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snackhobi · 4 years ago

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min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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insxmonium · 6 months ago

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Again and again Cloud reminded himself these were children, they were selfish, impulsive and still learning who they really were... but fucks like Peter were homegrown idiot that was a special kind of terrible. A coddling father. A doting mother. Too spoiled and privileged for his own good. He could buy his way in or out anything- but with Cloud, he was about to find out the way the world really worked now. Sure, in the past, if you had enough money and audacity, you could do anything. Not anymore. He shoots one last look at Denzel when he departs, Reeve is texting him, he can feel the buzzing of his phone going off in his pocket, Peter doesn't want to get on Cloud's bike, and without looking- Cloud puts a firm hand on his shoulder to force him to sit- checking his phone with the other. He was going to have to answer a lot of questions. His phone rings, and he pauses long enough to answer; "No... no everything is under control. Mn... yeah I know. He's going home. Huh..." A pause, he listens; "No, I'm bringing him in. Why? Reeve. Check the footage from across the street- yeah, you did? Okay. How old?" He covers his palm over his phone' "How old are you, Peter?" "...S-seven...teen..." the boy's voice cracks, he's scared shitless and good thing too- he stays glued to his seat. "Seventeen. Yeah, that's old enough to press charges. Take care of notifying his parents, I'll take care of the rest-" An exasperated sigh; "... he's a kid, I didn't hurt him. I think being turned into a frog hurt his pride enough. Hopefully." His eyes travel to Peter, his head hangs, Cloud glares; his conversation is very pointed; "I'll be there in ten. Send two of your men out to meet me out front- you're the pencil pusher, so you deal with the paperwork." And he hangs up before he can be argued with. He can't do anything about the time he has to spend now- time he'd rather be spending doing anything else. . Tifa wasn't happy when Cloud got home. The expression she wore told him everything he needed to know; she was disappointed, frustrated with Denzel, frustrated with him; and without saying anything, the two of them agree to talk later. Cloud should've been keeping a better eye on him- and changed that code on his safe. He hadn't bothered and that was half of the problem. Denzel had been sent up to his room, he goes up the stairs and he raps softly on the door with the back of his hand before entering, he takes in a breath and then opens it; He calmly and quietly closes it behind himself, brings a chair from the desk at the end of the bed, turns it around and sits across from him; his eyes bear down on his son like two icy blue daggers. "So..." He begins, his voice even, "Peter is being charged with assault, it'll be on his record, make his life real hard from now on- his parents are aware and it's going to be pretty shit for him for a long time." At least, let him know this much; "But you almost got charged with assault and reckless endangerment too. I had to convince Reeve not to- on the technicality that Hades wasn't fully summoned and there wasn't a danger to the city because of it. If it happens again, and he hears about it, and a summon outside of a necessary fight gets used? I can't stop him from deciding what he wants to do with you. Call it 'not fair' all you want- but I think he's been real fucking reasonable." He folds his hands in his lap, and he leans forward a little, he exhales with a shake of his head, "Denzel... I don't think you understand how serious this is. It's fine you wanted to get back at Peter, that isn't what I've got a problem with- and in your shoes, I might've done the same thing... but you can't resolve a storm with a hurricane. You don't fucking break into my shit, you don't use my materia without my permission, and you don't hurt other kids with any materia I give you. Are we clear?" He waits for a reply; but follows it in a gentler but irritated way; "I wouldn't be so pissed if I didn't care about you, son. I love you but... this doesn't come without consequences."

Cloud feels a pang of genuine fear when Denzel's hand moves- he sees the magic extend, but the summon doesn't appear. Peter's form is suddenly gone, and he has a very good idea of what he's done; he reaches Denzel and he twists his arm back to pry the materia out of his hand. He doesn't hurt him, but his grip does force his fingers to release- his blue eyes burn with anger, Peter is only a frog under a minute, but Cloud does not break his gaze, instead, he takes Denzel by the arm and moves him in tandem with his stride with an icy silence that says all the things he won't say out loud. You know better than this. I don't give a fuck you wanted to teach him a lesson, you don't take my materia, my summons, and threaten another child with them. A year of grounding you won't be nearly enough. I'm going to make sure you understand to never do this again- and if I catch you, if I hear about it, I will rain hell down on you, Denzel Strife. And that's a promise. Once they're far enough away he lets go roughly, pushes him towards the sidewalk and he puts the materia in a slot on his sword for safe keeping until he's done with this. He trades it for a cure materia and he tosses it to him. "Go tend to the wounded. When you're done, you go home, you tell your mother exactly what you've done- and then you go up to your room and you wait for me... You better be there when I get back." His voice comes with a cold sting, like if Denzel doesn't, there's going to be some type of punishment he can't even fathom coming his way- he doesn't raise his voice, his hand or act like he'd genuinely harm him in any way, he doesn't need to. His back turns and he swings his sword around his shoulder, then moves towards the confused, upset and terrified teen sprawled on the ground in a daze. Denzel had punched him, he had a black eye, a split lip and a darkening bruise across his cheek. Cloud is rough with him, pulling him to his feet by the scruff of his shirt, resisting the urge to spit in his face and punch him himself. If he hadn't been trying to be a good father, a good example, a better man... His mako infused eyes become hard as steel when he gets close to the boy's face; his voice a low and calm even timbre, "I'm taking you to WRO HQ... and then you're going to call your mom and tell everything- and I mean everything. The director will be pulling the footage from today and reviewing it personally, so yeah, you are absolutely fucked, kid." At least this fell within his jurisdiction to do, he didn't love the title Reeve gave him and his friends- but it did allow him to enforce rules when the situation arose; "My son defended those kids and he could've beaten you within an inch of your life, left you for dead, let that summon he had finish the job... and had the self restraint not to do so. You are fucking lucky to be alive. You're luckier that I got here in time to make sure you are." Peter stammers over his words; he had no idea this was Cloud Strife's son- much less did he understand exactly the deep shit he was in... until now, "I-I didn't... your son?? Wha- are you arresting me-?!" "Shut the fuck up Peter. Move." Cloud shoves him forward back towards Fenrir, shadowing his steps, "I didn't! " He has half the mind to cast silence on this idiot, he takes a breath in, fuck he hates this- he can't calm his nerves no matter how hard he tries; he's not going to hurt him- but threatening him is fair game, "I said shut up. You're being charged with assault. And if you run? I'll make sure it'll be the last thing you ever do. There are lots of things way the hell worse than being turned into a frog." How livid he is is terrifying to everyone around him; nobody is stupid enough to try and step in. The small crowd that had gathered scatters when he looks at them; Reeve was going to blow up his phone after he saw that footage. He just knew it. What a fucking mess.

#evcryopeneye #father;son #boy you are in trouble #congrats you have unlocked the big mad

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yinses · 4 years ago

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—hawks ft. established relationship + dom!keigo + exhibition + overstim

rating: 18+ a/n: thank you so much to @ultimate-astridwriting for allowing me to be part of this collab !! it was the shove i needed to get back into the fandom. hawks has always been my favorite hero so i hope to do him justice.

➳ impatient collab masterlist

fist pressed against his cheek, he browsed over the sight before him, taking it all in without considering really any details. fighting a smirk, he cocked an eyebrow.

“i’m not feeling the color. change it for the other one.”

to be frank, he had no particular preferences for color, design, texture or any of that shit–though, he did have a weakness for anything with a pretty flare to it, the air of innocence that he loved to bathe you in with all the frills and fluff. however, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t fond of deciding which palettes suited you best. but he had a specific reason as to why he voiced that particular opinion of his.

sale’s representatives, all mascara-lined eyes and glossy lips, held your hands by your side in a surrendering position as they paraded you in front of your boyfriend as though this was his own private fashion show. and in a way it was, he’d spent good hard earned money renting out the area for a few hours. enjoying it all from his throne placed perfectly in front of the changing rooms, watching how you were dragged in and out by the forceful employees with him picking out what items you wore.

the clatter of the sale’s girls dragging you back in the changing room again, drew him from his thoughts. you were a flushed mess, struggling to wriggle away from their sharp nails while insisting that you could walk on your own. overall, you'd have been rather accommodating to his whims. but you always were. and as such a good girl, he would reward you for it. for now though, he couldn’t resist giving you a mocking smirk when you tried to grab him and failed miserably at that.

back to the prison of hands again, he noted, as they closed the door behind them and made a fuss over what you disliked and what he wanted. as more girls pecked at you to stay still while they taught you how to wear the clothing properly. outside, keigo waited patiently for them to be done as his eyes travelled from one end of the store to the other, looking at the fancy lingerie and wondering what would actually be perfect for you. but then again, to be painfully honest, you made anything here look good.

and then there's also another fact that he had to come to terms with.

he liked you best without anything on.

with only your bare skin, lying amidst the fluffy pillow with silken sheets tangled around your body. legs demurely spread, hands placed above your head and looking as though you were begging to be dominated. that was certainly the very image of excellence that any man could ever ask for. wanton eyes, warm cheeks, slightly parted lips, panting–ah, but you would gasp wordlessly as he’d stolen your voice many rounds prior. keeping his eyes peeled on the floor, the man shuddered briefly and rolled his shoulders back to remind himself that he was in a store and any further acts of indecency would totally be out of the question. especially when he remembered how you straddled him last night, thighs over his torso. sinking in inch by inch, throwing your head back when he bucked up a bit too hard on you–

"mr. hawks, what do you think of this?"

there you stood, with your hands still raised again, eyes watering under the torment of these awful ladies. biting your lips with warmth tainting your cheeks, hair cascading over your shoulders and meeting the body that was hugged by a pair of lingerie. strapless and curvaceous mounds of yours, covered with a brassiere. a matching panty, complete with small laces forming gathers on the hems as they trailed invitingly towards to garter at your thighs.

he stared.

and blinked.

only once.

"sir?" one of the older females repeated, raising her eyebrows. "…what do you think?"

trying to cover up the fact that his awkward silence was making the room uncomfortable with anticipation, keigo casually leaned backwards and crossed his legs together. his wings fluttered in reflection of his thoughts, rising and falling with each new epiphany. dark eyes walked all over your body, drinking in how your breasts were perfectly pressed together and how your legs trembled when his eyes stopped at the ribbons of the panty. finally hovering over your face, where when eyes met, your blush darkened and you immediately dropped your gaze to your bare feet. he smirked at that sinfully innocent reaction of yours.

coy today, were you not?

without skipping a beat, keigo drew out a card and threw it over to one of the sale’s girls, who fumbled as she tried to catch it with her clammy fingers. eyes still locked at your face, knowing that with his stare alone he was making you feel uncomfortable. and damn, he still loved seeing you squirm around like a virgin on her wedding night.

