit, keep it right there,” Scott pants, and you let out a surprised squeal as your face is covered in sticky sperm. You give an open-mouthed giggle and slowly open your eyes, keeping your tongue out.

It frosted your nose and cheeks and tongue, and your lashes were matted as you looked up at the three of them, meeting their satisfied expressions. Hopefully there would be a second class for James’ anatomy course.

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @addictedtohobi , @102hannah , @emmaloo21 , @vixxensvoid , @ilovekmchenzie ﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @laylaplease , @brooklynb8by , @geekforhorror , @gallerygourmet , @anakinsbbgirl ﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @literally-izzy , @anakinstwinklebunny , @jadegmfu , @bimbo-baggins17 , @thesassypadawan ﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @t03soup , @trippyhippywitch , @valloos , @demieyesore , @piastricentric ﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @s1aywalker , @s1ck-skv1l , @catnipaddictt , @gabsskkk , @slutforfinnickodair﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @realscott , @jediavengers , @enchant5d , @zapernz , @starlmbed﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @offthethirlwall , @tfmerc , @dazednstars141 , @anisluvrgirl , @stepdadjameskelly﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @cocobear18 , @poutypisces , @mugwump327 , @espinathena-17 , @fallout-girl219﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @necromancerrrs , @decaffeinatedunicorn , @speaknow-sw , @lunarnightt﹒📧

ılıl﹕𖥻 . @jyinnc , @haydenslittlegirl ﹒📧

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yawnderu · 1 year ago

Text

Living Dead Man - Zombie!Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader

What is a husband but a man with a rotting body you can barely recognize?

CW: body horror, gore, tongue kiss with a dead man(?), is she wrong? morally, angst with a happy ending.

You examine the man as if he was under a microscope, milky white eyes staring back at you with the same intensity they always did. His balaclava was ripped off halfway, revealing a dislocated jaw, the bits of skin you could see while he was wearing his uniform were now all mangled up and pale, a contrast to the surprisingly soft skin Simon had before.

''Don't bite me.'' You warn and the zombie simply lets out a grunt in response. It has been a week since he turned, and it took hours of convincing the rest of the 141 to let you keep him— with the pretext that you could use him to try and find a cure, and maybe that was true. There was nothing you wanted more than to find a cure and turn your husband back to who he used to be. So far, nothing was working.

''I'm going to draw some blood, okay? It might sting a little bit.'' Your tone is gentle and so are your hands, carefully lifting off his uniform sleeve to reveal his forearm, needle penetrating one of his protruding veins until the blood collection tube was full of his dark, purple blood. You removed the needle, grabbing a cotton ball and taping it with medical adhesive tape. You sigh as you put down the materials, sitting down in front of your former husband... does it count as former if he's not completely dead?

''I miss you a lot...'' You start, speaking to him the same way you have been doing ever since he went nonverbal, unable to speak due to the zombification and broken jaw. Based on the grunts and the way he looks at you, you convinced yourself he can understand and knows who you are.

''I'm trying hard to find a cure. I mean, I like to believe I'm sort of close... but I don't know if it'll do much since the necessary organs are already decomposing. I'm sorry, I feel like I failed you.'' Your voice is strained as your gloved hands hold his, tears rolling down your cheeks as you silently sob, bringing his hands to your face and giving his knuckles soft kisses, the same way you did back when he was alive.

''I don't think I can go on without you, Si... I don't want a life without you.'' Your heart breaks more when you hear a soft grunt, a noise you became familiar with, the same sound he made before, comforting you when he knew you were down. Your head snaps up and you can see a small tear roll down his pale cheek, your eyes open wide as you bask in on the discovering.

''So you are sentient to some degree.'' Fuck Element 115 and fuck the zombie who bit your husband, the bastard is sentient! A scoff of disbelief escapes your lips as you smile up at him. You may not have a cure yet, but at the very least, he's not fully gone. Your hands gently caress his decomposing cheeks, testing the waters as you slowly lean closer.

Closer...

Closer, until your lips are touching his bloodied, decomposing mouth, the broken jaw forcing you to have an awkward angle to make it work. His mouth parts slightly and you take the chance to slip your tongue inside, holding in your breath to not throw up at the smell of his rot. Surprisingly, you feel his cold tongue wrap around yours weakly, his poor attempt to kiss you with the little control he has of his motor skills. You break away for a second to take a deep breath, hands cupping his cheeks while you look deep into his eyes.

''I love you. I wish... things were different. I heard they'll bomb the entire country to get rid of the evidence of the virus.'' A small chuckle escapes your lips as he simply stares at you, tears blurring your sight while you lean your head on his shoulder, tears rolling down your cheeks while you try to stay quiet.

''I don't know what to do, Si... There's really no hope. Even if I found a cure for you, we don't have access to any planes to get out of here, and any neighboring country would kill you if they see you.'' You feel cold hands attempting to hold your waist and you look up just to find he was already looking down at you. Perhaps you're that delusional, but you could swear his milky white eyes softened. You try your best to put on a small smile, even if it doesn't reach your eyes.

''At the very least... we're together. I'll see you in the next life, my love.'' He grunts softly in response and you let out a soft laugh. You ignore the panicked screams ringing through the base, closing your eyes as your forehead rests against Ghost's, one last display of love before the bomb hits, wiping out of everything you ever loved.

''Hey.'' You call out softly to your colleague, holding a skull glove that slipped out of his uniform. He turns to look at you for a few seconds, his expression unreadable even when he remains unmasked.

''Earth to Simon?'' You tease, waving the glove around for a few seconds before he gently takes it from you.

''Thank you... Stray, was it?'' He asks, one of his thin blond eyebrows raising slightly as he looks down at you. You nod your head, offering him a warm smile. You were just introduced by Captain Price, yet it feels like...

''Do I know you? You look familiar.'' A small smile is seen on his lips before he looks away, trying to keep his emotions in check. He thinks about his answer for a few seconds before it all hits you. He's...

''Ghost?'' You ask, tears rimming your eyes as soon as he nods, his arms wrapping around you tightly while he holds a hand on the back of your head, not wanting to let you see the tears escaping his eyes as well.

''Found you, love.'' A second chance at life with him.

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runariya · 4 days ago

Note

🥸🤫☠️

zombie!jjk x human!reader where zombie roaming around abandon island and found human...

(yandere+smut+apocalypse) part of the prompt game pairing: zombie!Jungkook x survivor!female reader genre: apocalypse!AU, zombie!AU, S2"L", yandere, angst, smut warnings: angst, survival on an island, yandere, explicit sexual content, breast play, unprotected sex, squirting,, lmk if I forgot smth word count: 2.328

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’re not sure how you got this far. Not really.

The island’s quiet, apart from the rustling of waves against the rocks and the occasional cry of some bird in the distance. It’s the kind of quiet that grates at your nerves, gets under your skin, makes your thoughts run wild until you’re staring at shadows that aren’t there.

Not that it matters, you think. The only thing worse than shadows that aren’t real is the knowledge that there are real monsters out there, ones that used to look like you, talk like you. Ones that will tear you apart if they catch you slipping.

You sit on the sand, knees pulled up to your chest, and squint at the horizon. Nothing but water as far as the eye can see. There’s no way off this place. No boats, no planes, no rescue missions. You’d counted yourself lucky to have found it at all, back when you still had the energy for such things.

But it’s been weeks now. Maybe months. And luck’s gone sour. The supplies you’d scavenged are almost gone, and every day it feels like the island is shrinking a bit more.

The quiet’s the worst of it, though. It’s loud enough to make you jump at nothing, loud enough to leave you wishing for the kind of noise you’d sworn you’d never want to hear again.

Not this kind of noise, though.

The sound of shuffling and low, wet breathing.

It freezes you where you sit, your heart kicking in your chest like a dying engine. You tell yourself it’s your imagination, that there’s no way, no way anything could’ve followed you here. But the sound grows louder, scuff of footsteps against sand, and you know you’re not alone.

You should move. Run, hide, something. But you’re cemented to the spot, fear pinning you in place like a fucking corpse on a spike, and when you finally manage to turn your head, he’s already there.

The first thing you notice is his eyes.

Dark. Too dark. Not the milky, empty gaze you’ve come to expect from the infected, but different entirely. Like shadows sucking everything in, swallowing whatever light they might’ve had.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and eerily human, except for the faint grey tinge to his skin, the cracks along his arms and neck, like porcelain left out in a storm.

You know exactly what he is, but you can’t stop staring.

He’s handsome. That’s the part that catches even yourself off guard. No rotting flesh, no slack jaw or hollowed-out face. His hair is dark, long enough to curl at their tips, and his bottom lip is full, though they’re pressed into a tight, almost pained line.

His clothes are ripped and stained, clinging to his muscular frame, and you notice the claws at his fingertips, black and sharp.

Then he moves, and you snap back to reality with a jolt.

“Shit,” you hiss, scrambling to your feet and stumbling backwards.

He doesn’t lunge at you. Doesn’t even bare his teeth. He just tilts his head, watching you with those black, round eyes, like he’s studying you.

“What do you want?” you snap, even though you know it’s pointless. He’s not going to answer.

But then he does.

“I found you.” His voice is low, rough even, like it hasn’t been used in a long time.

You take another step back, your hands shaking from the wave of adrenaline drowning you. “Stay away from me.”

He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t as he takes a step closer, like if he’s testing the waters.

“Stay—” Your voice cracks, but you don’t have time to fix it, because suddenly he’s in front of you, faster than you can blink.

His hand shoots out, engulfing your wrist hard enough to make you wince, but thankfully not hard enough to break anything. His skin is cold, but not too cold, not dead. You don’t understand how that’s possible.

“You’re not running,” he states, his head tilting again. There’s something almost curious in his tone, but you’re too scared to pay it any real attention.

“Let go,” you snarl, trying to wrench your arm free, but his grip doesn’t ease up.

His other hand rises now too, clawed fingers brushing against your cheek in a way that makes you want to recoil. But you don’t. You can’t.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Warm.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not,” you bite out.

His lips twitch, and for a moment you think he might smile.

“You’re mine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I found you. You’re mine.”

You laugh, but it’s more out of panic than anything. “That’s not how it works, buddy.”

He leans in closer, and you can feel his breath against your skin. “It is now.”

You want to push him away, to scream or fight or do something, but all you can do is stare into his eyes.

And then he lets go.

You stumble back, clutching your wrist like it might’ve been burned, even though the only thing you feel is the ghost of his touch. He doesn’t move to follow you, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“Don’t run,” is he warning you? Pleasing?

You glare at him, though it feels pointless. “Why shouldn’t I?”

His head tilts again, and there’s that almost-smile, like he knows something you don’t. “Because I’ll catch you.”

You want to tell him he’s full of shit. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that you’ve survived this long because you don’t get caught.

But you don’t.

Because deep down, you know he’s right.

That’s how it starts. That’s how it ends.

He doesn’t leave after that. No, he follows you wherever you go. He’s not always close, sometimes you catch glimpses of him at the fringe of the treeline, watching you like some predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.

You try to ignore him at first. Pretend he’s not there, focus on scavenging what little food you can find and rationing your water. But it’s impossible. You can feel his eyes on you, always watching, always waiting.

It should terrify you. It does terrify you. But it’s not just fear that keeps you up at night. It’s something else.

Something you don’t want to admit to yourself.

You tell yourself it’s just survival instinct, just your brain trying to make sense of the impossible. But it’s not that simple.

He’s too human. That’s the problem.

When you see him up close, when you hear his voice, low and rasping and somehow still fucking captivating, it’s like your mind forgets what he is. Or maybe it just doesn’t care.

He’s still dangerous. You know that. You see it in the way he moves, in the sharpness of his claws, in the flicker of primal instinct in his dark eyes.

But he doesn’t hurt you.

He could, and you know it. You’re not stupid. He could tear you apart in seconds if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He watches. And waits. And when he does speak, his voice is calm, almost gentle.

It’s not normal. Nothing about this is normal.

But normal doesn’t exist anymore.

The world’s gone to shit, and you’re stranded on a fucking island with a zombie who looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

And maybe you’re starting to believe your own thoughts, or is it him?

The first time you let him get close, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you don’t have a choice.

You’re sitting by the fire you’ve managed to build as the nights turned colder, a small thing that barely keeps the cold at bay, when you hear the sound of his footsteps approaching.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You know it’s him, so why would you bother?

He doesn’t say anything as he just lowers himself to the ground a few feet away from you, maybe wanting some warmth too.

“What do you want?”

His unblinking eyes meet yours. “You.”

You divert your gaze to the flames, though your heart betrays you by skipping a beat. “Yeah, well, tough luck. I’m not exactly available.”

He taps his claws against his thigh, and there’s that almost-smile again. “You will be.”

It’s not a threat. It should feel like one, but it doesn’t. Is it a promise? You can’t tell.

And you hate that some part of you doesn’t hate it. You hate that, even though he’s not fully human, you feel drawn to him, crave his proximity, even his touch. You reason it’s because of your isolation, because of the many days and months spent without any sort of affection.

You know that sooner or later your time will come, that this island is your final destination. So why wouldn’t you seize the opportunity to just feel again?

With a heavy sigh, you get up, trying to quieten down your doubts and everything in between as you make your way over to the zombie, his eyes following you curiously.

No longer letting your mind intervene, you get down on your knees right before him, hands shakily landing on his knees, gauging his reaction. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t speak, just watches you like always does. And so, with a deep breath that not only fills your lungs but seems to expand your whole chest, you do what you never expected to do.

Crawling forward, you settle carefully on his lap, unable to look away from the dark voids of his eyes as his hands rest on your waist, squeezing just a little, as if to reassure you this is fine. That this is normal.

You let yourself think it is, that he’s human, that he wants you just as much as you want him. And as you lean forward, your whole body trembling with adrenaline or want, you’re not sure which, his lips part the moment yours find his.

Their warmth and plushness send your mind into a frenzy, letting you give in completely. With one silent moan escaping your lips, he pushes his tongue into your mouth, black claws ripping your already torn clothes to shreds in seconds, letting the tatters fall around you.

You try to do the same, clawing at his clothes to feel his skin on yours, but it’s in vain. Survival has stripped you of your energy, leaving you too weak to even tear the most fragile fabric in two.

The zombie grunts when your cunt grinds hard against his cock, and with that, he rips his own clothes away, lifting you slightly to adjust you just right on his lap. His skin doesn’t look as grey in the warm orange dance of the flames as it does in sunlight, something you’re oddly grateful for.

“Taste so good,” the zombie mumbles as he licks and kisses down your throat, ending his journey at your tits. You both get lost in his ministrations while you’re only able to ride your weeping cunt on his rock-hard cock, fingers weaving through his soft hair.

You should fear his black claws as they squeeze your tits together or scrape lightly against your skin, but you don’t. Not because you’re blind to the danger, but because you feel how careful he is, how utterly tender and mindful he’s being, as if he’s afraid to break you.