"i'm taking everything that she tried on just now," he answered loftily, still seated on the cushiony sofa, leaning his head against one arm and letting the other one tap rhythmically on the armrest. when the employees all squeaked out a pathetic noise of agreement, keigo allowed his lips to curve upwards in a smirk as he drawled out the next order; "charge what you need on it, i don't give a shit. and oh, and don't forget to charge what it takes to buy this section for another hour. turn off the surveillance too while you're at it because this area's mine from the time being."

needless to say, their faces instantly decolorized. but they wouldn’t challenge his demands. the brief raise of his massive scarlet wings was an unnecessary reminder as they stretch languidly without threat. he was a hero after all. who were they to challenge a frivolous form of stress relief?

he had no doubt that they had an inkling of what would occur over the next hour or so. but he was certain the gossip would get lost in the rumor mill.

hawks was a rather eccentric individual. what isn’t he up to these days?

keigo had never saw the staff evaporating and clearing the area within less than a minute as they closed off the doors behind them, leaving this particular section untouched for the next event that was about to take place.

it really did not make you feel any better though.

"little dove."

he watched as you jumped, realizing his attention was solely on you now. you raised your eyes to his again, locking eyes with deviously glinting ones. right now, at this moment, keigo knew how much power he held over you, and damn well he was about to abuse his privileges to no end. leaning snugly against the soft backing of the sofa, he cupped his chin with his palm and arrogantly raised an eyebrow when you shuddered under his disturbing gaze. you looked much as though you were lost and backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. keigo smirked; haughty, superior, dominating you single-handedly, and his other hand rose slightly from the armrest.

a single finger curled inwardly.

a low voice

commanding.

"come here, now"

you knew what came from that tone, but the words didn’t ignite the same spark as it did within the safe space of your home.

you only hesitated briefly, but it was still a second to long for his tastes as his lips already began curling down in disappointment. your heart rapped heedlessly against your ribcage, sent spiraling into an off-beat staccato as you quickly tried to alleviate the shift in mood.

never in your relationship had you considered denying keigo. not the man who laid out everything you could have asked for on a silver platter. it's just that-

your feet crossed the minimal distance necessary to appear agreeable though your face still twists in concern.

“really? …. you want to have sex …. here?”

fingertips grapple anxiously while your eyes dart across the empty but still very publicly accessible room.

“now?”

keigo already look bored with the exchange, digits curling once more with something just outside of patience.

“yes, now.”

his wings flex in consideration, yet he doesn’t move to rise form his seat. instead he changes tactics.

“i just want to show a bit of appreciation for all the pretty things i just bought you.’’

it sounds backwards … as if those should be the words coming out of your mouth not his. but the hint doesn’t come any stronger than the easy grin that spreads across his lips. he even makes a show of lounging back against the cushioned seat, body open in invitation should you dare.

and bite you did, teeth nibbling at the bait as you approach. keigo remains still, though his eyes dance with barely contained excitement as you gingerly crawl into his lap, fancy garments already rubbing enticingly against his thighs?.

the flap of his wings welcome gusts of winds and gratitude as his arms curl around you. the hand at your cheek tilts your head up to meet his gaze. it was always so easy for you to get lost in those specks of liquid gold. but now there was hardly any left to admire with the way his pupils were blown wide with lunch.

a shiver tickles your spine and you’re vaguely away that he’s kissing the line of your jaw, whispering soft words of encouragement as his hips raise to rock subtlety. it all left you shuddering in peaked anticipation as your worries melted into the recesses of your mind.

the hand cupping the roundness of your face stops you before you can lean in for more, the nose brushing against the tip of your nuzzling there in brief affection as he garnered the fraying tips of your attention. “yes?”

the fog of arousal abated a little at the question as your conscious thoughts swam back into the surface to input the code that would spiral you into your deepest desires.

“yes,” you verbally consented as you leaned up into him for a needy kiss. keigo swept his tongue out, meeting the the soft upper palate of your mouth with languid strokes. a rumbling trill greets you when you nibble in response. keigo eagerly chases you into a fevor of song and dance, building your body up to the inevitable fall he plans to send you crashing down in.

when he breaks the kiss, his eyes drop to the price tag still resting innocently against the swell of your bosom. he snaps it away from the fabric, uncaring of the threat against its delicacy as he tosses the flimsy paper to the side.

there were plenty more where it came from. and he was yearning to get the real show on the road.

“now then. how could i possibly show my thanks?”

nails dig into his shoulders for purchase as you rock traction into the firmness of his lap. keigo meets the upward curve of your hips with a sneaky dive of his hand between your thighs where his hand warms the skin there.

you expect him to dip right in, cognitive of the spare time the two of you had to play. but as a dangerous smile twists at his mouth, you realize this is hawks time, a reality that flows differently than everyone else’s.

“trying to decide if i want you to keep these on or not. “ he contemplates aloud, fingers plucking at the elastic.” i mean it would be a shame to leave them out.”

you nod mutely, ready to agree with whatever favored progression. keigo’s gaze narrowed at the silent insinuation “what? you want to make this into a quickie? but we have so many outfits to try.”

you already knew that, acutely aware of each and every article of clothing that had been zipped, tied or squeezed around your body. and you were grateful of each and every addition, would even gladly spend the next few weeks letting him fuck you in each variation against your shared mattress at home.

what you wanted now was for him to come so that you could start that private show within your own walls.

keigo chooses to go for an adorable pout, lips pulling on aged heart strings, yet managing to make them go taut all the same. he waits until your body soften from the tension, aiding the transition with slow strokes against your back and inner leg.

“one pair.”

it’s your back that losses his touch in order for him to bring a single finger in front of your face.

“let me ruin one pair with my come and we can call it quits.”

and you say okay. brining your pelvis back into an enticing dance as you meld that pout into an eager kiss. you were already dressed for the occasion and had all the tips and tricks in your inventory to help him reach his goal. one easy step and you could be on your way.

how naive you still were.

eight pair now. he’d brought you near completion just as many times before halting the grind of your hips with a frown. he mad for a rather convincing curator, inspecting each and every pair of to the finest thread.

‘too blue.’

‘too much lace.’

‘it just doesn’t feel right. ‘

‘why don’t we try something else?’

true to his word, keigo had been determined to find the perfect pair to meet him at the edge of nirvana, and dragged you from one painstakingly near orgasm to the next along the way.

"stop."

you whimpered desperately, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you forced yourself to remain seated with him throbbing deeply within you. pulsing, hot, too hot. scorching you inwardly and causing strange sensations to sear through your veins. his hands were still on the armrest, they were not on you, they were not driving you crazy with their constant teasing and whatnot this time. because he was not doing anything to make you this crazy when you were already this crazy for him.

his lips smirked against the shell of your ear, a moist tongue peeking out to leave a wet trail. you fought every inch of yourself to stop your hips from moving again. because of his command, you could not move. you could not bring yourself to move. simply because it was his desire and you could not deny him.

"close?" he murmured darkly into your ear, wispy breath tickling your neck. making a sharp sensation run down your spine, forcing you to arch against him and pressing your bare breasts against his chest. he knew it, he knew that he drove you this wanton for him, all desperate and wanting more.

and yes, you were too close.

too close until one more move, he could make you topple over the chasm of ecstasy without even doing anything to you.

"hmm," he whispered this time, continuing his words with a foreboding edge as his lips brushed against your neck, against your ear, over your cheeks and teeth lightly nipping at your bottom lip. making you try to kiss him, but he pulled away just like that and watched in sadistic satisfaction when you gave an exasperated groan. "i was too. and then i saw a pretty olive green peeking out of that pile over there."

there was hardly any vigor left in you to groan.

you pressed your forehead against his slick neck, letting your warm gasps leave his skin, as your head desperately twisted in pinpricks of denied pleasure at his command. it was all a game, one that you could end with a single uttered word from your lips. but you’d never been a quitter, something keigo admired in you. his desires took you on erotic journeys you would have never dared to attempt in prior relationships. perhaps you were becoming just as debauched as he was.

there probably wasn’t even fabric of that color lying around and if there was it they weren’t within his eyesight. keigo was painfully teasing you with this, building up your desire to the most desperate extent because you could not stand anymore. and he knew it too. he throbbed against your walls, the sporadic pulsing sending shrapnel of lust into your loins, and you told yourself that if you were compliant to his orders, then he would surely reward you afterwards.

he would.

he always did.

"okay," he spoke up again, pressing his cheek against yours because he knew that you had if he didn’t end it now, then he wouldn’t get out of it what he wanted. bright eyes were still glowing deviously under the chandeliers of the store, making him appear feral. it provided a visual desire for you to nip his ear, to lick his neck and to kiss his lips.

"you can move now, dove. let’s finish this and go home."

what an alluring goal that was, twinkling encouragingly from finish-line.

you gulped harshly, feeling your legs too weak to push you upwards again. because he stopped you countless times and made a pleasure overload overrun in your body, turning your limbs to jelly.

a simple shake of your head was all the answer that you could muster.

it was either that or you would faint from the sheer ecstasy.

that made him smirk devilishly again when he looked at you, taut cheeks, lust-darkened blue eyes, a trickle of sweat running down his temple from the amount of restraint he was putting on himself. you felt as though you were opened, taken, torn from within by this man alone when he chuckled, pressing those sinful-stained lips to your forehead.

"maybe if you would beg just right, i’d bother to move."

whining, you shake your head as every cry you knew spilled past your lips. you begged, to pleaded keigo to move so that he would put you out of this torture. so that he could make you reach that blinding bliss, that your nerves would tighten and your toes would curl. so that you would clench around him tightly, that he could come together with you in this passionate endeavor.

too desperate, nerves tingling with his every wicked command, your shaking hands slowly rose and cupped his cheeks, feeling his soft, flushed skin under your touch and forcing him to look at you in the face. your lashes falling part way over your gaze. plump, bitten lips drawing closer and closer and closer to him and closer and closer and closer with every second. him slowly moving forward to join his mouth with yours in a desperate kiss, and you suddenly paused, letting only your lips brush against his, not moving forward anymore.

his eyes hardened when he felt your words form at his lips.

please.

it seemed as though playtime was finally over, for now.

keigo adopted a fast and hard pace, thighs jerking up to meet your earnestly with each slap of skin. the force of his thrust jolted you into a haphazard bounce as you fumbled desperately for traction and stability. each pull and push of your joined bodies was accompanied by a tremulous whimper as you gasped and groaned against the shell of his ear. keigo knew the sweet vocalizations weren’t completely for his sake, but more of the aftershocks of the broken damn as they spilled through the cracks of your lips.

he still hummed, pleased as his mouth latched onto a pebbled nipple protruding from the fine silk still managing to encase your breast. it was a combination of the gyration of your hips and his own weakening resolve that triggered his own orgasm as he finally let go with broken explicative.

your own pleasure was brought to you without chase, almost a reward for your efforts as you withered through it. keigo’s quiet praises wash over you like aloe, softening the worst of the burnings sensations as your thighs quake in protest. he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck as his arms encircle you and drag you down with him.

the already too small chaise had to be uncomfortable for his wings with your additional weight but he never voiced a complaint as the rose and fell over your sweaty skin. neither did you, despite the sticky resistance of his spent coating the inside of your thighs. at least you wouldn’t have to walk home in this particular pair. not that you planned on walking period as you grumbled a demands that he would be flying you both home.

he snickers all while peppering a series of kisses against your nose,” anything you want, little dove.”

#hawks x reader #hawks bnha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha hawks #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #hawks smut

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dreamescapeswriting · 4 years ago

Text

Changing Room ~ Lee Minho [M] [Request]

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

PAIRING: Minhox Idol!Reader

GENRE: Smut, dom x dom, idol Au, Reader!Idol AU, mentions of blackpink collaboration, spanking, degrading names, pet names, fight for dominance, orgasm denial, edging, squirting,

A/N: I’m still new to writing for the reader being Dom so I hope that this turns out okay for you!!

A collaboration with one of the biggest girl kpop groups had been on your list of things to do since forever and now it was finally happening. The screams of fans could be heard all the way in your dressing room which made you a little nervous but nothing you couldn't handle, you'd been an idol for the last four years you were used to going out and performing in front of thousands of people. The door to your changing room opened and there stood Lisa smiling at you as she waited for you to get up and walk with her towards the main stage area. It was the first show of their tour and YG Entertainment decided that they wanted to start the tour off with a big publicity stunt meaning that you and the girls were going to work together and drawer a huge scene to the show.

"Ready?" Lisa questioned as she looked at you, she could sense how nervous you were about going up onto the stage but she'd seen you perform a million times and she knew that you were going to be perfect. Practising with them had been going perfectly and you were more than ready to make everything as good as it could be and more.

"More than ready," You laughed softly, picking up the black sparkly microphone that the girls had gifted to you and smiled at Lisa who was already linking her arms with yours. All five of you were dressed in all-black outfits, black high waisted shorts with black tops and black thigh-high boots, YG wanted you to look well-presented as one group.

"You remember the choreography?" Rose questioned as she handed you a small bottle of water, walking through the back part of the venue towards the stage where managers were waiting almost as anxiously as you seemed to be.

"It's in my veins," You breathed out as you looked out through a small gap to see how many people were waiting for you all and it was packed. Screaming fans with lightsticks were chanting out the Blackpink fanchant with your name added onto the end, it felt so surreal.

"Someone came to see you," Jennie cooed in your ear as she tickled your sides, turning to look in the direction she was looking you saw Minho standing there, your long-term boyfriend. The two of you had been dating for a while - much to the disapproval of both of your companies - but everything was well hidden and no one besides those on a need-to-know basis knew about the relationship.

"What are you doing here?!" You cried out as you rushed over to him, throwing your arms around his neck as you greeted him with a huge hug. The two of you didn't get to spend a lot of time together so anytime you had was precious to you both.

"I couldn't let my best girl go up and not let me watch," He chuckled softly as he left a quick kiss on your cheek, pulling away so he could take a look at you. His mouth almost fell open as he finally took in the outfit you were wearing,

"D-Do you get to keep those boots?" He questioned as he licked his lips, making you groan as you pushed him away playfully.

"Why? Are they turning you on?" You questioned jokingly only to get Minho nodding which shocked you before you let a smirk reside on your face.

"Maybe I do," You teased, winking at him playfully before going over to the girls as they got ready to get onto the lifting platform of the stage.

"Good luck! Knock them dead!" Minho screamed over the stage managers and screaming fans as he watched yo and the girls slowly rise up from the floor and the loud music began to play.

The set for Ddu-du-ddu-du was over and you were taken off the stage, sweating and panting as you made your way over to Minho who was red in the face, blushing from the performance. The whole thing had been kept a secret from him and he had no idea which song was going to be performed nor whose lines you were going to take.

"Did you enjoy it?" You giggled softly as the stage managers finally left you alone, Minho just grabbed your hand and began dragging you towards your changing room ignoring your questions as to where he was taking you. The whole set had turned him on from seeing you up there and then watching you Perform Jennie's rap which he couldn't help but find sexy. You'd nailed the choreography moving your hips in time to the music, nailing every line and making sure to play up to the sexiness of the theme the girls were going for.

"Minho?" You questioned as he roughly pushed you against the changing room door, locking it as he began kissing you roughly pulling at the shorts.

"So needy," You teased as he began kissing down your neck biting and sucking on your skin as you let out small whimpers of pleasure. There was always a power problem in the bedroom with the two of you, he was a dom and you were a switch, always finding yourself in a dominating mood after being on stage.

"Nuh-uh, I'm the one in control tonight," He told you as he pinned your wrists to the doors roughly biting down on your neck as you tried to push him away.

"No baby boy, I am." You cooed as you took his face into your hand, running your thumb over his skin as you pushed him down into a sitting position on the sofa. Minho's hands run up your thighs towards your ass but you playfully slapped them away with a smirk on your lips.

"You're so needy, kissing me like that right after I get off stage...Not even letting me shower first, dirty boy." Minho shook his head as you spoke that way, there was no way he was going to let you be in charge tonight not after watching you perform like that in front of thousands of people. The jealously was too much for him to bear as he thought about everyone that had seen you like this,

"How about you keep those pretty little boots on and nothing else," He said in a dark tone as he flipped the tables, pinning you down to the sofa while leaving small kisses on your skin as you tried not to let out signs it was affecting you.

"Where are all those moans? I know how much you love it when I kiss your neck like this." He whispered in your ear, biting down on your lobe a little as he began running his hand down the front of your shorts but you flipped him again. Straddling him as you looked down at him with dark eyes,

"That's not how it's going to work tonight baby," You ran the palm of your hand over his stomach as you lightly traced your fingertips over his abs.

The two of you continued your power play until all of your clothes were off besides your boots and his boxers, he was glowing a bright red. His back against the back of the sofa while you straddled him, hands either side of his head trapping him against the settee.

"You know you love it when I'm in control," You whispered in his ear as you ground yourself down against his hard cock, you could feel just how hard he was for you through the thin fabric.

"I-I do but it doesn't mean I want that tonight, you deserve a reward for all that hard work," As he said the word hard he pushed his hips up against your core, smirking as he saw your eyes flicker at the pleasure.

"You know you want me to buried deep inside of you, thrusting so deep you'll cry my name louder than any fans do." He chuckled darkly as he reached his thumb down to begin rubbing your bud in small soft circles, not applying the pressure he knew you so desperately wanted from him.

"So fucking wet already, such a dirty little slut." He cooed as he kept rubbing, watching your eyes the whole time as you let out breathy whimpers trying to remember what you were doing in the first place but your head was in a fog. A finger was dragged through your folds as he smirked at you, laying you down gently against the sofa as he continued to let his long fingers rub you.

"So cute how you go from dominating to my little baby in a matter of seconds," He teased as he began to kiss down your body sticking two fingers into you making you arch your back and moan loudly. Cleaning around him already as he kept his fingers deep inside of you,

"Fuck!" You moaned out as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you slowly, kissing your clit as he looked up at you with a smirk playing on his lips.

"F-Fuck Minho," You cried out as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you at a painfully slow pace, curling them to meet the spot you needed him the most while his tongue licked and sucked on your clit as if it was his last meal. Your head was beginning to cloud over as he continued the movements, picking up the pace of his fingers when he felt you clenching around him.

"FUCK! Minho please-" You begged as you could feel the tightening in your stomach beginning to become too much for you.

"I-I'm gonna cum," You whimpered as you completely gave into him, giving him the power he'd been wanting. You wrapped your legs around his waist pulling him closer with the heel of your boot digging into him. As you were about to ride out your high he completely stopped his actions, ripping his fingers out of you and pulled his mouth away leaving you throbbing and whining.

"Minho! What the fuck?!" You cried out as you looked at him, his eyes were darkened as he pumped himself in his hand but you hissed at him. Pushing him into a sitting position on the sofa before straddling him once again,

"Has the little lady been teased too much? So close and yet so- Ugh God," He moaned out as you sank down onto him all of the way, moaning out as you rolled your head back. Your hands rested on his shoulders as you kept yourself down on top of him, whimpering out as your pussy clenched and throbbed around him from the orgasm you had been denied.

"Think it's funny, making a girl almost cum and ripping it away?" You bit down on his neck sucking softly not hard enough to leave a mark, his hands found their way to your hips and he attempted to move you but you kept yourself still. Enjoying the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you as he let out small hisses and moans,

"M-move, don't just sit there." He whispered as he tried to get you to move only for you to slowly lift yourself up so only the tip was inside of you, sinking slowly back down while maintaining eye contact with him. Something you knew drove him over the edge when you were the one in control of things, he bit down on his lip as he let out a small moan.

"Look at you...Now, who's the needy one?" You questioned as you repeated your actions, moaning out at the slowness of it all.

"F-Faster," He ordered as he looked at you, slapping your ass and grabbing a handful as you looked at him, raising your eyebrow at him.

"Faster...What?" You held still on top of him and he growled at you, his eyes dark as he stared up at you.

"Please...P-Please move faster," He begged as he rolled his head back against the sofa, crying out as you began to move your hips up and down faster, scooting against him as you began to moan out in pleasure. Your orgasm building up once again as you continued to move on him, riding him fastly and carefully as you rolled your head back. The sounds of your combined moans filled the room along with the wetness that was connecting you both.

"Fuck, baby." He whined as he rubbed your breasts in his hand, tugging on your hard nipples as he felt himself getting close each time you clenched around him.