That thought alone sends another wave of arousal coursing through you, showing just how desperate you’ve become, desperate for touch, desperate for this zombie to fuck you senseless.

Lifting his head with both hands, his lips unnaturally rosy and swollen, you crash into him again, starved for love, for affection, for anything remotely human that the world has stripped away, not only from you but from him as well.

The zombie lifts you easily with one hand, aligning his leaking fat cock without breaking the kiss. Frantic breaths mingle as he pushes you down, spearing you in a way you never thought possible.

“Yes,” you cry out, full of ecstasy as the stretch burns so sweetly. His moans and grunts, sounds you didn’t know you needed, only fuel your desire.

And while you try your best to ride him, both of you know how weak you’ve become, how fragile you are. His pace is inhuman as he lies back and thrusts upward, but you wouldn’t expect anything less.

The sight of him below you, biceps, pecs, and abs flexing with every pump, the jiggling of your tits in the corner of your vision, it’s enough to push you over the edge. Your orgasm spills over him and onto the sand, leaving you trembling but unable to stop meeting his thrusts halfway.

“Fuck,” the zombie groans, looking more human than ever as his eyes glow in the firelight, reflecting not only the flames but your body too.

You can’t tell how long he fucks you, how long this desperate and delirious paradise lasts, but you don’t mind. You don’t mind him not stopping, don’t mind feeling dehydrated from the multiple orgasms paralysing you until you collapse on top of him.

You don’t mind when he steals your breath with his tongue, don’t mind that he’s imprinting the shape of his cock into your cunt permanently.

Because when he comes, filling you with burning hot cum until you feel like you might burst, you’re at peace. So content, so spent, that you forget who you are and who he is.

The quiet doesn’t bother you as you lie on his chest, his heartbeat the only thing you need to feel less alone.

But eventually, the calm in your mind has to make room for the survival instincts you’ve relied on for so long. It has to, because the next words you hear sound utterly insane.

“You’re finally mine, ___.”

And yes, you’re insane, you’ve lost your mind, because when you startle upright, the zombie is human.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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sytoran · 1 year ago

Text

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟑 — 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

kinktober day 003 | IW!wife!wanda x gn!reader

you've always loved writing stories since young, but the tale of you and your wife writes itself, and it ends with a sweet happy-ever-after.

cont. soft sex, established relationship, romance + fluff

word count. 1477

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

You’ve always had a thing for writing stories.

From the most devastating tragedies of a sapphic couple in medieval times, to the spiciest of female homoerotic tension during a zombie apocalypse, there were no words beyond the coaxing grasp of your vivid intelligence.

Encompassing was what it was, how the words flowed from the edge of your mindwires to the tips of your fingers, spilling onto page after page of literary beauty. You could get lost in it for days on end, spinning that marionette with a poetic dexterity, making her dance to your stories until her legs could take no more.

It was no secret that writing had been an extraordinary talent of yours, that would later take shape in the path of your future career.

So there you were, sitting at your study desk on a lazy Saturday morning, nimble fingers flying over your keyboard in an intricate dance, each pausable breath, each rush of words that woved into the fabric of your story.

It’s quite picturesque, if you’re being frank; what with freshly brewed coffee in a steaming hot mug that read ‘Pride not Prejudice’ (Yes, there was an overload of rainbows decorating its surface,) and a breathtakingly idyllic view of the morning sky.

Of course, the skyline would never quite compare to the sight of your lady stepping out of the bedroom. The only causation to cease your words.

“Y/N?”

It’s a beautiful calling, tainted with a sleep-dragged croak of the throat. Brown doe eyes slowly blink to meet your gaze, soft feet making tentative contact with smooth marble.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you respond softly, eyes savouring the sight that is your wife in one of your cream Oxford shirts. Wanda's beauty is underlying and unsaid, beyond the boundaries of conventional and beyond your dictionaried words.

Certainly, Wanda has the traits of what define beauty: your shirt on her is partially unbuttoned to tease at a tantalizing cleavage, the hem of the clothing is high enough to show off the expanse of her porcelain legs.

But it's also the way the sunlight falls on Wanda's skin, like she's a descendant of the Gods that crafted the essence of light, like she was made to dance and roam in the beauty of the day.

It's the way the morning glow accidentally highlights her Grecian-sculpted cheekbones, and the way her light-brown freckles casually pop in that light. It's her collarbone scattered with your marks of violet hues, and that fading scar on her right thigh you never fail to kiss.

A sleepy sigh escapes from Wanda’s lips, and she runs a hand through her perfectly dishevelled hair. You don’t have to say anything, only nod your head in the slightest. The rest is second nature: Wanda slides herself into your lap, arms hooking around the back of your neck, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

Perhaps it was second nature, truthfully, because Wanda didn’t need control when she was around you. You were her control, her steadfast pillar, her rising sun. You were a constant in her ever-changing world, always by her side regardless of whatever insurmountable task might be in her way.

You let an imperceptible sigh of content slip through your lips, but you never stop typing for a second. Emotion was difficult for you to convey, paradoxically, considering the amount of feeling you could put into words. In actuality, it was hard for you to laugh carelessly or have an outburst of fury. Your emotion was quiet and unspoken, much like in the present moment.

Wanda, however, seemed to have other plans in mind.

It started off innocent, because you truthfully believed she was just being affectionate and physically in need of human warmth. And maybe it was, as your girlfriend eased into your lap, nuzzling adorably into your comforting scent.

But when Wanda’s hips begin moving unsubtly, breath growing more delicate on to the curve of your neck, you’re sure without a doubt that this is another one of those times Wanda sought a different kind of fulfillment, the kind that lay adjacent to her pretty thighs.

Your hands dance a little faster on the keyboard. Your eyes are still gazing over the top of Wanda’s head, firmly determined to complete this part of the novel you were working on.

“Y/N…” Wanda says, reverently softly, pressing up into the warmth of your bodily heat. “Mhm?” you hum absent-mindedly, tucking your forearms in a little closer to entrap Wanda in your embrace.

You replace a comma with a fullstop just as Wanda shifts uncomfortably in your lap. Your wife’s legs fall open and slides her centre around the muscle of your right thigh. Something rises in your chest at the sensation of bare centre meeting your warm skin.

She cranes her pale neck like a swan, pressing her warm mouth against your neck. You shift imperceptibly, switching a three-letter phrase into a subject-verb concord. When Wanda’s tongue pokes out between her ruby lips, when her sharp teeth scrape over the pulse point of your neck, when her curled hair brushes your exposed skin, an uncontrollable shudder runs through your body.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Your spelling is becoming sloppy, almost like there’s a distraction.

Almost in retaliation, you jerk your knee up, the one that had been situated between Wanda’s thighs, and the mewl that leaves her mouth breaks her porcelain-doll composure. Satisfaction pools in your hips.

Words don’t need to be said between the two of you, as a slight shift in the atmosphere of the dining room sets itself. Wanda’s pants become shallower and quicker, the undulation of her hips speeding up, her legs clenching tighter around your thigh.

Your hands are flying over the keyboard now, your fingers twitching with bridled electricity, having need of some alleviation to express your ever-increasing libido. It’s a wonder how your eyes aren’t yet completely glazed over; yet, they’re moving in mechanical function to type, like you’re clinging on to a fragment of sanity.

Because honestly, remaining sane while your wife let out the most pitiful whines into your ear certainly wasn’t an easy task.

“Y/N,” Wanda cries, finally, emitting a sound as she clutches onto the soft fabric of your collared shirt. You can see, in your peripheral vision, the way Wanda’s face morphs into an expression of pleasure, the lines in nose-bridge forming a scrunch.

Wanda is, without a doubt, the most breathtaking woman you’d ever laid your eyes upon. Reverent devotion bleeds from your mindwires and on to the page, staining it a crimson red as she nears her high.

Your right thigh is moving in sync with each of Wanda’s humps, and she’s chasing that pleasure for all it’s worth: The clenching of your thigh muscles, the harsh jerks of your thigh as she struggles to ride it properly.

Leaning down, your lips caress the shell of your wife’s ear, and from your mouth flows the words that are the final seal of acquiescence.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

Just like that, something snaps inside Wanda, and the edge of your brainwaves fray like an old rope. In that moment, you know your words can take a rest.

The movement of your fingers come to a halt. There was an unfinished story before you, the plot unfolding but not quite complete. But with Wanda by your side, she writes your story for you, carves the path towards a bittersweet ending.

She takes the words from the deepest depths of your heart and lets it pour out her mouth, unashamedly, unapologetically, indescribable emotion overflowing from those blossomed lips into her trembling figure, her flushed cheeks.

“Y/N,” Wanda moans, and her sounds raise in pitch when you buck your hips up in a moment of your fractured composure. Her hips grind shamelessly onto the muscle of your thigh, chasing that stimulation.

It’s far from the most intense orgasms you’d brought Wanda to, because she can’t ever reach that level of ecstasy without your prodding fingers or your devil-tongued mouth. Perhaps that’s half of its beauty, though, that the two of you were incomplete without the other.

Wanda curls in your lap as she recovers from her high, enclosed within your forearms and the desk, face buried into your chest to engulf her senses in your scent. There’s sacred solace in the way you tilt your head down to press a fluttering kiss on her neck.

Your word document remains open but unfinished, the coffee in your mug grows cold. Sweet nothings and promised everythings are exchanged between the two of you until the sun has fully risen, hues of amber and gold painting the room.

The only story that mattered was the one before you, the one waiting to be explored.

You’ve had a thing for writing stories since young, and this particular one ends with a happy-ever-after.

this fic is really special to me. i think it's probably some of the best writing i've put out there, so i'd be incredibly grateful if you could give it a reblog ♥

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

#sytoran's kinktober 2023 #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader smut #x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #wanda x reader #wanda x reader smut #gxg smut #wlw smut #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #marvel smut #sub wanda maximoff #top reader #dom reader #bottom wanda maximoff

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thegnomelord · 7 months ago

Note

if you write a thing about the creaming the zussy i will kiss ur boots

The boots better be shining when you're done.

How To Cure Zombies 101

CW:NSFW MDNI, crackfic obv PiV sex, TLOU Clicker trans Ghost, Top Male Reader, established relationship, happy ending, dub-con because Simon consented before he got bit but reader is apprehensive, zombie sex (does it count as necro?) how does this work? idk porn logic. Don't ask me how this happened, i hope this doesn't become what my blog becomes known for.

When the Cordyceps spread across the planet and turned millions of people into shambling mushroom infested undead, the world ended.

When Simon got bitten. . . your world ended.

You still remember it like it had been yesterday; He came back bloody, an empty look in his eyes as he showed you the bite on his arm. Your hands shook as he wrapped them around the grip of the gun and aimed it at his head. You both ended up on the floor with you crying into his chest, unable to pull the trigger.

You remember the resigned look in his eyes when he had agreed to let you do whatever you needed to him to cure him, but both of you knew there was no way, what made you immune to the fungus was as mysterious to the rest of the world as it was for you. His lips had been burning hot when he laid a soft kiss on your forehead, the last sense of warmth you've felt since the docs took him to where they kept the infected for study, your heart leaving with him.

And now?

Now the scientists that have been prodding you like a lab rat since Simon got bitten nearly a year ago say they have a way to bring his mind back, to get Simon back.

And the way to do it?

"So let me get this straight?" You begin, your voice tense, your body even tenser. "You want me to fuck the corpse of my lover? And that will cure him?"

That. You're not sure how the eggheads arrived to this conclusion, frankly all of their scientific jargons had flown over your head. All you understood was that the man you had fallen since the first time you met him could be brought back.

You sincerely hope you won't make some type of super fungus through this.

Words can't describe what you feel as you look at Simon's (is it even Simon?) bound body writhing on the gyno chair, naked and bare to you. You doubt you even know what you feel, hope and fear simultaneously curling in your stomach— You hadn't had the courage to look at him ever since the scientists took him away; The harsh laboratory lights make it easy to see the mycelium filling his veins beneath the ashy pale skin, mushroom caps growing beneath his pecs and across all other scars he has. Red and yellow mushrooms have eaten away his nose and spread out to follow the contours of his face, growing in a way that makes the mushroom caps blend together into a skull shape.

Your heart aches when you see his eyes haven't been eaten away yet, the once deep brown turned milky white and staring lifelessly past you, thrashing about in the bindings, rotten teeth gnawing on the ball gag in his mouth, small hisses and malformed muffled clicks echoing through the room.

You try to look down and you stop at his stomach, forcing yourself to breathe in and out slowly because your heart is beating so fast it feels like you'll have a panic attack. You have no idea if this will work and doing this to Simon only to find out it's as useless as all your previous attempts to cure him. . . you're sure it would break you. Closing your eyes and counting to ten you will yourself to focus, your eyes opening slowly and following the trail of little mushroom caps down to his groin.

It's not what you expected., but it's. . . a lot; Mushroom caps have replaced the lips of his cunt, similar to the hard growths on his head but these look thinner and longer, almost like flower petals framing his cunt, bright red at the corners and getting progressively lighter as it nears his hole. A sort of morbid curiosity compels you to reach out brushing your fingertips against the caps. They're surprisingly softer than you had expected, smooth and slick with some kind of slime. You can't help but notice how a longer stalked mushroom grows from what had been his clit.

You jerk your hand back when a second brush of your fingers makes his body to jerk back and attempt to fight against the restraints, more angry clicks vibrating his throat.

But you also notice a kind of… sweet scent in the air and it's coming from him. Cautiously you brush against the caps again, slowly dipping your fingers under to touch the gills underneath. You keep your hand where it is when he thrashes again, but you're certain that smell is stronger now, and you catch the glimpse of clear viscous slick slowly leak from his hole.

Carefully you push a finger into his hole in an attempt to stretch him out. Logically you know that he probably doesn't feel it, but it feels wrong to just stick your cock in him; He's cold. You know he's dead but you had held out some hope that he would be warmer, that there would be some signs of life despite how stupid that sounds.

He's dry right now, but more of that clear fluid seeps around your fingers and lubes the way as you experimentally push your finger all the way up to the last knuckle, and you felt his muscles flutter around you, clenching down as if trying to draw you in deeper. His head continued to thrash around, no change in the feral behavior, but you still try to be gentle, pushing one then two fingers in and slowly scissoring him open.

You pull your fingers out when his hole has relaxed enough to let you easily slide your fingers in and out, and he's produced enough slick to completely drench your hand. You try to look at him as you press your cock against his fluttering hole, but the sight of his milky eyes almost makes you soft on the spot so you screw your eyes closed and slowly slide in.

Despite how cold and wet his cunt is, you haven't felt anyone's touch, even your own, since he got infected, and a part of you feels disgusted at how a bit of pleasure traces up your spine. He continues to hiss and click as you bottom out, his hips bucking wildly you have to press them down. You set a slower pace than you're used to, keeping your thrusts even and consistent, afraid to tear anything but your fear is seemingly misplaced. He's so much wetter than he'd ever get before he got infected, slick wetly squelching as you bottom out over and over again, clicks and snarls accompanying every move you make.