"Oh shit," You dug your nails into his shoulder as you felt the coil tightening again, your eyes rolling back as you felt your orgasm hit you. You continued riding him as your legs twitched and your stomach tightened even more, moaning out his name loudly,

"A-Agh fuck, Baby I'm gonna-" Before he could finish his sentence you knew he was about to cum so you smirked at him quickly getting off him before he could cum and he stared at you. His cock hitting his abdomen as he let out small whimpers and whines at the cum-denial you had given him.

"Not nice is it?" You giggled as you looked at him, getting up from the sofa to change only to find yourself being picked up.

"Minho!" You cried out as he began sucking on your skin, laying you down on the floor.

"Hands and knees now." There was no soft dom-voice to him, the soft dom you knew was gone and replaced with the hard-dom standing behind you. A slap hit you across the ass as you didn't move fast enough to his liking and he smirked as you whimpered. Getting onto your hands and knees as he had ordered and looked over your shoulder at him,

"Why- Oh fuck yes!" You screamed out as he thrust into you quickly, not giving you a chance to adjust to the new angle and get over the overstimulation, all Minho cared about was getting to cum. He began to thrust into you at an animalistic speed, digging his nails into your hips as you let out cries of his name.

"Minho! Right fucking there!" You cried out as he continued to fuck into you, not slowing down for even a second as he chased after his own orgasm.

"S-Shit shit shit!" You cried out as you felt yourself pulsating around him, another orgasm building up more intensely than the first one. It felt as though your whole body was on fire and as though you were about to burst around him as he continued to thrust into you.

"You like that? Being used as my little fuck toy?" His rhythm got sloppy and you knew he was close to his release so you nodded, rocking your hips a little.

"I love it!" You cried out, nails digging into the carpeted floor as you clenched around him more until you could no longer hold it back,

"Holy shit! I'm cumming!!" You cried out as he bit down on your shoulder, smirking as he felt you clench around him before the floor got wet.

"Dirty little girl, squirting all over the floor." You were panting and sweating heavily as you noticed Minho's thrusts slow to a stop, he pulled out of you and you whined out. Pouting when you felt his seed slowly drip out of you and hit the floor. Minho lightly tapped your ass before going on the hunt for a towel to clean up with.

"We should shower before someone comes hunting for you," He told you as you laid on the floor beside the puddle of mess you had both created, you just whined in response to him as he wiped you clean.

"Come on babe," He chuckled as he helped you up from the floor, going over to the small bathroom that was attached to your changing room.

Tagline: @taestannie @sw33tnight @kneel-begyourpardon @acciocriativity @mwitsmejk @minholuvs @anxiousbobatea @justbangtanthingz

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

Text

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (chapter 10 - FINALE)

series masterlist

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind. you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 6k

warnings: implied smut, angst, fluff, romcom tropes, lots of swearing, pregnancy mention/minor breeding kink

note: click the asterisk for a hyperlink to a translation when the time comes

Six months later...

“It’s good!” she beamed, setting down the last chunk of pages and taking off her reading glasses. “Oh man, that ending hurt, but it’s really, really good!”

You leaned back into the plush chair and sighed with relief. “You think so?”

“It’s best-seller material,” she assured. “With some editing, of course. God, I can’t believe you were sitting on this for so long.”

“What are the biggest changes you want to make?” you asked.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ll cut the romantic subplot,” she mentioned in passing, like it was no big deal. “It’s distracting.

“Distracing?” you repeated. “Nia, it’s the story. It’s a romance.”

“I thought it was a thriller,” she frowned.

“A romance disguised as a thriller,” you corrected.

“Listen, I get what you mean, but I didn’t get this—” she tapped the nameplate on her desk: ‘NIA BROWN, HEAD PUBLISHER’ in shiny letters— “for nothing. I know what I’m talking about, and I know what your readers want. Violence, gore, drama!”

“It has all that!” you defended. “But it’s all there to talk about the real love he finds in her!”

“What do you mean ‘real love’?” she pressed flatly.

“I mean…” you pondered. “I mean love where you feel like a version of yourself that you actually like. Love where you feel unjudged, no precedents or caveats or back-up plans. Love that fucking hurts because you never wanted to rely on anything or anybody. Love that lives in silence because you don’t even need words.”

She furrowed her brow. “That… sounds nice, I guess, but I don’t think anybody really has that. Everybody needs a back-up plan. Everybody needs words— a writer should know that.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” you groaned, your face falling into your hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, I’m a moron.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I had that! I had that, and I let it go! I’m the dumbest bitch on the fucking face of the Earth.”

“Don’t say that,” she soothed, but you were already standing up.

“No, I need to find him,” you decided as you grabbed your coat and briefcase. “I need to go back and try to fix this. I love him, I’ve never— I didn’t know I could love like that, I didn’t know I could be loved like that… oh my god, I need to find him. It isn’t over.”

“It isn’t over?” she repeated incredulously. “You said Michael signed the papers!”

“It’s not Michael,” you rolled your eyes as you stormed out of the office. “It was never Michael.”

You ran into the first telephone box you could find, slamming the door shut as you searched your purse for the business card that probably wasn't even in there.

After a moment, you gasped with delight when you pulled it from a very bottom pocket and began punching in the number as fast as possible with shivering hands, long-distance charges be damned.

“Hello?” the confused voice on the other end answered.

“Mrs. Alberti, hi— does Sebastian still work for you?” you asked hastily.

“No, dear," she sighed, apparently recognizing you by just your voice (and likely your request), "he quit recently, and moved away.”

“Moved?" you repeated with a wrinkled brow. "Where?!”

“I assume back home, sweetheart; to Bucharest.”

“Shit,” you sighed. “Shit!”

“Are you having your ‘run through the airport’ moment, sweetheart?” she realized.

“Yes, I think so— do you have his address?”

“Well, no, but I’ll see what I can find.”

You waited rather impatiently as she shuffled through papers in the background, mumbling to herself as she apparently searched for information that could help you.

“All I’ve got is the address of a previous employer… a carpenter,” she finally explained, breaking the silence. “It was his only reference when he came to work here," she explained.

"Wow, you really did just hire him for his looks," you blurted out.

"He was desperate for work, that boy had nowhere else to go,” she defended.

“Right, well, I guess if that’s my only lead then I’ve gotta go for it,” you decided. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberti.”

“I told you to call me when that book was a hit. Did it happen yet?” she piped up.

“It’s not published yet,” you explained. “It needs some more work… but I think it’s almost ready.”

“I think so, too, dear.”

Learn Romanian in 10 Weeks! A practical language guide.

Week 1, Day 1: Greetings

Hello Salut

Goodbye La revedere

Thank you Mulțumesc

You’re welcome Cu plăcere

Good morning Bună dimineata

Good afternoon Bună ziua

Good evening Bună seara

Good night Noapte bună

You brushed your hair back out of your face with a sigh, turning the page as you mumbled the phrases to yourself. Broken Hungarian and your high school education in Latin were not getting you as far with this as you had been hoping.

How are you? Ce mai faci

I love you Te iubesc

“Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc,” you repeated over and over in a whisper.

Each day you had a new routine: practice Romanian for an hour, check flight prices online (or call the airline), research what you knew about Sebastian and the address Mrs. Alberti had given you, and then get back to practicing Romanian again.

Oh, and occasionally you worked on the edits Nia wanted for your manuscript. You were focusing on the minor changes— grammar errors, rearranging sentences— and putting off her big request for the removal and replacement of the romantic aspects. More than ever, they seemed like the most important thing the book had to offer.

You had a small apartment, just a place to sleep and shower really; much too small to fit everything you’d already taken from Michael’s house (you know, the one that used to be your house) along with what he’d shipped to you that you forgot before. He included a letter in the package as well. You threw it out, unopened.

Truthfully, you never really fully unpacked. As much as you realized you probably should, in order to really feel like you had a real home, you couldn’t bring yourself to empty your suitcases when you knew you’d be packing them again any day now.

You also realized how outrageous this all was. Ignoring the unlikelihood of even finding him in the first place, Sebastian probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you broke his heart, left, and then randomly tracked him down after over half a year. But to be totally transparent, you weren’t really doing this to get him back, necessarily. You knew that was probably never going to happen. You were doing this because you needed to try. You needed to go there, and get hurt, and come back knowing you did everything you could: you’d never be able to live with yourself if you did anything less than that.

You couldn’t start your new life until you had put everything else to bed. And if that meant being 100%, painfully certain that you and Sebastian could never be together, then that was just how it needed to be.

After two weeks of looking, there still weren’t any reasonable flights to Bucharest, so you booked another trip by train, figuring you could use the three day trip to brush up on the key Romanian phrases you were going to need as well as prepare your speech.

Yes, your plan was a speech. You didn’t have a back-up plan. You didn’t even have a return ticket back to London yet.

A passage by Yeats came to mind; But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

In all your life, you’d never understood before why someone would want to only have their dreams. But now, here you were… and yes, it felt terrifying and vulnerable and uncomfortably naked, but it felt pretty damn good, too.

With a sigh, you scribbled out the last sentence you’d written, tossing the trash paper aside. You looked up out the window at the scenery flying by in a blur, worried that if you didn’t look out from the train every once in a while you’d get motion sickness.

The sun was beginning to set already, the green of hills and trees tinted orange. You only indulged in it for a moment, though, before getting back to this god-forsaken speech you were deadset on finishing before you arrived in Bucharest tomorrow. At first, you’d figured the translating would be the most difficult part… but writing in English wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, either. You had so much to say, and suddenly so few words for any of it.

You’d probably done more editing on this than any of your novels combined; the crumpled up pages spilling out of your wastebasket were proof enough of that.

“And I’m a fucking writer!” you groaned aloud, to no one in particular. “How is anybody else supposed to be able to do this, if I can’t?”

Other people aren’t as emotionally constipated as you, the voice of your inner critic reminded you plainly, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

A rap at your door made you sit up straighter and turn around. A stewardess slid open the frosted glass slightly to give you a friendly smile. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

Your brows furrowed at the sound of her accent. “Is that a Romanian accent?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded.

“So you’re fluent in Romanian and English,” you concluded.

“And Portuguese, yes ma’am,” she agreed.

“Could you come in here for a moment and help me translate something?”

She seemed slightly confused at the request but stepped forward, sliding the door most of the way shut behind her. Leaning beside you on the desk, she picked up your handwritten letter and blinked her wide, brown eyes a few times. You felt slightly embarrassed knowing she was reading such intimate thoughts, but that was how it felt the first time someone read anything you wrote so you were pretty much used to it by now.