You're ashamed to say you don't last long. Fuck, is he tight you've been ignoring your body for so long that when you accidentally brush against the stalk growing from his clit and his cunt suddenly tightens up like a vice you cum on the spot, your hips doing little minute twitches as you empty so much of your cum in his cunt that your balls hurt. You pull out just as slowly, both of your mixed fluids leaking out and almost getting caught by the soft mushrooms framing his hole.

You muster up the courage to look him in the eyes, and your heart breaks when his lifeless eyes blindly stare back at you.

You feel like a fool when the first time doesn't work, he's still just a body pupated by a fungus. And you feel like an even bigger fool when you agree to do this a second time.

But the third time. . .

You don't know if it's just wishful thinking but he seems more. . . alert. His head always follows you when you approach him but now his milky eyes almost seem to be looking at your face instead of staring straight through you. He's strangely still on the chair, teeth gnawing on the ball gag but he doesn't try to get out of the restraints.

He doesn't screech when you gently caress the soft outer mushroom caps framing his cunt, instead his chest vibrates with more deep clicks. Nor does he start to wildly writhe on the chair when you slowly sink a finger into his cunt, finding it's already wet with slick. If anything he almost seems to chase(more like stumble) after the sensation, his hips doing small little movements to push your finger deeper into him.

Emboldened by childish hope you do something you hadn't before and reach with your other hand to slowly trace the long stalk of the clitshroom (not a term you coined), before rubbing the base of the cap like you would your own cock.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the gentle pressure of your fingers makes him buck into your hands and let out an ear-piercing screech that the gag has trouble muffling. You pull your hands away and that worsens the problem, the shrieking turning into literal chest rumbling snarls as Simon starts to struggle against the bindings.

Panic rushing down your system you put your hands were they were, gently stroking the 2 inch long mushroom growing from his clit. His hips buck up to chase after your hand, the snarls reverting back into shrieks, but as you stroke him longer they gradually die down to low pitched clicks and whistles. You're stumped; the clicks sound a lot like a cat's puff, his hole fluttering and clenching around your fingers as you slowly push them inside.

He's warmer now, not quite how he was before, but not cold as a corpse either. You know that you've gone completely mad by the fact he starts to gyrate his hips— grinding down just as you get knuckles deep so your fingers can brush against the sensitive spots inside him — makes your mind think that it's a bit of your Simon coming back.

You shake your head and pull your hands away, taking hold of his trembling thighs. You're greeted with another deep snarl but he quiets down immediately when you start to slowly push into him. He feels even tighter now, and you watch how his head falls back on the headrest, a long series of low clicks and whistles squirming past the gag.

His hips move to meet your slow thrusts, tight warm walls squeezing down every time you attempt to pull out just like he used to do. And that thought has your body increasing the pace automatically, your balls slapping against his ass, every sharp thrust hitting something spongy inside him and drawing out a sharp click, the rough pace leaving you panting.

Mindlessly you look up, too caught up in the moment remembering how Simon loved eye contact to remember the situation you're in.

He's looking straight at you.

You halt mid thrust, the low hiss he lets out falling on deaf ears as you tilt your head to the side. You're not insane, his eyes follow you. They're still milky, but they don't look through you. He's looking at you.

Another rough clicking sound leaves him and he thrusts his hips down against yours with enough strength to bruise, almost impatient. Despite how stupid it is you reach out and quickly unbuckle the gag with trembling fingers. "Si?" You say, unable to hide the hope in your voice. "Are you there?" You lean over him, looking hopefully into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

His jaw moves like he's munching on a survivor, but all that leaves his mouth are more clicks and rough grunts.

Fuck. You are a fool.

A sob tears through your chest before you can stop it, ducking your head down to lay it on his chest. You're unable to keep the fresh tears from falling on him, watering the damned mushrooms that had taken him from you. You can't stop the sobs from coming, your back bowed and shoulders shaking as you cry just as much as the day you first lost him.

His chest vibrates with another long series of clicks and whistles, just pouring salt on the gaping would in your chest.

Your name rights through the room.

It's scratchy, rough, almost incomprehensible to your ears, but it's your name.

You look up so quickly you almost snap his neck. "Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. "Are you in there?" You slowly reach out to hold his face, careful not to cut your hands on the sharp mushroom caps along his cheeks.

He looks at you back, jaw moving still, but he doesn't try to bite the flesh of your palms despite your hands being right there. "Ckckck-" He clicks, pupils going from pinpricks to blown out, "Ckckrkck- Mo- ckck-ve." He manages, a thrust of his hips accompanying the order.

Your heart leaps to your throat and you can do nothing but follow it, sliding one hand down to dig your nails into his thigh, looming over him as you pull out until only the head is inside and them slam into him that there's an audible clap of skin on skin as you bottom out. A half shriek half click half "Yes!" escapes him as he throws his head back, slack jawed.

A whole range of noises escapes him as you hammer into him with all you've got, one hand remaining always on his face. You can feel him getting hotter the longer you pound into him, body shaking as each thrust nails his sensitive spot. He gets progressively tighter and tighter as you fuck into him, and you let go of his thigh to carefully strike along the long shaft of the clitshroom.

He shrieks at the top of his lungs and his cunt clenches down on you like a vice, fluttering around you and gripping your cock like it doesn't want you to pull out. It pulls you into an orgasm,

"Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. He's too silent compared to how vocal he had been a few moments ago. "Are you in there?"

His head rolls a bit, peering at you through through his lashes, tongue moving heavily in his mouth and lips twitching up into a soft of barely-there grin. "Cckck- l- ckckc- love- ckrk-you -ckkckrkckck-"

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff

#gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #x reader #male reader #top male reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x male reader #the last of us cod au #the last of us #trans character #idk how this happened #Clicker Simon Ghost Riley

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loserlvrss · 6 months ago

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꒰ 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓 ꒱ 김동현

summary : you and your boyfriend were truly opposites, but the saying has always been that they attract, hasn’t it?

genre : fluff, leehan x afab!reader, college!au, slice of life tws : language, zombies (yeah..), pet names, mentions of not eating (could be linked to a eating disorder but also idrk) author notes : cringe couple alert (that should be me) word count : 1.4k

your hands were covered in clay, grey-brown coating your skin. you could feel the uncomfortable, but familiar feeling of it drying on your wrists, and you were glad you wore something you were okay with getting messy; because today you had done so many pieces, you were covered in muck.

you had just finished a vase, the bottom a thick sphere, tapering off as it furthered to the top. you spread the wire, after picking it up from beside you, and ran it along the stone. you picked it up carefully, grabbing the damp sponge to smooth out any finger prints.

pottery was your hobby, and you were glad you majored in art. you loved doing pieces on the wheel, and you loved sculpting unconventional things. it never felt like homework to do, and you often found yourself forgetting all about time and spending hours in the schools basement; dusty and dirty, haired tied back, back and shoulders sore, and sweats caked over.

that being said, you also often forgot to have meals as collateral to your happiness, spend time with your friends, and do things that people would deem normal. you hated the saying that you weren’t like other girls but truthfully you’d rather be in this dimly lit room than a club, like the people your age were.

but there was also one person who refused to let you starve to death in this poorly decorated room. and truthfully, he hated the flashing lights just as much, if not more than you did.

“y/n,” you looked up, a smile plastering to your features at the sight of your boyfriend who had been doing work on his computer waiting for you to finish for the last however long. “you’re done?” you nodded, moving the piece to the side, preparing to take it over by your others waiting to get glazed and fired. “it’s pretty.”

“i was thinking about painting little fishes on it and putting it inside our apartment after it gets graded, what do you think?”

“only if you eat first.” he stated, making you laugh in response. “going to die in this ugly place one day, y/n. i swear i’m going to find your body, and that wheel’s still going to be spinning.”

you walked over to the sink, opting to listen as you felt your stomach growl at the thought of eating something for, maybe, the second time today.

“my girlfriend would be a zombie, oh my god, an artsy zombie. wait, what does that even mean?”

you tried your best to scrape the clay from under your nails, however you both were used to finding it in weird places—laughing about it like it was an inside joke.

“actually, i think you might be hot like that. imagine all the rotting skin—you’d never have to do skincare ever again because it’d be falling off all the time—messy hair, but i think you’d hate this being your forever ghost outfit.”

you made a grossed-out face at his obvious jokes; however if he had said this to, or around, anyone else, it would’ve seemed genuine due to his monotone nature and straight face.

“you’re so strange, donghyun. if zombies were your type, i could’ve done my makeup differently.” you pinched his cheek with wet fingers. “but i love you anyways… even if you wouldn’t make a hot zombie.”

“what?” he exclaimed. “no way you think this!”

you were taken aback. “i didn’t know you were so serious about us being zombies… we could be a silly-little zombie couple if you want.” you giggled.

he scoffed. “how romantic, y/n. truly,”

“shut up.” you stuck your tongue out at him. “what’d you bring today?”

he took out a glass container; because he refused the plastic ones, saying something about the consumption of microplastics and fish long before you two had even entertained the idea of being in a relationship, to which you replied, save the turtles, and thrusted your fist in the air.

“leftovers from last night.” he stated, uncovering the pizza you two had shared over a couple episodes of game of thrones. you were late to the hype, but you liked the show nonetheless. he had fallen asleep on top of you after your hand had made its way into his shaggy hair, half an episode in, small snores echoing against the drama.

you two woke up on the couch in the morning.

“do you want me to heat yours up?” you questioned, motioning to the microwave that was probably older than either of you. “you know i’d rather have it cold as leftovers… but if you want me t—”

he took a bite, focusing back on his laptop. “don’t worry about it, love.”

you, too, took a bite. “what are you even working on?” you asked curiously, looking over his shoulder.

his face was inches from yours when he turned. “can you chew any louder in my ear?” you scoffed, pushing his head lightly to the side, and mocking an obnoxiously loud chew at him. it was probably the least sexy thing you could do. he laughed. “it’s my research final. twelve pages in. i’m writing about aquaculture and its impacts on the environment—did you know that they’re actually bigger than agriculture? not that either are greatly sustainable.”

you admired how different you two were, but you loved listening to him go on and on (and on) about the ocean and fish, even if you had no idea what anything truly meant. he really did suit being a marine biology major in your eyes. his enthusiasm was your enthusiasm.

you did love his little fishtank though. and despite him denying it, you knew he loved that you named them all.

“my final is much better than yours,” you laughed, watching his eyebrows furrow behind his glasses. “all i have to do is make a couple pots—which we’re gonna use for our herb garden after! our green onions and garlic are getting so big!” you cooed. “i was thinking about using their old pots for our basil and rosemary plants, do you think that they would work?”

he took his last bite, using both hands to type now. “i think that would be fine, love.”

“and we can use our new vase as our table centerpiece? your mom’s going to come over for dinner soon, i think she’d like it—maybe i’ll make her one.”

he knew that once you put your mind to it, there was no stopping you. “i’ll get you some pretty flowers for both of them.” he was just glad that you had eaten something before the idea popped into your head.

you pondered. “what’s her favorite color, baby? do you think i should make her a couple mugs or a vase? or a cutesy little plate collection? or a pot? fuck it, i’ll just do them all, she has a gar—”

“y/n,” he cut your ramble off. “you’ve already made her a cutesy plate collection for christmas, and a mug for mother’s day, and a couple pots last semester.”

you pouted. “but those plates are deco—”

“make her the vase, love. her favorite color is purple.” he smiled sweetly. “i’ll help you paint it after you’re done turning it. we can give it to her as a slightly-early birthday present when she comes over, yeah?”

“we’ll get her calla lilly’s, right?” you pleaded.

his hand rested against your cheek, taking a break from the keyboard. “yes, and you can tell me all about the meaning while we stand in line.”

you grabbed his wrist. “great… now c’mon!” he eyed you as you pulled him up with you. “you made me watch that fish documentary with you the other day, so i’m going to show you how to make this vase now.”

“baby, i have three pages left,” he tried to compromise, but you blocked it out. “i’ll just help you paint it.”

“no,” you whined, which he found more adorable than annoying. “she’d love it so much more if you helped me spin it, don’t you think?”

he knew that there was no use arguing with you—after all if this whole art-thing didn’t work out, law had always been your alternative.

“fine,” he gave in, sitting down on the stool as you happily skipped over to grab him an apron and collect an adamant amount of clay. “but if i find clay inside my keyboard after this, you’re in for it.”

“terrified. so scared. i’m shaking in my boots, donghyun.” you shuddered playfully. “i guess you’ll actually get what you want if that happens—a zombie girlfriend—luckily for you, though, this zombie girlfriend of yours has a toothpick and a lot of love for her living boyfriend.”

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

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daytaker · 9 months ago

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azsazz · 24 days ago

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Dead by Dawn (Part 17)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death,

Word Count: 3058

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16)

Notes: heyyyy what do you know, i found it in me to get this part out. im proud.

_________________________________________

Day 195 Part 3

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You never been one to throw caution to the wind, but with what sits before you, the urge is strong.

Animals were one of the first things to go when disease swept across the world, which is why it’s so difficult not to pick up the juicy chicken breast that’s steaming on the plate in front of you, and completely ravage it.

Your mouth waters at the sight. There are greens, too. A blend of spinach and vegetables cooked to perfection in animal fat. It’s the first real meal you’ve seen in…fuck you don’t even know how long it’s been since you’ve seen real meat like this, nor food that wasn’t expired and from a can.

The only thing keeping your restraint in place is your companions' determination. The sprinkle of common sense that hasn’t fizzled into a ravenous beast at the scent of your meal is easy to overlook, but Azriel’s menacing presence beside you isn’t. His back is ramrod straight in his own seat, and the food doesn’t seem to be affecting him in the slightest. He’s undeterred by their taunts. Instead, his woody eyes drink in your surroundings for the umpteenth time, as if there might be a hint as to what’s really going on here.

On your other side, you’re flanked by Cassian, who does look like he’s struggling to keep himself from sinking his teeth into the juicy thigh on his plate, however little it might be. It’s more than he’s had to eat in days, months, and he wants it so fucking badly.

In fact, no one’s touching their food, which is a red flag of itself, but your head is swimming at the smells, your stomach a mess of knots that loosen at the idea of food, and tighten at the thought of where your best friend could be.

You’re also a little afraid, if you’re being honest, of getting sick should you eat something this…real after having gone so long without.

Nesta watches you from across the table with a piercing stare. There’s a malice you’ve become accustomed to being fed in the little time you’ve known her. You understand that she’s worried for her sister, out there with little protection, but you’re worried too. You feel as if Feyre is your sister as well. You’ve been winning your own little war against the undead for too long to remember.

At her side is who you can only decern to be her lover, Eris. You ponder their relationship, what you saw in the woods. Perhaps they’re nothing more than companions, but with the way the auburn-haired man keeps stealing glances at her, worry etched in his brow, you know there must be more.

The chair beside Eris is filled with a near clone of him. They have twin eyes and looks of caution on their fox-shaped faces. The unnamed man wears his hair long down his back, a single braid hangs down the side of his face. It’s not a nice one, practiced, but messy, like whoever put it there was distracted more often than not during styling. The only differentiator is the color of their skin, because even the shape of their eyes and their stature is eerily similar. It’s clear that they are nothing like their scumbag of a father, and the thought of Beron alone makes you shiver in your seat.

There’s an empty seat beside him, and you can’t help the stab of guilt you feel at the sight of it. You don’t know if they’ve lost someone important to their little unit they have going on here, or if there’s a reason for the unoccupied seat.

Cassian’s stomach growls loudly, breaking the terse silence.

“Everything is safe to eat, I can assure you,” Eris mentions after clearing his throat. Nesta shoots him a look that could make even a zombie cower, but he must be used to it because he takes the betraying look with grace, gently settling a palm onto her lap.

Nesta doesn’t shove it away like you expect her to. Instead, her lips go razor thin. The pair stare at each other so intensely that you feel like you’re intruding on something monumental.

Eventually, Nesta breaks. With a sharp inhalation, she turns her gaze to you. She doesn’t look happy, but at least she doesn’t look like she wants to reach across the table and maul you for losing her sister.

“Eat,” she all but demands. She cringes, grits her teeth, and adds like the words are truly poison in her mouth, “Please.”

“You’ll excuse us if we don’t trust you,” Azriel replies curtly. Your eyes soften as they land on him, even if his gaze is trained on your hosts. Weeks ago, he’d been wary of you, and now he’s here protecting you from the outsiders that are holding you captive.

You’ve never been so thankful for him, and you remind yourself to thank him for it later.

“Don’t eat, then.” Nesta shrugs as if his words don’t bother her in the slightest. Your whereabouts of Feyre seem to have caught her off guard because right now she is the perfect poise of excellence. Her nature could give any queen a run for their crown.

She’s the first one to dig into her meal. She uses the cutlery as if they’re weapons, tearing into the meat with a force that has you praying to any higher being that Feyre and Rhys are on their way to you, because you do not want to be on the other end of Nesta’s knife.

Your eyes flicker back down to your plate, to the shiny silverware placed on either side of your plate. Hell, you’re not even sure you remember how to use them anymore, with how long you’ve had to make do on the road.

“Please, eat,” Eris counters with a stern look that doesn’t affect Nesta in the slightest. Eris motions to his brother and they both pick up their forks, as if trying to show you everything is okay.

“I don’t trust the animals, either,” Azriel responds.

“How about the vegetables, then?” Eris offers, and you think you catch a glint of pleading in his amber eyes. You think he’s trying to keep things civil and calm for Nesta’s sake. You’re sure she’s worried to pieces about her littlest sister out there when the sun is so close to hiding away for another night of hell. “The animals are perfectly healthy, though I assure you the food will not go to waste if you don’t eat it.”

“How are they safe?” Cassian questions, grimacing down at the meat. You know that he out of everyone in your little group needs it the most. You’ve seen his protruding ribs only yesterday, and with him being the biggest in your group, he needs the nutrients more than anyone.

A sudden urge of protectiveness washes over you. You want him safe and healthy, want both him and Azriel safe and happy, and you wish more than anything that you could give it to them.

Only time will tell.

Eris gives a very diplomatic response. “My family has owned this land for generations,” he starts, and you don’t like to think of how he is Beron’s son. It makes all of the desperation to eat, subside. “We have been raising and breeding our own meat and dairy for just as long. They have never showed signs of disease, but perhaps it’s because they live a life unknowing of what goes on in this world.” You’re not following, but Eris continues before your confusion causes you to blurt out questions.

“My brother—Lucien,” he nods toward his brother beside him. “Takes care of them. When our father first heard the mumblings of a pandemic so devastating, the world as we knew it would never be the same, he built a bunker of sorts, where we continue to monitor and raise our animals to this day.”

“That was about the only smart thing he ever did,” Lucien mumbles, looking green at the mention of his father.

You get the feeling.

Azriel says, “Yeah, we’ve had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting the bastard.”

Lucien’s utensils fall to the table with a clang that startles you in your seat. He looks sick to his stomach, his ying-yang eyes drawn down to his plate in shame. His shoulders are stiff and he’s gone so still you think he might be comatose, turning into a zombie right in front of your very eyes.

“You’ve met him?” Lucien asks, and he sounds like a little boy, reliving a trauma so ghastly that it’s altered his brain chemistry.

“Met him, killed him,” Azriel shrugs as if it was no big feat. Your stomach roils at the memory and you must look paler than normal because Cassian’s placing a. warm hand over yours in comfort. Azriel’s brashness isn’t new to you, but the reminder is too fresh. You try to focus on your hand in Cassian’s, offering him a weak smile.

The tension in the air seems to disperse with Azriel’s words. You’re pretty sure you see Lucien’s shoulders physically drop in relief, like he feels the same way you do about his father. Eris sits in his seat, stunned, but he doesn’t look upset about the news, he looks more disappointed, like he missed out on being the one to kill the crazy cannibal.

“Well, I think this calls for the good wine,” Nesta says, and you swear you see the corners of her mouth threaten to tug into a satisfied smirk.

She glances at you from across the table, and you pick up your fork.

You hope that this is the first of many things that you will agree with her on.

There is little conversation while you eat. Azriel’s brows are drawn in tight, and his mouth is set in a hard line. He keeps glancing over at you with a scolding heat in his eyes, but there’s a sliver of worry that makes you ache, like he thinks you might keel over from the chicken.

If you do, you’re not even sure you’ll be mad. It’s good fucking chicken.

You try to savor it, to eat slowly so that your body doesn’t reject the first real meal you’ve had in forever, but you can hardly control yourself. You feel like a rabid animal, hungry enough to gnaw your own arm off. You wonder if this is what the zombies outside feel like, an insatiable hunger, or if they’re so mindless they don’t feel anything at all.

You reckon you have only minutes before the food makes its reappearance, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you slide your silverware onto your empty plate, trying to deter yourself from leaning forward and licking it clean.

Cassian has no such reservations.

“How long has it been since you’ve tried to contact my sister?” Nesta asks when the three of you have finished. Even Azriel couldn’t help but clear his plate, though he did take the longest of the three of you, more than mindful of your captors.

It makes your heart swell that he has kept an eye out for you and Cassian.

Azriel and Cassian share a look over your head, debating how much to indulge. But this is Feyre’s sister, and they want to find her and Rhys just as much, so they relent.

“We tried getting through to them this afternoon, before we ran into you,” Cassian explains. “They were too far out of range.”

“Call them again,” she demands, and Eris opens his mouth to protest but Nesta is clearly done with niceties. “No,” she snaps at the man beside her. “We have given them a place to stay and a warm meal. It’s time for them to do something in return.”

You don’t mention how you didn’t have a choice but to be here, and that they wouldn’t have had to give up their food if you were still wandering out in the woods, but your stomach is too full to argue that point.

Cassian tugs the walkie-talkie from his pocket and switches it on. The static is loud, and you all wait in anticipation until the signal calms a bit before he clicks the button on the side and makes the call. “Rhys? Feyre? Are you out there?”

It’s like waiting for a cure as the six of you listen to the channel. Nothing comes through, and Cassian calls again, to no avail.

“We’ll keep trying,” he says, a determined look in his eye. You’re pretty sure that’s the only thing keeping Nesta in her seat, because she looks like she will reach across the table and stab you with her knife.

Movement in the corner of your eye makes you flinch. Cassian’s arm reaches out to block you and Azriel’s already halfway out of his seat, ready to tear you away from the threat that stumbles into the doorway.

The threat comes in the form of what must be Feyre’s other sister, Elain. She looks ghastly, skin as white as sheet, and as well-fed as Eris’ claims them to be, she’s all skin and bones. Her brown eyes are dull and sunken, purple-rimmed as if she hasn’t had a peaceful night of sleep in years. Her blonde-brown hair sits limp on her head, knotted at the back, as if she’s been drained of all of the health in her life.

She looks like a zombie.

Nesta jumps from her chair at the same time Lucien does, the both of them rushing for Elain. Lucien gets to her first, catching her just as her knees give out and scooping her into his arms. Her head lolls against his chest as if the effort to keep it upright is a burden too much, but her dazed gaze sharpens when it lands on you.

You’re frozen in your seat. You have no words for what you’re seeing, the sickly girl who looks closer to death than a zombie. Your heart pounds a thousand miles a minute in your chest, and your fingers are white-knuckled with confusion and fear where they’re wrapped around Cassian’s forearm.

Elain’s brown eyes widen in a way that looks unnatural for her once beautiful face. Her cracked lips form husky words that are so ominous it has the hair on your body standing on end.

“Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black. One has an injured wing.”

Lucien hushes her softly, murmuring to her as he removes her from the room. “Shh, Elain. Let’s get you back to bed, petal. You shouldn’t be expending so much energy until you’re feeling better.”

Guilt stabs you a thousand times over as he takes her away. It doesn’t take long for you to connect the dots with what you’ve seen. How sickly she looks, the faraway look and ramblings that don’t make sense.

“When did it happen?” You blurt, eyes darting from a stoney-faced Nesta to a grimacing Eris to the door Lucien and Elain disappeared through. You don’t like the feeling that overcomes you, the one that wants you to get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.

Something isn’t right here.

“It’s late,” Nesta states, looking between the three of you like she’s deciding how she’s going to kill each of you. You suppose she might, if she feels any sort of threat to her sister. For now, she needs you alive, if only to help find her other sister. She won’t dump any of you out yet, unless you can’t prove your worth.

Not unless Feyre is dead.

Azriel tucks you carefully behind him, more than aware of the threat before you. You can tell that he’s just as confused as you are. There’s a tightness to his shoulders that you don’t like, an edge to the strain of his body that screams danger.

His mouth opens to speak, but he’s cut off by the sudden voice that comes over the walkie-talkie.

“Cassian? Azriel? Do you copy?” Rhys’ panicked voice sounds through the machine. More than one emotion threatens to consume you, relief and worry. The full meal in your belly swarms like crashing waves, and you might just throw up after all.

Cassian, Azriel, and Nesta all lunge for the radio. Eris gets his hand around Nesta’s bicep and pulls her away, much to her reluctance. She claws against him but he’s only keeping her away from the three of you, still very much a threat.

Not that you’d be of any assistance should either party try to attack. You’ve collapsed in the closest chair.

“Rhys?” Cassian calls back, just as frantic. His terrified hazel eyes are locked with Azriel’s, and it’s all the black-haired boy can do to console Cassian with a reassuring hand to his shoulder. “Can you hear me? Where the fuck are you?”

It wouldn’t mean much to Nesta, who’s given up her struggling to listen into what’s happening, but to Cassian, you know the touch means everything.

Anticipation skyrockets throughout the room, bringing the temperature up to boiling as you await his response. Each second feels like an eternity, and you’re sure the vein throbbing on Nesta’s forehead is about to explode when Rhysand finally responds.

It sounds like he’s running. You pray that’s not a groan of the undead you hear in the background. “Fuck,” he curses in such a hopeless way that makes your heart drop to the floor. Whatever he’s about to say, it’s not going to be good. “I need you to come find us. I don’t know where the fuck we are, but we need help.”

Azriel rips the walkie-talkie from Cassian’s hand, ready to take the lead. He pockets one of the knives at the table and you can’t even muster the energy to joke about how a butterknife won’t be the best weapon against a horde of zombies because you’re more than ready to follow him into the fray, sans weapons, if all to save your friends.

“Where are you, Rhys? I need landmarks.”

“Az,” Rhys breathes, but he doesn’t sound relieved. In fact, he sounds spent, and there’s no sign of Feyre on the other line. “We need help. Badly. Feyre’s been bitten.”

And hey, your dinner does make its reappearance after all.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

DBD Taglist: @writingsbychlo @kemillyfreitas @5moremin @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @waggel36 @bionic-donut @queserasera @applepie02 @azrielsbabyg @arcadianmoonlight @pradaxstyles @illyrian-dreamerdreamer @reiincarnatiion @fuckthatfeeling @shadowsingersmate24 @poppyalice2001 @fallmyriad @sstrohma @tcris2020 @jeannineee @21stcenturytaegi @ochiolism @secretly-here @harrystylesfan2686 @i-am-infinite @lees-chaotic-brain @eternallyelvish @lilah-asteria @randombibitch @st4r-girl-official @nanisearchinginnerpeace (i hope you see this idk if this tag worked 😭)

IDK if any of these tags are going to work but someone plz lmk 💙

#dead by dawn #acotar #azsazz #azriel x cassian x reader #poly!batboys #poly!batboys x reader #acotar zombie au #zombie au #acowar #acomaf

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unconventional-lawnchair · 3 months ago

Text

A Second Chance pt.1 {Blurb}

Poly!Marauders+Lily x Fem!Reader - Zombie Apocalypse Au

New Perspective Noah Kahan

Masterlist

Summary: You find a group of survivors who could really use your help}

Cw; Guns, death, animal death, hunting, cussing, minor character death, insinuations of abuse (reader is worried about Lily alone with the boys), Zombie apocalypse typical violence, reader is crushing on Lily, infants)

Wc- 2091

In the heart of the wilderness, there was a serene and tranquil grove. Tall, majestic trees stood like sentinels; their branches reached towards the sky. Dappled sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting a gentle glow on the moss-covered ground below. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the refreshing scent of earth and pine, it was getting later.

There was suddenly a sharp and ear-piercing shot that rang out. You lifted your head from the scope of the ancient rifle, looking across the beautiful thicket, and eyes falling on the limp body of your prize.

You had been at it for hours, avoiding the doe’s, knowing they had young hidden deep within the grass, much like yourself now. You stood up, lifting the bandana over your nose and hurried down the hill you were perched on. Pulling out your carvers knife as you got to work on the old buck at your feet.

“I'm telling you, it was a gunshot.” You heard whispers from behind you, the sound of fresh grass making way to footsteps. Two of them.

You quickly packed your plastic lined pouch and turned around, training your gun on the approaching forms behind you.

“Fuck-”

“What did I tell you!?”

There were two men. Great. Men. This close to your hideout? You needed to make your next move count. You could let them go, and risk them coming back to find you. You could shoot them both now and waste your very limited ammo. You could escort them out of the area but that would waste a day of travel. She couldn't wait. Your eyes scanned over their figures. The first one you saw had long black hair, a thin frame, tattooed pale skin and seemed to be the more pissed of the two. Seemed to be the one who heard the gunshot too. The other one was definitely taller, he had thick brown hair and startling hazel eyes. He seemed to be more of a threat out of the two, with his broader build and definitely gave the impression he was in charge.

You turned your gun to aim it at the taller one. His breath hitched and they both stared at you in panicked fear. “Wait wait wait.” He quickly pleaded, hands up and taking a small step back.