“I usually ask the passengers what brings them to Bucharest,” she mumbled after a moment. “This is the most interesting thing so far. Am I reading this correctly, that you intend to confess your love to someone you met—” she scanned the page quickly— “during a vacation in Hungary?”

“Yup,” you smiled awkwardly, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“And he doesn’t speak English?” she assumed; you nodded. “And… you don’t speak Romanian?”

You nodded again, and she breathed in and out quickly, sitting beside you as she stared at the letter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she explained.

“Sorry for sucking you into the entropic vortex that is my life,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she sighed, setting the letter down, and you laughed a little internally at the idea that she was worried about prying when she just read the most personal piece of writing you’d ever put to the page, “but do you think this is… enough? I mean, to build a relationship on?”

You just gave her a shrug. “I have no idea. But, you know, I spent my whole life worrying about stuff like that. I dated my husband for seven years before we got married, because I wanted to be sure. I was initially interested in him because he was successful and ambitious, and it made me feel like this was a really secure relationship that I could rely on. I double majored in English and Computer Science because I wanted a more stable career to fall back on in case being a writer didn’t work out, and even though it did, I’ve spent most of my career publishing what I thought people wanted to read instead of what I wanted to write, so I’d have a better shot at a good paycheck. I grew up thinking the best thing I could ever have was security. And now I’m divorced, watching my royalties shrink every month, more insecure in every way than I’ve ever been, and I’m realizing that the choices I made didn’t give me what I wanted. I gave up so much in the name of safety, and I let the one good thing I’d ever found go, so I could go back to being the same person I always was. I’m ready to settle again, if this doesn’t work… I’m ready to accept that this is just the way life goes, and be thankful that I got a taste of the kind of stuff I thought only existed in the sort of books I’d read but never write.”

She swallowed as she looked at you, and you felt your eyes water as you stared out the window towards the dimming scenery one more time, smiling at the sight of a distant village, a church with a steeple, vineyards and farms. Someone’s whole life is in that little town, you imagined, and they’re just watching your train go by like they see every other day.

“Sebastian gave me more security than I’d ever had before, even though the whole thing was such a ridiculous little whirlwind, and nothing like I ever imagined my life could be. But he made me want to be honest and raw and write sappy letters like the one you just read. He doesn’t have any money, at least as far as I know, and I haven’t known him for seven years, and on paper it makes no sense… but you would understand if you knew him. If you felt that joy that he radiates, if you saw him live his simple little life like it’s the best thing in the world. You would understand if you knew how much I needed this. You would understand if you had been just as miserable being who I’ve been for so long, and finally had a chance to be somebody you think you were maybe meant to be the whole time. So, if I never see him again, I hope I just get to thank him.”

You waited for her to say something, but furrowed your brow at the long moment of silence, looking back from the window finally and finding her staring at you with a tear running down her cheek. When you met her gaze, she quickly wiped it away with a sniffle and looked down at your desk again. “Let’s get to translating, shall we?” she announced with a half-smile.

You noticed the way the other passengers looked at you as everyone was in line to deboard from the train car; you stuck out like a sore thumb, since everybody else was carrying heavy luggage and all you had was a backpack.

In your defense, you really had no idea how to pack for a trip where you knew neither the duration nor the true final destination. So, it was mainly filled with your essentials, a few clothes for any kind of weather, and enough leu to buy anything else you needed along the way.

The stewardess was waving goodbye to everyone as they shuffled out into the train station, occasionally stopping to shake a hand or give directions to nearby destinations. When you were just about to pass by, though, she pulled you into a tight hug.

“Good luck,” she whispered, holding you just a moment too long before pulling back and giving you an encouraging look. “If he doesn’t take you back, feel free to blame my translation… because if he knows what’s in your heart, I know he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part isn’t it?” you laughed weakly. “Thank you for your help. I guess if I come back alone for the return trip tonight, you’ll know how bad it went.”

“Then I hope I don’t see you again,” she winked.

It being a major train station and all, cabs were waiting around every corner so it was pretty easy to grab one and give them the address you already had written down for this exact purpose.

“This is pretty far,” the driver explained, “on the edge of town. Not a tourist spot.”

“Good, because I’m not a tourist,” you nodded, already only giving him half your attention as you pulled out the translated speech to practice.

“And you can afford this?” he pressed. You sighed and dug through your bag, pulling out a haphazard stack of bills and handing them through the plastic partition.

“Is this enough?” you asked, and he didn’t answer, just taking the money and starting the car as you smiled and leaned back in your seat.

As much as you had tried to convince yourself to not get your hopes up, the butterflies in your stomach felt more like whole birds at this point, demanding to break free as you practiced the words hand-written on the page over and over again, committing it all to memory.

“What are you reading?” the cab driver asked after several minutes.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, “sorry if I’m bothering you, you can turn on the radio.”

“No, it’s not bothering me, but what you are saying… it’s very odd. It sounds like something from a play, or movie,” he explained.

“Um, it’s not,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “But does it sound like it’s from a good movie? Like, if you heard a character say this to another character, would you think they should get together?”

“I… don’t know,” he answered, sounding confused. “I mean, it depends on what happened, right? How they met, how well they get along…”

So, you told him the whole story, as succinctly as possible (which is not very succinct at all). By the end, he was actually giving commentary as you spoke.

“Why the hell did you leave?” he interjected, clearly irritated with you. “You loved him!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes love isn’t enough! I loved my husband too, and look how that turned out,” you defended.

“But that’s different. That was love for all the wrong reasons.”

“I promise, it felt very real at the time,” you shrugged.

“And now?” he countered. “You realize that this man— Sebastian, right?— is real.”

“I hope I’m right this time,” you offered. “But even if I am, he may not agree.”

The driver scoffed, taking a hand off the wheel to wave dismissively. “If he’s anything like you said, then he will still be completely in love with you. After all, you still feel the same way after all this time apart, don’t you?”

“If anything, I love him more every day,” you admitted, your heart beating quickly just to say it aloud.

“You know, when I met my wife, she was engaged to another man. He was rich, good-looking, and he wasn’t even a bad guy unlike this husband you describe. He was a good man, but he wasn’t right for her. They were… content together, but she wasn’t truly happy. Every night I would come to her window and beg her to marry me, because I knew that she knew we were meant for each other, but she was scared because her family wouldn’t approve and she would be a poor man’s wife.”

“How did you convince her to marry you instead?” you asked eagerly, sucked into the story already.

“I didn’t. On the day of the wedding, some people told me to go and break it up but I didn’t. I thought it would be wrong, to try to ruin her happiness and take it for myself by making a scene at the wedding. I realized she was her own woman and if she wanted to choose him, I had to let her. I had locked myself in my house, not wanting to see anyone that day, and she appeared at my door. I didn’t need to convince her because she knew the truth in her heart, and called off the wedding herself.”

“Wow,” you smiled.

“She was still in her dress!” he recalled with a hearty laugh. “She looked like an angel. We were married just a few days later. And next month will be thirty years,” he added as he lifted his left hand to show the golden band on his finger.

“Thirty years, that’s… a long time,” you sighed.

“It wasn’t always easy,” he admitted. “But it was always worth it.”

Just as you wondered what you could possibly say to that, you felt the car slow down to a stop.

“This is the address you gave me, this is it,” he explained, pointing out his passenger-side window. You leaned up against the glass and gasped in dawning fear as you saw the storefront dark and empty inside.

“No, nonono,” you whispered rapidly to yourself as you swung open the door and hopped out, pressing your face against the glass to try to get a look inside and finding what was undeniably a closed carpentry business. There was a note on the door, taped on the inside of the glass, and you knew enough Romanian to know it said something about a vacation and three months.

“Shit!” you yelped, holding your face in your hands, wondering if your journey had come to an end before it really began.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked, rolling down his window to speak to you.

“This was my only lead, I don’t have his real address,” you explained. “He used to work here, I thought maybe someone would know him…”

He sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “Get back in, we can search nearby. You came too far to give in yet.”

But getting back in the car felt like giving in, too, which you realized as you looked back at the note taped to the carpenter's door. This was the closest you'd gotten, and it felt wasteful to leave with nothing.

Just as you were ready to hop in the passenger seat and start searching aimlessly through suburban Bucharest, or maybe look around for a Romanian yellow pages, you heard a noise from behind you, across the street; a laugh. His laugh. But it couldn’t be because it was too good to be true… and yet you found yourself whipping your head around and hoping beyond all reason that it was Sebastian.

Across the street was a restaurant, with a large patio where patrons were dining and chatting as they sat at wrought iron tables, and your eyes searched the crowd for any signs of him.

And then your gaze landed on a head of thick brunette hair, red and gold highlights so obvious now when the sunlight hit it this way. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-up shirt. He was facing away from you but he was looking to the side so you could see his face; he was smiling, laughing at something someone had said. And it was his smile that you recognized; it was like everything else faded away, and in that moment you thought maybe you could almost be happy with just this, just seeing him be happy even if it had nothing to do with you.

“Sebastian,” you called out to him, but he didn’t react. “Sebastian!”

His whole body turned, his eyes met yours, and you couldn't help but let the tears well in your eyes as you ran across the road to him.

He looked, understandably, stunned, and you realized he was actually waiting on a table at the moment; he said something to them, apparently excusing himself, and stepped closer to you.

But he stopped walking, not coming any closer, not exactly dragging you into his arms like you might've preferred, but with a breath to try to soothe your racing mind, you summoned your memories of the practiced letter and began. *

“Când am venit în Ungaria…” you started slowly, doing your best to remember the words and hoping your pronunciation wasn’t too awful, “nu căutam dragoste. Căutam spațiu, claritate și poate o idee de carte de un milion de dolari. În schimb, am găsit tot ce am căutat toată viața mea…”

You did your best to bite back tears, especially when his expression was nearly unreadable and you had no idea how well this was going.

“Ești tu, Sebastian, bineînțeles că ești tu,” you sighed, laughing slightly. “Ai fost acolo pentru mine când nici nu știam ce vreau de la nimeni. Ai fost prietenul meu fără să spui vreodată un cuvânt - cel puțin nu un cuvânt pe care l-am înțeles. M-ai iubit și nu știam ce să fac cu asta, pentru că uitasem cu mult timp în urmă cum se simțea să fii iubit. Și ce simțeai să iubești cu adevărat pe cineva. Dar te iubesc. Și am fost prost să te las să pleci, atât de neconceput de prost. Vreau să fim noi, Sebastian. Lasă-mă să te iubesc, mai dă-mi o șansă și îți promit că nu te voi mai lăsa să pleci niciodată.