“Don't move or I'm pulling the trigger.” You threatened and he winced.

The black haired boy moved to step in front of him, but you cocking your gun seemed to knock some sense into him.

“Please, please don't shoot.” He pleaded. “I have a son, he's only a few weeks old. We have two other men in the group who are bedridden and injured. My wife is still recovering. We can't risk it.”

His pleading made your heart stop. It was so familiar it made your body ache.

~~~

“Please, please don't shoot.” He pleaded with the men in front of him. The camp was ransacked and some of the tents were set ablaze.

You and Regulus had made your way out of the camp late at night. You were going out patrolling, unable to sleep, and as usual, Regulus didn't want you going alone.

On your way out Barty joined you. So of course, Evan wanted to tag along as well. You attempted to convince them that one able bodied person should stay behind. Mr. and Mrs. Granger had just brought a beautiful baby girl into the world, so Mr. Granger was hardly focused on watching the camp.

A few others were there to watch over as well, but it was a big camp, and they needed all the help they could get. Evan teased you for your worry, no one had even passed your location in days. He still, however, promised to stay close to camp with Barty to patrol. Leaving you and Regulus to walk along the outermost parts of the camp.

Regulus eventually headed back, you stayed out. You loved the idea that people were still growing their lives even in such a desperate situation. But God, that baby did not know how to shut up. She was precious, from a distance.

You regretted that night.

You regretted so much of it.

When you made your way back the smell of burning flesh hit your nose first. You had to hold back the bile in your throat. You had come to be familiar with the stench of rot, but not when it was set ablaze.

You ran to camp and heard the commotion. You were gone for no more than ten minutes, and the sight of the dead bodies of your friends around you would be permanently etched into your mind.

You couldn't focus on anything through the chaos, until you heard Mr.Granger pleading. He had his hands up, standing outside one of the only standing tents left. You snuck around, taking in the situation from outside of your clearly useless walls. He was cornered, four men around him while one of them held the arm of Mrs. Granger like a vice, taunting her husband.

You made eye contact with Mrs. Granger and hers widened. You slowly reached for your gun and her expression shifted to pure desperation. She kept glancing at the tent and your heart fell. Hermione was still in there.

You took a deep breath and cursed. Hurrying to sneak behind the tent and cut into it from the back. You gathered what you could, what little you were able to scavenge from towns for Hermione as well. You heard two gunshots, but you didn't want to think about it. Quickly covering Hermione’s mouth with your hoodie to keep her cries muffled.

You didn't look back, running as far away from the camp as possible. You came back the next morning and eventually managed to find your own supplies and one of the several cars they seemed to have left behind. Worrying they may come back for it, you packed up what you could and left in the dinghy vehicle.

That was only a month ago.

~~~

You couldn't do it. You couldn't pull the trigger. You slowly sighed and lowered your gun, much to the startled surprise of both boys. There was a loaded silence between you three before you bit your lip. Looking down at your bag you gestured to the venison on the ground. “You can have what’s left. I can only carry so much.”

“W-what?” The black haired boy muttered out and the brunette seemed to lighten up at your offer. Eyebrows raised and mouth slack.

“On one condition. I want to know where your camp is. And.. I want to meet the mother.” You gestured to the deer again, as if to entice them, and the brunette narrowed his eyes in confusion but the other seemed to catch on. Giving a firm nod and walking over to the buck. You flinched heavily to the side so as to not be too close to him.

“What's your name?” The taller boy asked and you snapped your attention to him. You creased your brow in suspicion but, what could they really do with just your name?

“{Y/N}.”

“{Y/N}? Nice to meet you. My name is James.” He introduced and offered his hand, You simply stared at him and he cleared his throat and tried to play off the obvious rejection. “A-and this is Sirius!”

Said boy, Sirius, finally managed to get the deer over his shoulder before gesturing in front of him for you. “I’d rather stay behind you.” You huffed and he gave a brief nod. Turning with a hmph as he steadied the kill on his shoulder.

~~~

You quickly learned, in your brief walk, just how much James seemed to like talking. You were starting to genuinely believe that he wasn't a threat, but more wondering how on god's green earth he survived this long with a trap like that.

Sirius, on the other hand, was quiet for the most part. He would ask you questions to gauge how comfortable you were and how much you were willing to share with them. Mostly nothing.

When you passed by a certain stick standing in the ground, James gestured ahead. You peaked past him and saw the camp.

It was decent, but exposed. A large tent you assumed housed all of them, with a table and a campfire, the set up even allowed for the most sight around them. It was certainly temporary. The thought comforted you, but the idea they were traveling with an infant made you nervous.

“This is all?” You asked in a not intentionally condescending tone.

Sirius brushed past you and walked into the center of the clearing, dropping the load and standing up with a stretch. The tent door opened and you fixed your grip on the rifle, James grabbing the barrel and lowering it, earning a glare from you. Out limped a rather tall boy. Tanned skin, scar ridden, messy sandy blonde hair, and a clearly mangled leg. You took a deep breath.

Okay, they housed the injured and kept them around. The leader of the group was rather charming but that could go both ways. You needed to see the girl.

As if he could read your thoughts, Sirius spoke up and drew Remus’s startled expression from you. “Remus, can you get Lily?”

“She's reading to Harry.” Who you assumed to be Remus muttered and glanced back at you. Sirius shook his head. “Just a moment.”

Remus eyed you for a second before he peaked back into the tent and muttered something. Eventually, a tall red head stepped out of the beige shelter and she looked at Sirius, clearly annoyed. “What? I just got Harry down.”

“We have a visiter. Wants to make sure you aren't being held here against your will.” Sirius cheeked and you gave a glare his way, he simply winked back. Much more playful in his own domain.

“What?” Lily muttered and looked up at you. Your eyes locked for a moment and her jaw rolled as she sized you up. You suddenly felt extremely self conscious. Then, the most dazzling smile appeared on her face. “You wanted to check on me? How old are you sweetness?”

Her tone gave you such a rush of comfort you didn't even think before you spoke. “N-nineteen,” You whispered and she placed a hand over her chest and cooed at you. “You're just a baby. Are you alone?”

“No, not… not really.”

Merlin, her voice was like a siren song. Your shoulders went limp and the gun lowered. James gave a knowing smirk and Sirius looked offended at your compliance with Lily’s questioning. How does she do that?

“Shouldn't you be heading back? Someone must be looking for you.” She fretted and you tried to steady your breath. Remus looked between you two and slowly settled against the base of a tree with a wince.

“N-not yet, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” You mumbled before you looked at James. He was smirking at you. He was smirking at you like your friend would in elementary before declaring he knew who your crush was.

You snapped out of your trance and quickly took a few steps back. “Actually-”

Your remark was interrupted by a loud bout of thunder. You looked to the sky with the rest of the group and you heard a loud cry from inside the tent. You felt your stomach drop. You could care less about the boys, but you couldn't leave a week old child in the middle of a thunderstorm.

You watched as the tend opened again and a sickly, pale boy stepped out. He was taller than you with a bit of a belly, he seemed friendly to a fault, a small smile growing on his sleepy face. Lily walked over to him and picked up Harry with a thank you to Peter.

“We need to get to some serious shelter soon.” James huffed and you looked around at the worry on everyone’s faces. You finally let your morals win over your common sense.

“I have a place.” You mumbled and Lily looked at you, startled.

“Honey, you really shouldn’t offer up-”

“I know, I know. Just..” You looked at Harry and Lily slowly smiled. She looked at the rest of the group and nodded. Peter seemed startled as he just noticed your presence, James seemed surprised just like Sirius. Remus seemed in distress, rubbing his leg as the storm grew closer.

“We would love your help.”

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latenightdaydreams · 4 months ago

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I love what you did with my ask for i win pt 2! (I used this🫶)

It was kinda sad.... and now I hope to see könig pay for it (emotionally) like the reader attempts to kill herself? Or she stops reacting to anything he does

Don't feel pressured, dear!

Love your works once more! ♡

🫶love u and your works! It keeps my deranged soul satisfied 😌 ♥️

Get some rest, love

Thank you!! Love you too and thank you for all of your support 🩷

I Win Part 3 (fem)

Part 1, Part 2

MDNI🔞

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, p in v, oral, dissociation, control, suicidal ideation

1.0k word count

🥇

König holds you down to the bed with his hands wrapped tightly around your neck. Each one of your legs drapes over his as he rolls his hips into you. The harsh sound of his hips hitting yours echoes in the room alongside his animalistic grunts. This is the second time this morning that König fucks you, and this time, like the last, you remain empty. His pale blue eyes boring into yours, trying to look for something.

As he lets go of your neck, he watches you closely as you take a gasp of air. His hand comes down heavy across your face. The sting radiates through your jaw, but you don’t react. There is still a dull, empty look in your eyes. This infuriates König.

With one hand, he pushes your face to the side, mushing it into the pillows and leaning his weight on you. His cock slams into you, feeling your sore pussy clench around his throbbing cock. As he fucks you, he yells profanities at you, trying his hardest to get you to break down.

König pulls out and climbs over you, resting his heavy body on your chest as he strokes his cock. The potent smell of his musk consumes your nostrils as he places his full, sweaty balls on your lips. You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to like the rough textured skin; lightly taking one into your mouth and sucking. His breathing grows louder with soft moans leaving his lips.

His cock pulses as he ejaculates, his cum falling on to your head and hair. You continue to lick back and forth until he moves back. He slaps his heavy cock on your face, a dangling drip of cum landing on your mouth. You’re disgusted by his cum, but suppress how you feel.

König stands to clean himself up. His eyes look over your sweaty body before settling on your face. His sharp eyes study you as he furrows his brow. This is becoming too much for even him. He misses your reaction, your conversations. Even the few times he’d make you laugh, he misses. Now you’re a zombie.

“Why are you just…laying there?” He places his hands on his hips and shifts his weight to his right foot.

Your eyes slowly shift from the ceiling to him. There is nothing said, you just stare past him. He hates the deep burning in his stomach that you aren’t acting like a person anymore. To think he went too far worries him, but he won’t show it. You’re military, yet you can’t take a beating?

König grabs and towel and crawls back on the bed with you. He gently wipes the sticky white cum from your face and hair, not saying anything as he does. After a while of cleaning you up, he drapes his massive body over yours. One of his hands caresses the valley between your breasts as they pool on your chest.

“Do you not like me anymore, Liebling?” His voice comes out in almost a whisper.

He cups your breast in his palm and mindlessly twirls your nipple between his fingers. This makes him feel pathetic, but he genuinely can’t continue on with you like this. While it would be easier to just discard you, he can’t find it in him to do it. He’s gotten use to you being around; even if you did try to kill him.

“Are you still mad at me?” König sits up slightly, propping himself up in his elbow. Still, you say nothing. In an attempt to change his approach with you he slowly kisses over the soft flesh of your breasts. Slowly flicking his tongue back and forth on your erect nipples, lightly sucking on them. “Bitte sprich mit mir, meine Liebe.”

Over the next few days, he decided to step up and treat you better, wondering if that would help you relax. He isn’t a complete monster; he does have a heart. You’ve been allowed long showers and to wear clothing during the day. He buys your favorite snack after work for you, even allows you to freely roam the room again. All of these liberties yet you still sit there like a fucking corpse.

After one week, König snaps. The door slams open as he barges into the room, he’s back earlier than you expected him to be. You’re sitting at the desk, writing. His eyes fall to the paper and then back up to you. For a big man, he moves quickly. He makes it to your side and in a split-second rip the note pad out of your hand. A suicide note. For your team, not König.

In a fit of petty rage, he grabs you by a fistful of hair and drags you out of the chair. He slams your body on the bed and leans his body over yours. König turns your head so you’re force to look him in the eyes. “You are not going to hurt yourself. You’re mine and I like my things in good condition.”

You feel your heart pounding in your chest. The last time he got mad at your it resulted in a full 72 hour long beating. Finally, he sees something, he sees fear. He pulls your head back more to where it’s uncomfortable for you.

“Why would you want to leave me all alone?” His words send a dark chill down your body. “It’s almost like you don’t appreciate everything I do for you. Any other man would have just tossed you aside like trash; yet here I am treating you like a princess and you’re still not happy.” He growls out as he looks deeply into your frightened eyes.

“I’m sorry.” You whimper, attempting to defuse the situation.

“Oh, Liebling.” Your meek voice causes a small smile to crawl on his thin lips. “Don’t be sorry.”

König’s cock grows stiff as he hears your voice. With gentle movements he grinds himself into you. He lets go of your hair and directs his attention to your body instead. He bites into your neck, pulling a soft groan from you. Exactly what he wants. Unable to control himself he rips your shirt open and caresses your soft back.

“How could you want to destroy such a perfect little doll?” König drags his fingers down your skin. “I love you, Liebling. You’re mine. You’re never leaving me.”

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luveline · 3 months ago

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i hope you’re feeling better jade!!🫶🫶

i’d love to request zombie!au steve of when he starts to realize he has feelings for reader if you haven’t already done smth like that

zombie au —Steve has some deep thoughts about you. 1.3k

“How are you feeling?”

Steve bats a branch out of his face. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” You hold the next branch out of his way. “Sorry, guess I’ve asked you that too many times today.”

Four times, by his count. Steve takes a deep breath, the warm summer air filling his nose, the smell of earth and tree bark an assault for the senses. He has the heavy backpack strapped tight against his chest, the buckle rubbing his skin raw. His thin t-shirt offers no protection. Your coats have been packed away in the second backpack hanging from your left shoulder. You carry the canteens on your right, all six of them heavy with fresh water. You don’t complain.

“I’m fine, I swear,” he says, squinting at the white sky.

“You won’t say anything if you don’t feel fine. I just… I don’t want you to throw up again, and I think we can avoid it if you take it easy. If you’re not feeling up to it, that is. Not that you’re not feeling up to it.”

Steve softens at your overexplaining. You’re used to caring about him a lot and having him snap back at you. He can’t explain it, not without deep introspection —is he emasculated? Defensive? Or just worried he can’t take care of you?— so he doesn’t think about it if he can’t help it.

It’s harder to ignore when you worry about him.

“I don’t feel sick,” he says, a promise as he bats another low branch aside and guides you into a clearing, where he pauses.

“Okay, good.”

Steve spent the last two days throwing up and recuperating in a shack of a house a few miles back. He gave himself food poisoning eating spaghetti hoops he should’ve known were bad. He doesn’t remember the first day in detail, too busy yacking and feverish, but he does remember your hand on his back. Your gentle hand, your careful fingertips. Remembers you stroking hair away from his mouth.

It was the first time he’d realised you were his friend. It’s a shameful thing, to have been with you for this long, and to have been ignorant to you this whole time. It’s not that Steve thought you were evil, he just never let himself think about you too much. Never enough to think Hey, this girl I’ve brought with me, she’s good to me. She’s kind.

He knew you were, obviously. It’s complicated. It’s giving him a headache.

“Maybe we should stop here.”

A few days ago he would’ve said No way, are you dumb? You can’t stop here, a clearing doesn’t protect you from the elements, nor a hoard, but he knows you know those things and peacocking his survival skills won’t actually keep you safe.

He has to stop being in survival mode. Or, in huge jerk mode.

The feeling of your face pressed to his chest as you slept, each exhale a warmth that settled him. Later, your hand feeling against his forehead, sure he was asleep. You love him. He’s not sure what kind of love, but you do. And he loves you, too, but he’s not sure what kind of love it is either. He estimates that it’s the feeling that comes with surviving a traumatic event (or, in your case, many events) together, caring for each other, tending to each others wounds, mixed with the beginning of a crush.

Like, he loves you in that he cares very, very deeply for you, and would be wrecked now if something happened to you, but he’s not in love. Not yet.

He looks out over the clearing. Finally, some clarity.

Steve turns to you and knows he might fall in love with you.

“I think we should keep going. The tree cover is better, in case it rains again tonight. Maybe the heat’ll break, I don’t know. And I don’t like this, I feel like we could get ambushed from any angle.” He tries not to waver in his explanation.

“A little rain would be nice,” you say, wiping your eyebrows, “I don’t know about that ambush theory.”

“Oh, you don’t?” he asks.

“What are the trees gonna stop?” you ask.

He recognises an urge to pinch your side and stomps it down. “I don’t know, okay? Leave me alone, my head hurts.”

“Want some tylenol?”

He accepts. You walk for another hour or so through the woods until you can see the dark asphalt of a highway. They’re more intimidating, and so you backtrack for fifteen minutes and set up camp beside an incline. It’ll protect you from one angle, at least.

“You okay?” you ask again.

Steve lets the canteen he’d been holding fall into his lap. “What can I tell you to make you stop asking me?” he asks genuinely. He doesn’t want you to worry this much about him.

“We could go back in time and stop you from eating those spaghetti shapes,” you say.

He likes the way you say it. You look behind you suspiciously, spreading your jacket out and laying the backpack on it before you lie down. You face toward him, your eyes half-lidded.

You hate the idea of bugs crawling into your hair or ears. Steve bites his lip.

“What?” you ask.

“You can lie on me, if you want.”

“I’m not going to sleep yet, don’t worry.” You curl into yourself. “Let’s make a fire tonight. I know spoiled food is spoiled no matter what, but I think heating that soup’ll give it less chance of upsetting your stomach. It’ll taste nicer, too.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just a small one, though, when it’s really dark. We’ll stay up.”

“Okay.” You smile, wide and subtly beautiful.

Is this because you held his hair back while he was sick? Could it be something that minimal?

You reach across leaf litter to play with his shoelace. After a few minutes, you curl your fingers around the loop.

You’re starved for touch. He knows how much of a difference it makes at night when he ushers your face into his lap, hand behind your shoulders to hold you. He’s never not given you affection when he thought you needed it, even when he began to suspect you liked him as more than a companion. You’ve never taken advantage of this fact. If you like him, you don’t burden him with it. If anything, your growing crush has made you shier. You're more self conscious.

He takes your hand. “You already have dirt on your hands,” he says, rubbing your fingers. If you’re hands are dirty, he can’t see it.

“Your shoe,” you explain.

He rubs at nothing. Then he holds it just to hold it, feeling the weight of it in his.

It’s a relief to realise he likes you. He’s confused, but it feels good at the same time. You’re a very easy person to like, even if he’s insisted otherwise before. You can ask questions he finds irrelevant and self explanatory, but for every agitating misunderstanding, you’ve a moment of sweetness.

You can disagree with him a thousand times, and it doesn’t change how moments like this make him feel. Like he’s found a rare slice of peace. Your arm goes limp, your hand his to do with as he pleases, and he can finally take a breather for the day.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’ve been asking me all day, but I didn’t ask you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“How’s your mouth?” he asks. You get toothache from grinding your teeth in your sleep. Some nights, it makes you cry.

“Fine, really. Doesn’t hurt.”

“How’s your head?” he asks, giving your hand a weak squeeze.

Your lips twitch, eyes fluttering with something he doesn’t know. “I’m fine, Steve. Great, all things considered. I’m glad you’re not sick anymore.”

He threads his fingers through yours. “Yeah, me too.”

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington scenario #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months ago

Text

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 6: I'm The Resident Leader Of The Lost And Found]

A/N: Be sure to vote in the poll pinned to the top of my blog AFTER you finish reading! It will be available for 1 week 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, RIP Jace...unless...??

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “St. Jimmy” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.2k (she's a little chonky)

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

What happens to the people who turn? You know because you saw it back at Saratoga Springs, an EO from Oklahoma named Greg Flurry—Equipment Operator, he spent his days driving a forklift, everyone called him Snowflake—who returned from weekend liberty with a bite on his left wrist that he said was a gift from some drunk girl who attacked him outside of a 7-Eleven. You had all laughed and taken turns poking at the wound, making him wince: a ring of tiny bruises, not deep at all, the skin only punctured in a few spots, corporeal gemstones of trapped-blood amethysts and sapphires and rubies. Snowflake rubbed it down with a splash of Grey Goose vodka—the same kind your Mama always drank—and didn’t think of it again for the rest of the day.

On Tuesday, he felt fine; but the bite mark, paradoxically, was not healing. On the contrary, it was turning dark and angry, maroon trails along the paths of veins that shuttle blood back to the heart. Snowflake got a shot of antibiotics at the med clinic and was back in the driver’s seat of his forklift before lunch.

On Wednesday, he had a headache and nausea that wouldn’t go away. Snowflake attributed this to particularly questionable chicken fried steak from the chow hall. At night he tossed and turned in his bunk, and when Rio went to check on him, Snowflake was burning up with fever, sweating through his sheets, staring blankly through pupils like pinpricks. You, Rio, and Parker carried him to the med clinic.

On Thursday, in the early hours of the morning, Snowflake began to decompose. But he was still alive. His skin turned grey and sloughed off, his body purged itself: vomit from his throat, diarrhea from his intestines, blood beading out of his pores like sweat. His corneas went cloudy. His lungs flooded with decay-dark mucus. Snowflake sobbed and shrieked as you and Rio sat with him and held his disintegrating hands, as the corpsmen phoned every hospital they could to try to get him transported. All the ambulances were unavailable. All the hospitals were already overwhelmed. They gave the corpsmen peculiar guidance: Palliative care. Prepare to restrain him if he becomes a danger to others. The virus appears to be transmitted via bite wounds.

“Virus?” Rio had said, dropping Snowflake’s hand. “What the fuck kind of virus does this to someone?”

The corpsmen had shaken their heads—We don’t know—and attempted to administer narcotics intravenously. Snowflake received no relief. His blood vessels were collapsing, dissolving, turning to a noxious soup beneath what was left of his skin. Becoming a zombie is not unlike radiation sickness. It rots you from the inside out, and you can feel everything.

As the sun was rising, Snowflake died. And by then you were glad; it was the most merciful outcome. The corpsmen covered him with a sheet and called around for a morgue. They were full too. As you all stood in an exam room trying to understand what had just happened to Snowflake here, what was going on in the world outside Saratoga Springs, the fresh corpse sat up on the table. You had screamed and clutched for Rio; he shoved you behind him. The corpse, still covered with the sheet stained with black and brown and red, followed the noise of your voice and staggered towards you, snarling and groaning, arms outstretched, teeth clicking as they gnashed beneath the sheet. The corpsmen tried to grab him, then shrank away when the ghoul clawed at them, putrefied fingers peeking out from beneath the linen. The zombie lurched closer, and Rio struck out: colossal knuckles to a soft skull, the monster sent hurtling headfirst into a wall. The body plunged to the floor and, enveloped by a puddle of its own bodily fluids, died for the second time.

And Rio had glanced down at where Snowflake had been bitten—now indecipherable on his black, gangrenous wrist that jutted out from beneath the sheet—then turned to you and said: I guess it only takes once.