The first thing he said was your name, and just the way he said it made you fall in love with him all over again.

“I… I dream that you would come back,” he shakily replied. “But now I cannot believe. You are my dream.”

Tears were openly flowing at this point and you wanted to run into his arms, but you tried to stay calm and hear him out. He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like you would run away if he got too close too fast.

“I love you, very much that I am sure I am insane person,” he explained with a grin, and you giggled. “We will live anywhere, do anything you would like— be my wife.”

You gasped as he pulled you into him, gripping your arms tightly as his desperation became apparent.

“Marry me?” he asked softly.

“Da,” you nodded, “yes, of course, anything—”

He kissed you suddenly, but gently, and it said more than any words in any language could.

It was a small wedding, in the Hungarian countryside by the lake. You could remember diving into that lake for lost pages of your manuscript; you could remember looking out over the water and dreaming of this moment you were living right now, thinking it was impossible.

He didn’t have much family, but they welcomed you with open arms.

Your family, well, they were too busy with planning another wedding, for your ex-husband and your ex-sister. A few of them sent cards but the rest were suspiciously quiet. You honestly didn’t even notice… you had a new family to attend to, anyhow. And it wasn’t like you didn’t have any guests, since you were able to track down and invite a stewardess named Maria, and a cab driver named Andrei and his wife, Paola.

Sebastian’s cousins weaved flowers into your hair and his grandmother tailored her dress to fit you like a glove. A picture of his parents was hung nearby in tribute; he told you they would’ve wanted to see him get married but that he felt, in some way, they were able to even if they had passed away quite some time ago.

You realized you’d never seen him in anything even mildly formal before; in fact, the suit he wore was rather casual, all things considered, but he looked so painfully cute in it. Sometimes you thought he actually looked a bit out of place wearing a shirt, though, especially one that was buttoned up all the way.

Luckily, the shirt was halfway unbuttoned about ten minutes into the reception.

Mrs. Alberti cooked a massive dinner for everyone, and even grew the flowers that you carried down the cobblestone aisle.

And wow, can Romanians drink. You had to be careful not to try to keep up with them, because if you had you would’ve been blacked out halfway into the night and the last thing you wanted was to forget even a moment of this.

As the night started to wind down to a close, you and your new husband retired to the lakehouse, running up the stairs and finding them as creaky as always.

He wrapped his arms around you in the hall and kissed you eagerly as you stumbled back into the bedroom, tripping over the doorway and falling onto the bed together.

It felt so right to have his weight on top of you, to feel his smile against your lips, to wrap your arms around his neck.

“This room,” he mumbled into the kiss. “Do you remember first time?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “da, I remember, how could I forget?”

He grinned and moved his lips down to your neck. "I thought of you every day… I love you,” he whispered.

“Te iubesc,” you whispered back.

It was almost like the first time in so many ways: passionate, yet oddly hesitant as you rediscovered each other. It was comfortable, though… you couldn’t think of any other person you felt so comfortable with, somebody who finally got you out of your own head and who made you want to experience everything life had to offer.

You were sure you’d never gone so long without worrying about something in all your life.

“My wife,” he whispered against your skin. “This is all I had wanted… from seeing you in very beginning.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” you sighed in return, “ești tot ce mi-am dorit vreodată, Sebastian.”

Life with Sebastian was beautifully simple. You spent most of the day writing, usually, while he built furniture to sell and occasionally gardened with his spare time. You could always tell how busy you’d been with a new novel lately by how perfectly groomed the hydrangea bushes were.

You’d told him once that you’d come to Hungary looking for a million-dollar book idea. A Killer in Disguise performed alright, but not anywhere near that. The Language of Love, on the other hand, was definitely a million-dollar idea… about eleven times over. Sebastian didn’t seem to worry too much about how much money you made, though; he was just proud to say that he was the inspiration for your hit novel. You secretly suspected that he was more proud of your work reaching enough international notoriety to be translated into Romanian.

His English still needed some work, but you found it endearing. He was determined to get better and spent at least a half-hour each day practicing, but you hoped he wouldn’t get too perfect because you would miss the silly little mistakes he made. At least you could be sure he’d keep the accent forever… damn, that accent; and he knew exactly what it did to you, too.

In fact, you were crossing through the hall in your robe one evening when your husband’s voice stopped you.

“Darling wife,” you heard Sebastian call from the bedroom in a playful sing-song.

“What is it, Seba?” you asked with a smirk.

“Come in here, please…”

You opened the bedroom door to find most of the room covered in rose petals: most of all the bed, which was surrounded by candles, and topped with a shirtless (as per usual) Sebastian, laid on his side seductively with a long-stemmed rose (one you recognized from his very own garden) between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” you laughed. “Is this some sort of special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

You were already searching your mind for what it could be, but your two-year anniversary had passed a few months ago already and since it was spring it couldn’t be the anniversary of when you first met since that was late in the summer.

“Iss not quite a thpecial occathion yeth,” he answered before taking the rose from his mouth so he actually made sense. “I was considering it could be a special occasion, when we’re done…”

You smirked and climbed over the candles and into bed with him, taking the opportunity to run your hands over his chest. “And what occasion would that be?”

“A year from now, it could be the anniversary of when our child was conceived,” he answered.

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to a whisper of surprise. “Seba—”

“If you’re not ready, I will be understand,” he instantly added, stern yet soft. “Only if you want this, I just thought that maybe—”

You silenced him with a kiss, lacing your fingers into his hair and letting him roll you onto your back. He pulled back just enough to let you answer, but your noses were still bumping into each other and you smiled.

“I’m ready, Sebastian. More than ready,” you whispered.

He grinned and kissed you again, deeper and slower as he held your face with one hand and gripped your waist with the other. As his lips trailed down to your neck, you were interrupted with one pressing thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He popped up and looked down at you with a smile. “Sure!”

“Why are you wearing ratty old jeans?” you laughed.

“Hey, these worked on you the first time,” he defended.

You gasped. “You don’t mean those are the jeans—”

“Yes,” he nodded, “the jeans that I had been wearing when I was working on Mrs. Alberti’s cottage. And, truly, when I was finding an excuse to work outside your window.”

“Wait,” you sat up, “did you actually work outside my window on purpose?”

He laughed, hanging his head quickly before looking back at you again with a sparkle in his eye. “You are very smart, my love, except for those times when you are— how do you say? Oblivious.”

You chuckled, unfortunately very aware that he was right.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was building a window frame, nearly a dozen metres away from the window it was for?”

You thought for a moment before dropping your face into your hands and laughing. “No, I didn’t notice that. I was too busy giving you a thorough eye-fuck,” you recalled.

“Yes, because I was not wearing a shirt and this distracted you,” he pondered, sounding suddenly like a scientist explaining a theorem or something. “See, that’s the beauty of wearing the jeans and no shirt. The body distracts you while the jeans seduce you.”

“How about you take the jeans off and put that body on me, capisce?” you pleaded; not that you didn’t love his humor or anything, but maybe his funny bone wasn’t exactly the bone you were interested in at the moment.

He grinned devilishly and suddenly pulled your legs apart, settling his body between them as he kissed your neck again, nipping at your jawline and ear. “You’re being impatient, dragă,” he purred. “You want to have my baby that badly?”

You whined involuntarily, arching your back as his hands roamed your body and finally began to untie your robe and push the silk out of the way. “Yes, Sebastian, please—”

“Let’s just say, theoretically, I wanted to have more than one? Would you have another of my children?” he asked softly as he reached up and palmed at your breasts, teasing your nipples which were already much too hard and sensitive for how little he’d touched you. The rough denim rubbing against the inside of your thighs was oddly arousing— maybe it was the sensation itself, or maybe it was just that this was almost like the first thing you imagined when you saw Sebastian all those years ago.

“Yes,” you moaned out your answer, “yes, you know I’d do anything for you.”

“What if I wanted a big family?” he pressed. “Really big? Like, Catholic big?”

“We can have our own fuckin’ Brady Bunch, Seb, I just need you right now,” you begged, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and desperate kiss.

He decided to wait until afterwards to ask what a ‘Brady Bunch’ was. You decided to wait until afterwards to ask when he’d learned how to use the word ‘theoretically’.

sfarsit; the end

#sebastian stan x reader

495 notes · View notes

passionatelyfanfic · 3 years ago

Text

BTS As Subs

Honestly, I do not see any of the guys been full-on subs, they are either doms, switches, or prefer no labels, but for our pleasure let us imagine that perhaps we are lucky enough to make them our subs 😜🤤

Jin/ Seokjin

Not the easiest to convince but if he sees that you have enough confidence to dominate him, then he'll be into it. He might not admit it but he kind of likes you tying him up and adorning his beautiful body with kisses and licks. Jin is meant to be adored, although he is our WWH, I think he needs to be reminded just how perfect he is and by being the one in charge you kind of get to shower him with all the affection he needs. I think he would probably go crazy once you reach his lower half and use your mouth on him. Seeing you this way would only make him fall deeper in love with you, wanting nothing more than to show you how much he loves you when he is in control again.

Suga/ Agust D/ Yoongi

I feel there are two parts to Yoongi, one that does not do anything unless he wants to, the other part is, if he loves you enough, he'll do just about anything you ask, although he'll complain or put up a little fight before fully accepting it (in other words he wanted to do it, he just wanted to be a brat about it or have you beg). I think he has a thing for a woman with a strong personality, so seeing you express this in bed as well, will leave him in admiration for you. He probably won't want to do much when he is the sub, he'll groan at everything you want, but then again who doesn't like the sound of his frustrated little moans and groans (think of the mmm sounds he makes when he raps, the little in pain moaning he made on a show when the rest of BTS was smacking his wrists, Heechul had to tell him he sounded too sexual and this one I heard recently, search 'Min Yoongi moaning or playing' on Youtube, very short clip where he is wearing black, YOU will not be disappointed😩🌊- this man's voice never fails me honestly).

Jhope/ Hoseok

He seeks to dominate in bed the way he does on stage, even if not intentional, it is just a role he usually takes, taming him would not be hard though, he is a sweetheart, all you have to do is ask. He will probably forget his place, will probably stare at you as if he wanted to rail you right into the bed, but all you would have to do is remind him who was in charge. He will let you do just about anything to him with zero complaints, he enjoys seeing you in this manner. Seeing his woman been the star of the show, the boss, the one making all the rules and scolding him if he doesn't do as he is told turns him on like nothing else can. The both of you just living for and loving moments like this.

RM/ Namjoon

Yes, our Daddy. Taking this into account, a daddy wants to ensure that he gives his baby girl the best possible care and not to be rude but fucking there is. In this case, him been a sub is not that much different, it kind of means the same thing, in a way. You telling him what you want and doing what you like to him only fulfills his wish- him being able to make you feel really good. You using his body just the way you like will get him pretty turned on, especially when you are on top moaning his name. He will be a brat about it though, touching you when he is not supposed to or saying something dirty just to get a reaction out of you; this will be something he enjoys, seeing you a little frustrated trying to dominate him, he cannot help it, he is a dom by nature after all.

Jimin

This baby boy seeks being wanted and desired by you, if that means he needs to be the sub during sex then he is very much open to it. Another one like Jin, he needs to be reminded just how perfect he is to you, so do not be afraid to spoil him and treat him. You can do just about anything to him and ask for just about anything, denying his orgasms and edging him will probably be the only thing that makes him a little angry, but he'll control himself and do as you say since he wants to hear you praise him once you are done. Just be warned though, once the roles are reversed, he will edge you to the point that you end up in tears, begging him to let you orgasm.

V/ Taehyung

Easy to convince when you want to be the dom during sex, he'll even be the one to suggest it on some occasions. To him sex is all about enjoyment and trying new things, he would want to be tied up, have sex toys used on him, ride him, choke him, bite on his neck, sit on his face, be rough with him, make him kneel before you as you stand and he eats you out. He wants to be used by YOU and do anything for you just as when the roles are reversed you do all this for him. Being a sub doesn't make him feel any less dominant or less masculine if I can put it that way, he knows sex is something to be fully enjoyed and explored, being a sub is just another way of him taking advantage of those benefits and expressing himself sexually.

Jungkook

I think he would like been a sub more than he would ever like to admit. He wants to be scolded therefore I think he will be a bratty sub, told what to do, and be called nicknames, for instance, Baby Boy, Prince? I do think he has a mommy kink and likes to be taken care of as well. He will probably get pretty whiney for you. I think these are the reasons he takes such pleasure in annoying the older members every chance he gets, as well as the interest he shows in older women. I think just knowing that you are able to dominate him even though he is a lot more physically stronger than you is a big turn-on for him. I think you as a dom also allows him to learn more about your body and what you like.

@stealth-liberal I hope it is okay x

#subby brat #bangtan #sub dom #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #jhope x reader #namjoon x reader #park jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #submissivebts #reader x subBTS #bts x smut #bts fandom #bts reactions

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sundaysundaes · 4 years ago

Text

Our First Time

Mark Lee X Reader, ft. Johnny | Smut, Fluff | 4.6k | College AU

Summary: Considering your boyfriend never dares to take the initiative to go further than your usual make-out sessions, you have to do the part to actually be in charge of the relationship.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, Mark Lee losing his virginity while being extremely awkward and utterly cute about it, oral sex, fingering, failed fluff (idk man this is just basically me being a thirsty hoe over morkly)

“Remember the suit you wore when we went to your aunt’s wedding?”

Your boyfriend, who has been together with you for almost a year by now, hums in response, not really giving you any glance as he’s busy tapping his pen to his lips, thinking about writing the next lyric for the song he’s composing. Mark Lee has his chest pressed against his acoustic guitar, his hair’s a bit messy and slightly parted to the side, showing his forehead. Considering how close he’s sitting on the floor next to you, you can tell how half of the collar of his washed-out denim jacket stands up, brushing against the end of his dark hair.

“Yeah, what about it?” He continues asking when he notices that you’re waiting for a proper answer. He slips his guitar pick back between his fingers and tries a few chords to match his lyrics.

“I just dreamt about you fucking me from behind while wearing that suit.”

Mark strums his guitar too hard out of shock, making his instrument flies away from his lap, hitting the marbled floor with a sudden loud noise.

“What?”

Still having your head pressed against the table with your right cheek glued to your abandoned college papers, you flatly repeat, “I dreamt about you fucking—”

Mark stands up so fast, you can tell he’s having a slight headache because of it. “No. No. I heard what you said, I just—” It’s a fact that Mark blushes rather easily, but he has never blushed this hard before. “What—why—telling me so suddenly like this—you’re—”

“Mark, you’re rambling.”

“Why are you so calm about it?!” He walks away to pick up his guitar, unconsciously stomping a little bit like a fuming child as he does so. “And why are you lazing around like that? Didn’t you have some assignments to do?”

You finally straighten yourself up, looking at the textbooks you need to read and suddenly feeling like you’re dyslexic from birth. “I dozed off a bit, I guess. I just woke up from that dream where—”

“OKAAAAYYYYY!” Mark scrambles back to your side, crossing his legs and shushing you down by covering your head with your hood until you can barely see anything. The grey hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie, actually—is already oversized when Mark is wearing it, so it’s basically a dress when you’re wearing it and the hood is big enough to cover your entire head.

You pull your hood away, your hair looking like a mess and by then Mark still has his cheeks rosy from your words and you wonder, whether it really was too much to talk about with your boyfriend?

You have never been the one who gets easily embarrassed about sexual stuff—or about anything really, because you’re a pretty blunt person. It’s his job to get embarrassed about things—even the ones that came out from his own mouth. Mark can be so confident and so awkward at the same time that it doesn’t make sense but you find him to be cute that way.

“Mark.”

“If you’re going to talk about that dream again, I am going to yank my hair out of my head.”

“But—“

“And I’m going to yank your hair out of your head.”

“But then we’re both be bald.”

“That will be your fault.”

You huff, unconsciously pouting, before you finally let go and head back to your papers. You try to hold your concentration longer than a few minutes, but when you hear Mark going back to his guitar, humming a few notes here and there, you just give up because there’s no way you’re going to finish your thesis when your boyfriend is singing so angelically like that.

“New song?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Thanks. It still feels a bit weird on some parts though, but—” Mark stops talking when you walk on all fours toward him, pushing the guitar out of his hands and crawl onto his lap. “Babe?”

You sink your face against the crook of his neck, hands going down and circle their way around his back. “Ssshh,” you say, exhaling all of his scents and thanking whoever it is that invented his perfume because goddamn, Mark smells like cinnamon and chocolate and everything that is good in this world. “I’m out of battery. I need to re-charge.”

Mark spends two seconds in silence before he blurts out laughing, “What are you even saying?” He protests but doesn’t push you away. Instead, he rests his chin on your shoulder and cuddles you closer into his chest.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, almost lazily as if he’s a few seconds away from sleeping. You answer by placing a peck on his neck which makes him jolt a little in surprise but not breaking away. The silence between you two is comforting but the way Mark’s jeans are pressing against your bare thighs is not so you move around, trying to find the most perfect comfort zone on his lap—not knowing that it is becoming a new kind of torture for your boyfriend. It’s until you feel something growing underneath you that you begin to halt your movements.

“Mark—”

“I know, don’t say it—”

“You’re kinda… hard.”

“I said, don’t—” He lets out a whine, slamming his temple against your shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, but you keep moving your butt and it feels like you’re not wearing any pants—“

“I am not wearing any pants.”

“Fuck.” Mark is not the kind of man who curses a lot—he only does it when he’s surprised or when he panics as he tries to process what he’s saying next, so the fact that he’s cursing now can mean he’s feeling one of those things or both or for a whole other reason.

“I mean,” you try to explain, “I’m not trying to seduce you or anything. It’s just your hoodie is way too big for me so I thought why bother? It’s not like we’re going somewhere. We’re just hanging out in my bedroom after all.”

“Oh my God,” Mark groans, throwing his head back as he leans against your bed. “Just give me some time to calm down.”

He really looks like he’s trying to will his boner to go away, what with the way he furrows his eyebrows and keeps his eyes tightly closed in concentration. Mark is too much of a gentleman to ask for your help but you’re willing so it’s more like he’s giving one by providing the chance for you to ravage him.

Just gotta play it cool, though.

And by cool, you mean pressing your palm against his groin when he’s not expecting.

“Yo, what!” He jumps like a scared little cat and honestly, he’s too cute—so utterly cute—that you begin to lean up and kiss him square on the lips. “Mmph!” His protest is muffled by your mouth and the way you entangle your fingers around the back of his hair, pulling him close. He stiffens for a few seconds before he finally lets go, melting into the kiss and you know the next one is going to be your favourite part.

See, the thing with Mark is, he acts shy and awkward most of the time but when the moment is right, he can be passionate about things. Like when he’s playing music. Or writing his raps during his free time.

Or kissing you.

“Mark—“ It’s funny that you initiated this, but it’s you who’s losing your breath. Mark takes your hand when you’re about to fall off his lap, pulling you with enough force to make you tumble back to his chest, and slips his tongue inside your mouth as you gasp. His kisses are deep and fast, almost like he’s in a hurry to kiss you before you disappear from his life forever. You never peg yourself to act like a thirteen-year-old virgin—because you’re certainly not—but when Mark kisses you like this, you feel like you’re acting worse than that.

You can feel one of his hands on your thigh, holding you tight to the point it feels like it’s going to bruise. You push his denim jacket off his shoulders when he kisses your neck, lips hovering hot against your sensitive spot, making you say his name in the tone you’ve never made before.

“You,” Mark whispers between kisses, “have got,” another kiss, his teeth nibbling against your bottom lip, “to stop teasing me like this.” Another slip of his tongue, meeting yours for a split second before he breaks off the kiss. “Or else, I’ll go crazy. I am going crazy because of you.”

“Then why are you stopping?” You ask, breathing a little bit heavier. You cup one of his cheeks, leaning up to kiss him again but he pulls away, hesitating. “Mark?”

“I don’t think we should go any further.”

“You don’t?” You grind your hips against him again and his lips part slightly, trying his best to contain his moan. “Even though you’re this excited?”

“That—” He hisses, gripping hips with both hands to keep you still. “Stop it, you’re not being fair.”

“I’m being honest,” you correct him. “What’s wrong? What’s stopping you? What did I do wrong?”

You can tell he feels sorry for making you feel like this and he’s really contemplating whether he should tell you the real reason or not, so you squeeze his hand and smile at him. “Let me know, please?”