~~~~~~~~~~

You doze against Aemond’s shoulder as Baela drives the Honda Odessey across Indiana, goldenrods and dogwood trees, green weeds growing tall and wild, red bloodstains on pavement. Visions of the past come to you in spider-thread thin fragments of dreams.

Building dams of sticks and pebbles in the swamp-colored creek that runs along Kentucky State Route 1087. Balancing atop rusted railroad lines that once connected coal mines like ligaments link bones, bare feet, box turtles and milk snakes, autum leaves falling into your hair. Scratching black-ink battleships into the pages of your fifty-cent Walmart notebook as teachers drone on about things that mean nothing to you, things that will not take you away from here, Shakespeare, the Krebs cycle, the Tet Offensive, Spanish words for colors and animals. Mama glancing up at you as she scrubs dishes in a sink nearly overflowing with bubbles, too nonchalant to intend to be cruel: You’re lucky you ain’t too beautiful. Do you know what happens to beautiful women? Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood, Anna Nicole Smith? Horrible, horrible things. And then they die.

Once in a while you pass a car or truck or SUV coasting east as you roll west, strangers who wave and give you nods of grim, transient greeting. Good luck. I’m sorry you’ve lost people. I hope you live. At a Speedway outside of Kokomo, Aemond, Aegon, Rio, and Luke draw Uno cards to see who will attempt to siphon gas from the three vehicles you find there with closed fuel caps. Aegon loses with a blue four. The Kia and Toyota are empty; there’s almost a full tank left in the Ford. You refuel the Honda Odessey and scrounge through the convenience store for supplies. Helaena seems to have developed a sort of fixation with pain pills, hoarding Advil and Tylenol. Aegon finds a few more packs of Marlboro Golds. He puffs on them, windows down and breeze blowing, neon green plastic sunglasses shielding his eyes, as Baela skirts around Indianapolis. Even from fifteen miles away, you can see the billowing smoke from the fires, hear the manmade thunder of explosions.

“Bet people are having a great time there,” Aegon murmurs as he takes a drag, embers glowing and blonde hair thrashing in the wind.

Baela follows the course he plotted, swinging just south of Peoria, Illinois to avoid the nuclear power plants between there and Chicago. You cross the Mississippi River and into the southern tip of Iowa over the Fort Madison Bridge, the toll booth occupied only by a carcass that buzzards are pecking apart, a zombie that someone else already put a bullet in…or perhaps the man did it to himself. Maybe he didn’t see a point in sticking around to watch the dead inherit the earth. You cannot agree. Each day you find more reasons to stay alive in this treacherous new world. It’s like when you were back in Soft Shell, Kentucky. You can’t give up, you can’t surrender. The only way out is through.

The black Honda Odessey—a good soldier, having taken you six hundred miles and into the vast flat vacancy of the Midwest—at last runs out of gas as you are approaching Bonaparte, founded in the 1830s as a lumber mill on the banks of the Des Moines River. You unload the minivan and trek into town; you will find somewhere to spend the night and then in the morning head south to Route 2, which you will follow all the way across Iowa to the Nebraska border.

The first house you try is at the edge of town, eggshell-colored vinyl siding and an empty gravel driveway. Rio tries the front door—locked—then tells everyone to back up. He kicks it once, no dice, gets ready to try again. Then the door opens. A woman with wide fearful eyes stands there with two boys cowering behind her, maybe ten and twelve.

“Please don’t break the lock,” the woman says softly. “We need it. Sometimes they try to get in.”

“Oh hey, lady, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t know anyone was home. You okay in there?”

Her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her. “Please leave us alone.”

Aemond climbs the steps of the front porch, taps Rio’s shoulder to tell him to back up, and kneels in the doorway so he isn’t so tall. He asks the woman: “Do you need supplies? Food, medicine?”

“Please leave us alone,” she says again.

“My name is Aemond, and those two are my brothers Aegon and Daeron, and that’s my sister Helaena, my cousin Luke, and then Rhaena and Baela. The big guy is Rio, and the girl over there…” He smiles as he gestures to you. “We like to call her Chips. Everyone is healthy, and everyone is here by choice. We’re going to the West Coast, Oregon and California. Do you want to come with us?”

But the woman shakes her head almost violently. “We’re safe in the house. We have to stay. My husband is a long-haul trucker, but he’s on his way back to us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Go away. Please just go away. Before they see you.”

The woman shuts the door and you hear her throw the deadbolt. You leave like she asks you to; but not before Aemond collects an armful of supplies you can spare and places them in a pile on the porch for them to take inside once you’ve vanished.

The sun is sinking into the west as Helaena lights candles in Bonaparte Baptist Church and Rhaena shakes out dusty, mothball-smelling tablecloths to use as blankets. Luke finds gallons of grape juice and bags full of tiny flat bread wafers in the cabinets of the kitchenette, once used for sinless communions. It’s Daeron’s turn to stay awake for first watch. If Jace was still alive, it would be his too; instead, Aemond takes his place and refuses all offers of relief. You lie down on a pew with thin violet cushions and are thinking that you’ll never get comfortable enough to fall asleep when you are abruptly swallowed by omnipotent, black nothingness.

You jolt awake sometime in the middle of the night, a bad dream you don’t remember and don’t want to. Daeron is perched on the altar and using a hunting knife from the cellar back in Distant, Pennsylvania to sharpen the sticks he’s gathered into arrows. Baela is sitting with Aemond, their backs against the wall and voices hushed so as not to wake the others. Aemond is telling her that everything is going to be okay, that he’s still here, that Jace is gone but he’s not going anywhere, and candlelight is flickering across his scarred face, and he’s afraid but he doesn’t show it. He can’t. Too many people need him.

Oh, you realize; and it doesn’t feel awful at all, doomed or apocalyptic, a curse or a plague. It feels better than anything you knew existed. I might fall in love with him after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aemond, take a look at this,” Luke says, offering him the binoculars. You have walked several miles on Iowa State Route 2, an asphalt atoll in an ocean of emerald green flora, buffalograss and prairie roses, ash trees growing over defunct power lines.

Aemond peers through the binoculars. It’s a small farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, rugged and weatherworn, besieged by a flock of zombies. There is something large and rectangular flapping in the wind like a white flag of surrender. “Hm,” Aemond hums sympathetically. “It’s a shame. Poor guy.”

“What do you see?” you ask, and he gives you the binoculars. The zombies, approximately thirty of them, do not appear to have breached the interior; they shuffle through the yard and up and down the steps of the porch, smack their palms against the wood siding, leave stains of gore on the boarded-up windows. None appear to be aware of you yet. The bedsheet that hangs from the attic window has a message painted on it in something dark and viscous, perhaps motor oil:

One alive inside

I can hunt, fish, and fix things

Please help me

God bless you!!!

“We should be able to get to Cantril before dark, it’s about twelve more miles,” Aegon mutters, pondering his map. “Boner-party. Who names a town something like that?”

Aemond stares at him. “Bonaparte. Like Napoleon.”

“Who?”

You pass Rio the binoculars, then say to Aemond: “We’re going to help him, right?”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” Rio replies as he studies the farmhouse. “You want to risk our lives killing all those bastards? I don’t.”

You turn to Aemond, incredulous, but he concurs with Rio. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s going on?” Baela says testily from where she’s sprawled on the pavement sipping a half-full plastic gallon of bruise-colored grape juice. She’s already exhausted, but you have no way of transporting her.

Rio points across the field. “There’s a sign saying someone’s trapped inside that house. Tough fucking luck, ain’t it?”

Baela stares at the farmhouse uneasily, her brow furrowed. Rhaena fans her with a paperback copy of Catching Fire. Daeron has wandered off the road to collect more sticks to sharpen and fill his quiver; Helaena is with him picking wildflowers.

“That was us,” you tell Rio. “We were stranded on that transmission tower and we would have died if we’d been left there. But we weren’t. Someone saved us.”

“Things were different then,” Aemond says, unemotional, uncompromising. “We had the Tahoe. Now we’re on foot, and we’d have to kill each of them individually. And there’s no way to make a fast escape if something goes wrong.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” Aegon says doubtfully, his large ocean-blue eyes flicking between you and Aemond. He stuffs his map back into his shorts pocket and scratches at the tattoo on his forearm: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

Rio groans. “Come on, man, we don’t even know if anyone’s still alive in there! What if he’s dead already? What if he got bit or starved to death or fell down the steps and snapped his neck or something?”

“What if he’s not a good guy?” Aemond adds.

“There’s a Trump 2024 sign in the front yard,” Luke says. He has the binoculars again. Aemond opens his hands, an I told you so sort of gesture. Luke amends: “Not that anyone deserves to get eaten alive or transformed into a walking corpse. But, you know. I figured I’d mention it.”

You are not swayed. Had you stayed in Soft Shell, Kentucky, you might have believed the same things. “People deserve to have the chance to start over.”

Aemond’s eye is on you, narrow and seeking, desperate to understand. “Why are you so fixated on this stranger?”

“He hunts, he fishes. What are we going to do when we get out into Wyoming and Nevada where towns are fifty miles apart and there’s hardly anywhere to scavenge for food? What are we going to eat when the beef jerky and Skittles run out?”

“You said everyone hunts where you’re from.”

“Not literally everyone. I don’t hunt.”

“You can shoot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to track animals. And even if I killed a deer, I wouldn’t know how to dress it.”

Aegon blinks at you. “To what?”

“To remove the skin and organs and everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aemond repeats. Rio is nodding in agreement. Baela’s lips are pressed into a thin, thoughtful, rigid line. Daeron and Helaena have returned to the road to see how the discussion unfolds.

“There are about thirty zombies out there,” you say. “I can take fifteen. I just need you guys to do the rest.”

“Everyone here is my responsibility.” Aemond is severe, but he isn’t angry.

“Then you’re responsible for their humanity as well.”

“I can’t justify risking our lives for this.”

“I’ve killed people, living people, and I didn’t like how that felt. Make no mistake, this is killing too, just by omission instead of with bullets. We’ll all have to carry that weight. The man in that farmhouse hasn’t threatened us. He’s helpless, and he’s trapped, and if we don’t save him, who else is going to do it? What if it was you in there? What if it was me?”

Aemond, frowning, contemplates the house that has become a prison. Rio looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You gaze stoically back. He sighs. “Okay, what the hell, let’s rock,” Rio says.

Baela holds up her Ruger in one hand, slips her hammer out of a belt loop of her shorts with the other. “I’m on board.”

“You shouldn’t be on anything except bedrest,” Aemond tells her.

“I can take fifteen of the zombies myself,” you say again. “I have two M9s, thirty bullets total. I won’t need more than that.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron says.

“Shut up,” Aegon replies, though his tone is gentle. “You can’t even donate blood.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron insists, clutching his compound bow. “At least ten.”

Aegon swings his golf club around. “I can take…like…probably approximately three.”

Rio grabs his face and squeezes his sunburned cheeks as Aegon giggles and slaps at him. “You won’t get the opportunity, Honey Bun. Stay in the kitchen and bake apple pies until Daddy comes home from work.”

“You really think this is the right thing to do?” Aemond asks you. It’s not a challenge, only a question. He’s at war with himself, you can tell. He’s trying very hard to treat you like someone he’s not terrified to lose.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He pulls his Glock out of its holster. “The gunfire will attract more of them.”

“Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Aemond turns to Baela, still wilted on the pavement. “You, Rhaena, and Helaena will follow behind us with Luke and finish off any zombies we missed.”

Baela gives him a weak, acquiescent thumbs up, breathing heavily. “Got it.”

“Helaena, you still have your Ruger, right?”

“I won’t need it,” she murmurs, wildflowers tucked into her long blonde hair, watching a ladybug skitter across her knuckles. Aemond is exasperated.

“I’ll make sure she’s okay,” Luke promises. He’s using his binoculars to scout for any threats on the horizon, additional zombies or approaching strangers. Evidently, there are none.

“The grass,” Helaena says. “It makes it hard to see the snakes. Watch your step.”

Aemond replies distractedly: “I think we have bigger worries at the moment, babe.” As Rio pumps his Remington and Luke fumbles nervously with his Marlin .22 to make sure it’s fully loaded, Aemond walks a few yards away from the others and gestures for you to follow him. Aemond’s voice is low, the blue of his eye river-clear and blade-sharp. “I want you to stay near Rio.”

You give him a small, teasing smile. “So you won’t worry about me?”

“So I’ll worry slightly less.” He brushes a piece of buffalograss from your hair, his fingers lingering there longer than they need to. “Rio’s the biggest, he’s the best fighter. And if one of those things catches you by surprise, he’ll be able to crack its skull no problem. So keep close.”

“I’ll try, but sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

“Please work with me. I’m giving you what you want.”

To be useful, to be merciful. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Thank me by not letting anything bite you. Not today, not ever.”

“Well, except you of course.”

He laughs, the tension in his face breaking; he skates his thumbprint over your cheek and kisses your forehead, swift like a reflex, unthinking, instinctive.

“Good to go?” Rio asks with a grin, holding his Remington with both hands.

Aegon’s golf club is resting across his shoulders, and you have a sudden vision of Jace doing the same thing with a baseball bat, a vengeful ghost peering out from beneath his curls with cunning dark eyes and a smirk. “Yeah, Chipotle, you’re leading the charge here.”

“No she’s not,” Aemond says, striding to the edge of the road. Across the field is the farmhouse, the white bedsheet S.O.S. still whipping in the wind. “I’m in front. Everyone else is behind me.”

“Oh yeah? Then who’s gonna watch your blind side, huh?” Aegon jogs over and whacks Aemond’s left shoulder with an open palm, beaming up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get to be the hero. I was born talentless.”

“You have talents, Aegon,” you say. “You can sing.”

“Not relevant in a zombie-riddled apocalyptic hellscape, Cow Chip.” He and Aemond start across the field, then you and Rio, then Daeron, darting around in your peripheral vision, nocking sharpened sticks like arrows. Luke, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena trail at a distance.

You have closed half of the gap between the road and the farmhouse—and Daeron has already felled several zombies—before the beasts begin to turn around and notice you. They do not understand danger; they only understand hunger, and they lurch towards you with teeth gnashing and claws outstretched, strips of decaying flesh hanging like sleeves from their arms. You hate the way they move, like they’re trying to imitate life, like they are receiving some sinister transmission that reverberates inside them, like they are soulless vessels to be used in the darkest ways.

You stop, plant your feet in the earth, and raise one of your Beretta M9s. Your eyes find the sights; your finger settles on the trigger. You are rusty at first: a miss, a bullet in a rotting shoulder instead of a skull. Then you click into a rhythm and the zombies drop as they stumble towards you, infected dark blood spewing, brains pouring out onto the soil. When your clip is empty, you shove the first M9 back into its holster and pull out the other.

Daeron is putting his makeshift arrows through eye sockets, Aemond is firing his Glock, Rio is erasing entire heads with the grotesque power of his Remington. Aegon is swinging his golf club around wildly. His Marlin .22 hangs from its strap across his back, but he’s hopeless with it; his aim quite literally could not be worse. You hear other gunshots too, maybe Luke. A stranger appears from the front door of the farmhouse: red flannel shirt, roomy jeans, tan work boots, long messy russet hair pulled back in a man bun, almost as big as Rio. He is carrying an axe and begins helping to cut down the remaining zombies. Rio realizes you’re no longer with him and turns around to find you.

“I’m good!” you shout, waving him forward. “Go, go!” Rio nods and takes off again towards the farmhouse, blasting his Remington 12 gauge like a cannon.

Your ankle snags on something, a gnarled root, an old piece of farm machinery. You fall hard, hitting the ground and knocking the air out of your lungs. Your M9 is flung from your grasp. You roll onto your back and sit up to see what you’re caught on. It’s the grasping hand of a zombie, an old man, long white hair and dead milky eyes, only a torso, nothing below the ribcage except a tangle of dirt-coated intestines. It is scrambling towards your legs, jaws rattling, teeth covered in the blood of the other people it has eaten.

You shriek and try to kick it away. You reach for the empty M9, rip it out of its holster, and hold it by the barrel so you can use the grip, the heaviest part of a pistol, to bash the zombie’s skull in. But you aren’t Rio; when you strike the zombie’s head, it keeps hissing and scrabbling towards your flesh that sings to it like a siren, irresistible, divine.

I can’t let it bite me, I can’t let it bite me—

There is a boom and the zombie drops face-down to the earth. You are saved; you are free. You turn to see Rhaena standing beside you, clutching her tiny Ruger in trembling hands…but her eyes are closed. Slowly, petrified, they come open, one after the other.

You gape up at her. “Did you aim?!”

Rhaena shrugs guiltily. “I don’t remember how.”

“Jesus Christ. Well thanks, I guess. Glad you missed my pelvis.”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah. Me too.” Rhaena holsters her Ruger and helps you to your feet. By now, everyone else has realized you’re in trouble and are sprinting over, including the new guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, holding up your arms and skimming your palms down your bare legs to show them you haven’t been bitten. “No need to despair. Rhaena rescued me.”

Aemond gets to you first. “Can I see?” he asks breathlessly. You give him your hands and with his fingertips, he reads you like Braille: palms, forearms, throat, jaw, gingerly turning your face away from him and then back again. He exhales, relieved. “Good job, Rhaena,” Aemond says, and she smiles. Baela uses her hammer to smash the skull of a zombie that’s still squirming. Aegon yanks a snarling toddler to its feet—Pokémon t-shirt, left leg missing, wearing one of those child leashes—and swings his golf club so hard its whole head pops off and rolls away into the buffalograss with sick wet thumps.

“I thought you couldn’t kill the kids,” you say.

Aegon spits on the corpse’s collapsed, headless body. “It’s different now. These monsters ate Jace. Fuck ‘em all.”

“I can’t thank y’all enough,” the axe-wielding stranger says. “I was sure I was going to die in there like a rat in a trap. There’s a hog farm on the property behind mine, and I think the…you know…all the meat attracts zombies. A pack of them saw me in the yard and followed me to the house, and when they’re in a group like that, they seem…well, I just couldn’t get rid of them. Alone they wander wherever, but a hoard has structure, it has a mission, and they were waiting me out. I didn’t have my guns, I didn’t have my truck…”

“What happened to them?” Rio asks.

“I got robbed, that’s what happened.”

“No!” Baela says. “Really?”

“A week ago, five men I’d never seen before broke in while I was sleeping. They must have drugged my dog, who knows with what—she slept for twenty hours, have you ever heard of something like that?—and locked me in my bedroom. By the time I kicked the door down they were gone, and so were quite a few of my earthly possessions. It was nice of them not to murder us, I guess. I have a couple boxes of ammo left, but that’s all. Mostly 9mm.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” you say.

The stranger gives you a curious, appraising glance. “I’m very glad to be able to assist you, ma’am.” Then he finally gets a good look at Aemond, who is glaring at him. “Lord almighty, what the hell happened to your face?”

“A piece of sheet metal fell on me.”

“He stitched it up himself,” Luke says. “I watched. It was wild.”

The man is impressed. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, no, no,” Aemond amends. “Just an intern.”

“He’s basically a doctor,” Baela says.

“Well, you’ll be useful to have around, I expect.” The stranger offers his hand and Aemond, somewhat unenthusiastically, shakes it. “I’m Cregan Stark.”

“Aemond Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?! That’s a heck of a name, sir.”

“It’s Greek,” Aegon says.

“Where are y’all headed? Not all the way back to Greece, I hope. That’d be a hike. And a swim too, I guess.”

Aemond smiles tightly, polite but guarded. “Not that far away. We’re on our way to the West Coast, California and Oregon.”

“And you’re on foot?! You need horses.”

“We haven’t come across any that are still alive.”

“Do you want to travel with us, Cregan?” Luke asks amiably.

“I reckon I would, for now at least. I got nowhere else to be and no one to care for.” Cregan looks to Aemond. “That alright with you, doc?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously.

“My folks got a trailer over towards Cantril, and a truck parked out back too if nobody’s stolen it yet. We can stay the night there if you want and then drive west in the morning.”

“Cantril! That’s on our route!” Aegon exclaims, he of the map and the gel pens.

Aemond narrows his eye at Cregan, suspicious. “If your parents are so close, why aren’t you staying with them? Why didn’t they swing by to check on you and see you were in trouble here?”

“Well, ‘cause they’re dead,” Cregan says, and Aemond is abruptly remorseful. “When all this started, I went over to get them and they were out in the front yard, just bones. All the flesh was chewed right off. But I found their wedding rings in the grass, and Mama’s pearl necklace that her Grammie gave her when she got married, Mama never took it off as long as she lived. It looked like a string of rubies.”

Aemond swallows noisily. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing I can do about it now,” Cregan says, staring out over the field and biting his lips so they don’t quiver.

“Did your parents have guns?” Rio asks hopefully.

Cregan chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’d be swell, wouldn’t it? Daddy got all his guns taken away when I was in high school.”

“Taken away…?” Baela echoes.

“Yeah,” Cregan says casually. “After the methamphetamine conviction.” He whistles, and a dog comes loping out of the front door of the farmhouse. It’s huge and mean-looking, fur the color of ashes or smoke. It goes directly to Cregan and noses his hands; you are reminded of how Aemond searched you fearfully for injuries. “She’s half-German Shepherd, half-grey wolf. Her name’s Ice.”

“Does she bite?” Aemond asks tentatively.

“My little princess?! Hell no! I wish she did, then maybe those robbers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted. But she knows when those things are around.”

Aegon pats her angular, steel-colored head. Ice puts back her pointy ears and closes her eyes, basking in the attention. “Hey, fuzzball. I’m going to call you Blue Raspberry Icee.”

“You can call her whatever you want to as long as she’s allowed to come with us.”

“She’s welcome if she sniffs out zombies,” Aemond says.

Baela is struck by a thought. “Cregan, what kind of truck did your parents have? I hope it’s big. We’re a lot of people.” She’s resting her hands on her belly. And we’re about to add one more.

“A Chevy Tahoe,” Cregan says. You all begin chattering excitedly, then have to explain why.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Y’all like fishing?” Cregan asks. He’s cooking dinner for everyone with his dead parents’ Coleman butane camping stove, only one burner, each course prepared individually. You are all seated around him on the living room floor, sipping cans of Coke and Sprite—what Cregan calls “pop”—and eating turkey-flavored instant stuffing that came out of a cardboard box. Now Cregan is working on Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, tiny white flakes like snow that puff up in boiling water. Rhaena is staring at the pot with horror. Baela scarfs down her stuffing like she’s been starving to death. Flashlights illuminate the room in dim ocher like a setting sun, the roof vents open to let in cool night air. The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and dust and mildew. Piled haphazardly in corners are old newspapers, mounds of unfolded clothes, empty boxes and plastic bags, VHS tapes—Star Wars, 80s rock concerts, Clint Eastwood movies—and unwashed cups.

Aemond chuckles like it’s preposterous. “No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“No.”

“NASCAR?”

“Who watches NASCAR?!” Aegon says.

You smile. “Everyone’s got a driver where I’m from.”

Cregan, vindicated, thumps a closed fist against his chest. “I was a Jeff Gordon guy. His car reminded me of a box of Froot Loops or something.”

“My brother Denver covered the inside of the garage with Dale Earnhardt Jr. stuff. I got obsessed with Juan Pablo Montoya for a while, he was cute.”

“So you chase the dark-haired fellas,” Cregan says, grinning, still stirring the potatoes. Everyone else’s wide, perplexed gazes fly between you and Cregan as they eat their Stove Top stuffing from Styrofoam bowls.

You titter nervously. “I don’t usually chase anyone.”

Aegon notices a taxidermied largemouth bass mounted on the wall, approximately fifteen pounds. “What the fuck,” he whispers, dismayed.

“WWE?” Cregan asks you.

“Oh, Rey Mysterio, no question. He was cute too.”

Cregan snorts. “He literally never took off his mask!”

“He was cute underneath it. I could tell, I have a sense for these things.”

“I’ll let you live in delusion.”

“I thought wrestling was real back then. When he’d get beat up and covered in fake blood, I’d start crying because I figured he’d die. Who was your favorite?”

“John Cena.” Cregan waves an open hand back and forth in front of his face. “You can’t see me!” You both burst out laughing. No one else gets it.

“It’s John Cena’s signature move,” you explain.

“Hm,” Aemond says, but he’s watching you and Cregan with deep grooves in his forehead and a solemnness in his lone blue eye, tapping his chin restlessly.

“Now, we might not have any butter…” Cregan picks up one of the containers scattered around him, a plastic jug of Great Value powdered coffee creamer. “But this makes for the best potatoes on the planet.” The others watch, stunned, appalled, as he adds several heaping spoonfuls to the pot.

You smile wistfully. How is it possible to be so nostalgic for a place you once believed was killing you, wringing you dry until all your blood dripped onto the floor and you were left a husk, a ghost, a myth? “My Mama always did that. She put it in mac and cheese too.”

Cregan serves you first, taking your empty stuffing bowl and returning it nearly overflowing with Hungry Jack instant potatoes. “Here’s a taste of home.”

And he’s right; you take a bite—hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth, rich, soupy in texture—and it’s just like being five or ten or fifteen again, when this was your idea of luxury, a good day, lounging on a sagging couch torn to hell by the cats and watching The Simpsons or Malcolm In The Middle with your brothers. Cregan scoops Hungry Jack into all the bowls. Baela digs in enthusiastically. The others, following your lead, take cautious tastes, shrug, and decide it’s tolerable for one night. Cregan grabs a new pot and dumps a box of Rice-A-Roni into it, along with the packet of seasoning, a bottle of water, and a single spoonful of coffee creamer for good measure. As the rice cooks, he distributes one can of barbeque-flavored Vienna sausages to each guest. Rhaena pops hers open and immediately begins retching. Aegon feeds his to Ice.

After dinner, Cregan compiles all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, then supplements with bath towels and bedsheets from the closet in the hallway. The trailer is small, only one bedroom; you all agree Baela should get it. She will share with Rhaena and Luke, as she always does now. She doesn’t like sleeping alone. Cregan offers to take first watch, a gift in return for being rescued from a slow death by deprivation. Aemond agrees, but only because Rio—with a wink and a knowing smirk—volunteers to stay up too. Rio will keep tabs on this almost-stranger; Rio is the only one big enough to knock Cregan around if such an occasion ever arose. Aemond tells them to wake him up halfway through the night so he can take over and let them rest. You say you want to do the second watch too, and this time Aemond doesn’t argue.

Helaena gets the couch and Daeron curls up on the olive green carpet beside her, Aegon claims the tattered old recliner, you arrange your pillow and blanket—thin, scratchy, a weak blue mottled with dark stains you can’t identify—against the wall on the other side of the living room. Rio is teaching Cregan how to play Uno on the small plastic folding table by the kitchen, only spacious enough for two. Ice is stretched out beneath the table with her grey muzzle resting on her paws. At the moment, Aemond is supervising; he’s still trying to decide how much he can trust Cregan.

Aegon wanders over to you then bends down, his hands on his knees. “This place is revolting,” he whispers.

“It’s alright.”

“Where did you grow up? Alcatraz?” You laugh, and Aegon gives you his pink CD player, Ava still written across the top in rhinestones. “Just in case you need to get away for a while. It’s wasted on me. I’m going to be unconscious about two seconds after my head hits the pillow.”

“I’ll take good care of it.”

“If you see any meth lying around, you let me know. I’m always in the market for new ways to shorten my life expectancy.”

“I’ll keep any such discoveries to myself. I enjoy you too much.”

Aegon recoils, lets that sink in, then beams as he saunters back to his creaking recliner.

“Hey, Chips?” Luke says, approaching you shyly. He’s holding his Marlin .22. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my rifle was shooting way to the left today, and I don’t think my aim’s that awful.”

“No problem.” You take it and remove the remaining bullets so there’s no chance the gun will accidentally fire, then examine the sights. “Can you get me Baela’s hammer?”

“Sure.” Luke dashes off and then returns with it moments later.

“You said it was skewed to the left?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

You take the hammer and tap the rear sight a few times. Luke watches you, fascinated, troubled. When he speaks, his voice is soft and miserable.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at everything.”

“You know, this is the only possible scenario in which someone like you is worth less than me.” You give him an encouraging smile. “I didn’t go to a fancy school. I work with my hands.”

“But you’re smart, Chips. You could have gone to college if you wanted to.”

How would I have paid for application fees, or to take the SAT? How would I have gotten Mama to fill out the FAFSA? What school would have given me a scholarship with my mediocre grades in standard-level classes? Who would have driven me to school and helped me move in? How would I have bought books, shampoo, tampons, a laptop? Where would I have gone if I had trouble finding a job after graduation? What if the people there saw through me? What if they shrank away from the frayed threads I’m built of? There is no point in saying these things. The gulf between you is too great; it will only confuse Luke and hurt you. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.” You reload the Marlin .22 and pass both the gun and the hammer back to him. “I think it’ll work better now.”

“I bet you wish Jace was here instead of me,” Luke says, and it shocks you. “Everyone does, except maybe Rhaena.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jace was a good fighter, and he was smart, and brave, and capable, and I’m just this…this weak scared loser who only knows how to write screenplays. And what goddamn use is that? Hollywood doesn’t even exist anymore! Scraps of Tom Cruise are probably stuck in some zombie’s teeth right now!”

“Luke, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have left Jace,” he whispers, distraught. “I betrayed him. He was always protecting me and I couldn’t even save him once.”

“We did everything we could. And we all left Jace, not just you. It was me and Rio who said it first. You haven’t earned the blame.” If Jace’s ghost comes knocking, it won’t be your door he opens, Luke.

“Okay,” Luke replies softly.

“Baela is very, very grateful to still have you and Rhaena, Luke. She told me.”

Luke stares at you, doubtful, hopeful, wanting to believe. “Really?”

“I swear she did. I think you two are keeping her sane. The world, the baby, Jace…sometimes what’s most valuable to people are simple things, kindness, gentleness, compassion, support. I can kill zombies, sure, but I’ve never been good at knowing the right thing to say. You are.”

“Okay,” Luke says again, but he seems more at peace now; perhaps even the tiniest bit proud. “I guess I should go make sure Baela has everything she needs before I go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Luke walks a few steps, then turns back towards you, smiling. “I think you know the right thing to say once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Luke insists, then disappears down the shadowy hallway and into the bedroom.

Aemond arrives at last with his blanket and pillow, arranges them beside yours, then joins you where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You didn’t stay with Rio today when we rescued Cregan,” he says; not an accusation, a statement, a surrender of sorts.

“No. I didn’t.”

You must be visibly preoccupied. Aemond asks: “What are you thinking about?”

You decide to tell the truth. “How you were never supposed to meet me.”

“What do you mean?”

You point to him. “Rich boy with a beach house on a cliff.” Then you tap your own heart. “Poor girl who grew up playing with sticks and box turtles.”

“And that’s why you like Cregan so much.”

“It’s nice to have someone around who speaks the same language, sure. It’s nice to not have to explain things or think up lies so I can fit into other people’s idea of what the world is. But I don’t like Cregan more than I like you. Not even close.”

Aemond smiles, a warm glow like fire from under his scarred skin. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…” Someone sophisticated, seductive, experienced, bewitching. “I’m sorry I don’t already know how to do everything.”

“I don’t care. I would have liked you however you were when I found you.”

You look up at him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. Zero boyfriends or ten or twenty, I would want you the same way I do now.”

It hits you so suddenly you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, the shimmering tears in your eyes. “Aemond, please don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts the CD player from your lap and offers you an earbud. You accept it and slip it into your right ear as he puts the other into his left, then clicks the play button on Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. What you hear are the opening ukelele plucks of Riptide, and you are spirited back to 2013: middle school, oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, hair you have no idea what to do with, the librarian letting you browse music videos on YouTube during lunch because you never cause any trouble, taking bites of your sandwich—one piece of Wonder Bread folded in half, a glob of Skippy peanut butter—and chewing slowly to make it last longer.

Aemond lies down and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you both with his blanket, circles his arms around you and pulls you in closer; and through the music you hear him mutter: “I wish this disgusting Hoarders trailer had two bedrooms.”

You laugh, burrow deeper into him, let his warmth and the drumming of his heartbeat lull you into darkness, still and serene, a place that exists beyond the world and the fear that it is ending.

When you open your eyes again, Aemond is up and speaking in hushed voices with Cregan and Rio in the kitchen, but he hasn’t tried to rouse you yet. I shouldn’t be awake, why am I awake?

Because someone is shining a flashlight directly into your face. You blink and swat at the blinding yellow-white gleam, your eyes aching, your vision hazy and distorted.

“He must check below the racks,” Helaena says. She is on her hands and knees and peering down at you like a bird of prey, like a goddess on Mount Olympus.

“What…?”

“He’s tall, so he won’t look, but that’s where it is. Below the racks. He must see it. Promise me you’ll make him see it.”

“Who’s tall…?” Aemond, Rio, Cregan?

“Promise me!” she hisses fiercely.

“Okay, Helaena! Okay. I promise.”

She crawls away without another word, climbs onto the couch, clicks off the flashlight, and tumbles back into the abyss of sleep with her back to you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Chevy Tahoe—2001 instead of 2023, a dull rusty red instead of glossy dark blue—barrels down Route 2 past fields of soybeans ravaged by deer and rabbits, high feral weeds, tree branches entombing power lines and houses and barns, leaves freckled with cicadas and caterpillars, hay bales and archaic churches, life in shades of peridot and malachite and bloodstone and jade. Baela is driving, Ice has her big shaggy head hanging out of an open window, Cregan is examining Aegon’s map…and meanwhile, Aegon and Rio are singing along to the Enrique Iglesias song blasting through the speakers as one of the mixtapes spins in the Tahoe’s CD player, pretending to serenade and propose marriage to each other.

“Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, bailamos

Gonna live this night forever, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, te quiero!”

Up ahead there is something in the middle of the road. No, not something; someone, parked across the double yellow lines on a small black motorcycle. As you approach, this person—made blurry by the distance—removes their helmet and seems to wait for you.

“What’s up with that?” Baela asks apprehensively, slowing down from her previously brisk eighty miles per hour.

Aemond frowns at the figure and then scans the fields on either side of the road. “I don’t know. Luke?”

Luke stands up through the sunroof to get a better look with his binoculars. “Oh my God, it’s…it’s…”

“Jace!” Baela screams, and slams on the brakes. She bolts out of the Tahoe before remembering to put it in park; the SUV rolls along sluggishly until Rhaena yanks the gear lever into the proper position. Now everyone is pouring out of the doors and rushing to him. Jace is laughing; he embraces Baela as she crashes into him and sobs into the curve of his neck. Jace is wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the heat, safety precautions for the motorcycle. If he were to fall off, he’d keep most of his skin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you guys. I didn’t know if I was too far ahead or falling behind.”

Aegon gawks at him, sputtering. “How did…? How are you…?”

“You showed me your map, idiot,” Jace says; but he sounds relieved. “Route 2 all the way across Iowa, that part was pretty easy to remember. I figured if I could get here, I might be able to find you. If not, I’d just surprise you in California.” He grins, huge and teasing, ecstatic tears glittering in his eyes.

“The river,” Luke says, thunderstruck. “We thought you were dead…we left you…Jace, I’m…I’m so sorry we left you…”

“Hey, I get it. The bridge situation was fucked, there was no way you guys could fish me out. The river washed me miles downstream, way too fast for the zombies to keep up. I eventually got dumped on the shore near where some people had set up camp for the night. They were living out of a school bus, about fifteen of them. They heard me coughing and moaning, hunted me down, and dragged me back to the bus. Super nice, right? I told them about the zombies, and we relocated in a hurry. They were headed for a town up near Chicago, Rockville or something, so they took me with them and then one guy gave me his bike and taught me to ride it so I could go west. It’s a Honda Rebel 300. It can get 70 miles to the gallon. I’ve barely had to siphon any gas! And the siphoning hose my new friends gave me is the kind with a pump. No more Uno roulette, bitches!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Baela whispers, tears flooding down her face.

“Don’t cry, I’m here, I’m back, everything’s the way it should be again. Now how’s my baby doing…?”

You, Aemond, and Rio exchange astonished glances. Luke snaps out of his shock and runs to hug Jace and Baela, and Rhaena follows him. Daeron searches the horizon for movement, for danger. Helaena rips the pristine white petals off a bloodroot blossom one by one.

For the first time, Jace notices Cregan. Ice stands beside the flannel-wearing Iowan on the pavement, wagging her long grey tail. She barks at Jace uncertainly. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Cregan Man Bun Stark,” Aegon says. “And his anti-zombie wolf Blue Raspberry Icee.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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