He licks his bottom lip nervously before he sighs. “It’s dumb but…” He looks away, trying to hide his face but you see how the tips of his ears are turning scarlet. “You’re Haechan’s ex and I know he can be a little bit, umm… wild.”

It takes a few seconds for you to process. “So you’re afraid that you’re going to be worse than him in bed?”

“No, I mean—“ He seems frustrated and ashamed, like a child being caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Okay, yes, I guess you’re right. I am. But it’s more than that.”

The way he fidgets and rambles is just so cute—everything about him is cute—but you never say that out loud because he hates being called cute. He always says you’re cuter than him. “Mark, I don’t care about what happened with me and Haechan. I’m dating you now, aren’t I? You’re being jealous over nothing.”

The way he pouts indicates that he doesn’t particularly agree with your words, but he lets it go. “Well, there’s also one other thing.”

“What thing?”

“You know,” he shrugs, hiding his doe eyes behind his bangs. “That thing.”

“What? What is it? What thing?” Then you open your mouth in realisation. “Oh Mark, baby, I don’t care if you have a small dick. Size doesn’t matter.”

“What—NO!” He shrieks, face in flame. “I mean, not that I regularly measure it and compare it to other guys—I have never even seen another guy’s dick—not that I want to—”

“Mark, you’re rambling again.”

“I DON’T HAVE A SMALL DICK!” He exclaims and you hold back a laugh when he adds in a murmur, “At least I don’t think I have.”

“Okay, my bad.” You massage his shoulders, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Then what is it?”

Another silence, then. “I’ve never done this before.”

“What, sex?”

He weakly nods, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip worriedly, and you feel something warm growing inside your chest. The fact that he’s never been with anyone suddenly becomes the highlight of your life, and if you can be his first then you can just die from happiness by the end of the day.

But it’s because of this very reason, that you have to become very careful.

“Okay, then, let’s just take it slow?” You offer and he seems conflicted about his own expression. Part of him looks relieved but the other part of him looks disappointed.

“Why do I feel like we have our roles in reverse?” He asks, somewhat annoyedly, as you settle yourself better in his lap. You let out a small chuckle in response. “Also, your brother is downstairs.”

“He has his AirPods on.”

“How do you know he has his AirPods on?”

“Johnny always has his AirPods on.”

“But—”

“Mark,” you whisper, closing your eyes as the tip of your nose touching his, “Don’t you want me?”

He lets out a shaky breath, having a hard time trying not to stare at your lips that are becoming even more irresistible by the second. “You don’t even know how much I want you.”

“Then just let go. Just give in, Mark.” You press your temple against his and within this close proximity, his scent is intoxicatingly amazing.

“Okay,” he finally whispers back, but since he still sounds somewhat unsure, you add, “Look, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Just stop me whenever it gets too uncomfortable for you, okay?”

“Okay now we seriously have our roles in reverse. Should I be handing my dick to you now? I think you’ll make better use of it.”

“That sounds like a great idea only if it’s possib—” The rest of your words is replaced with a yelp when Mark suddenly pushes you down onto your back, your head hitting the floor too hard and now he’s yelping.

“Oh, shit—fuck!” He scrambles with his words and with his hands, trying to help you get up and check on your condition at the same time. “I’m so sorry! I was trying to be sexy and be in control or something like that—shit, it just looks way better in my head—I—Why are you laughing?!“

You can’t help it. This is all too ridiculous. Almost refreshing for you, even. You never compared Mark with your ex-boyfriend Haechan before because Mark is way, way better than he’s ever going to be but you remember that with Haechan, things were wild. So wild, that you constantly got caught off guard, not having enough time to focus on your feelings or your own pleasure and just fulfilling his, and his only. With Mark, you feel like you have so much more to give. So much more new experience. So much laughter. So much fun.

“Oh my God, Mark,” you cackle, wiping away some tears from your eyes, “I love you, but if you don’t stop acting so cute, I am going to ravish you myself.”

“What?”

You blink in realisation. “Sorry, that was too much.”

“No, not that.” He knits his eyebrows together. “You love me?”

You feel your heart drops to your stomach. You can’t believe you just said that. It’s not like you didn’t mean it—of course, you mean it. But you’ve tried your best to wait so you can hear him say it first. You are a woman, after all. And to think that you just said it randomly at times like this? After your boyfriend knocked your head against the floor for trying to be sexy? Not really the way you imagined it to be, that’s for sure.

“Umm,” you fondle the hem of your—his—hoodie. Great, now you’re nervous. Suddenly, those papers you have scattered on your table don’t look so bad. “You’re right, I do have some assignments to do. I’ll just get back to—“

Mark grabs your hand, holding you right on your spot. “You love me?”

You can practically hear your own heartbeat in your ears and it’s really fast. “My thesis—”

“Babe, I need to hear you say it.” The way his doe eyes are holding yours seems unfamiliar. His gaze is firm, unfaltering, and you give in because what else can you do? It’s really how you feel after all.

“I love you, Mark.” You can hear the shyness in your own voice and you curse inwardly because where did your confidence go? You were acting so superior before!

Mark doesn’t say a word and when you feel like dying is a better option than standing awkwardly in front of your attractive boyfriend after your stupid unplanned confession, he suddenly lifts your entire body with both hands and lays you down on the bed.

“Mark—“

He kisses you like he needs it to keep himself alive, and you find yourself closing your eyes shut, moulding your lips against his until you can taste the mint flavour from the candy he ate earlier. He tangles his fingers around your locks, the other hand cupping your cheek to angle your face better so he can kiss you deeper. You can’t help but to arch yourself closer to him, chest meeting chest, hips against hips. You can no longer tell whether the moans come from you or him but everything feels hot and going so fast, like you’re free-falling from a skyscraper.

Perhaps he feels the same way because he gradually slows his pace until he finally parts his lips from you. One look at your disheveled face and messy lipstick smeared from your mouth to your cheek, and he goes back to staring at your lips again with want. He mutters, “Fuck” under his breath, almost inaudibly before he crashes his lips against yours, but slower this time, just carefully savouring every taste and breathing in every scent of you.

Mark pulls away only to grab the hem of his white Van Halen shirt, pulling it over his head and tosses it somewhere without care and you have to remind yourself to breathe because fuck me, that was hot. His hair’s a mess—even messier than before and you think that’s just as hot as he can get but then he pushes his hair back with his hand, forehead showing as it glistens with sweat, and says, “I’m not going to hold back anymore.”

Again, fuck me, that was hot.

Mark seems brave enough to finally just let go and consume you in the way he has been wanting to for a while, but you can tell he’s also nervous from the way he fumbles every now and then, especially when he tries to unhook your bra without looking. He has no problem tossing your—his—hoodie away, but when he keeps his eyes closed as he kisses you, it takes a good minute for him to finally unclasp your bra.

He’s momentarily in awe when your naked breasts come into view but he wastes no more time trying to please you with both his hands and his mouth.

It’s good. He’s good. If he’s this good his first time, you can’t wait to see what happens next. You’re too busy losing yourself in his touch until you feel his length pressing against your thigh. By instinct, you press it harder against his groin, eliciting a surprised moan from him.

Goddamn, why is he so hot?

That voice of his; you want to hear it more and more, so you bring his mouth back to yours, align your hips with his and unzip his jeans. Mark is swearing again, but the more he swears, the breathier he sounds and when you rub him over his underwear, his moans are delicious.

“Feels good?” You ask and he kinds of scowl at you because what do you think?

Surprisingly enough, he pushes your hand away from his crotch and when you raise an eyebrow asking why, he kisses your body lower and lower until his face is hovering above your panties.

“Mark,” you call out, “Don’t try to be sexy and pull my underwear down with your teeth or something. You haven’t reached that level yet.”

He responds by tickling you hard on the sides of your stomach and you almost kick him in the face from laughing beyond control.

After all joking has receded, Mark swallows his breath nervously and kisses you on the inside part of your thigh, slowly creeping down to your heat, mouthing against it from over the fabric.

“Want me to take it off?” He asks in the cockiest way you’ve ever seen him do and you wonder who’s the virgin one in this relationship.

“Depends. Do you want to have blue balls for the rest of your life?”

“I’m kidding, geez,” he says, chuckling a bit but it sounds more nervous and he probably is nervous since he’s never done anything like this before.

“Don’t worry, I’ll guide you,” you assure him and he looks like he wants to retort with something clever and snarky but he also kind of needs your guidance so he keeps quiet and just pulls your underwear down and tosses it away.

Mark knows how to use his tongue, he just doesn’t know where he should use his tongue. That’s when your guidance comes handy, you suppose.

“A little bit lower, Mark.”

“Here?”

“Lower.”

“Umm… here?”

“Whoa, too low!” You spring up from the bed, pressing your thighs together so he won’t lick anywhere weird. “Okay, Mark, there’s my vagina and there’s my ass. Some girls like to have their asses eaten, but not me.”

“Right,” he says awkwardly, cheeks burning bright. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Umm…” It’s so awkward and you both kind of just sit on the bed not knowing what to do so you ask, a bit unconvincingly, “Try again?”

To your surprise, Mark nods rather excitedly, like a child eager to learn and that’s cute and all but in this context? Not so much.

But wow, Mark learns fast.

It’s been more than a year since someone has touched you like this and it feels like it’s your first time again, so you’re quickly reduced to a whimpering mess when Mark kisses and flicks his tongue against your private part. And when he sucks at a particular spot, you’re practically screaming his name.

“S-sorry, did I hurt you?” He asks, pulling away, eyes shaking in concern.

“God, no.” You’re this close to shoving his face back to your crotch. “Don’t stop, Mark, please.”

“But if you’re in pain—“

“Mark,” you can practically feel your patience throwing itself out of the window. “If I’m in pain, I will kick you in the face or tell you to stop, so if I don’t do any of that, don’t fucking stop.”

You know you sound a bit desperate. Or a lot. But is there any girl out there who’s not going to sound this desperate when Mark Lee is using his mouth to utter nonsense when he just did a perfectly good job over there?

Lucky for you, Mark actually listens and doesn’t stop going even if you’re mewling his name, to the point of almost sobbing even, and continues to please you until your thighs begin to tremble in delight and you fall back to the bed with the biggest content sigh you’ve ever made in your entire life.

“How was it?” He asks with a little bit of teasing in his tone because he can see how good it was. You can tell he wants to hear you praise him.

“You, Mark Lee,” you breathe out, looking at him with stars in your eyes. “Are the most talented person in the world and I’m not just talking about your talent in music, but in everything.”

He chuckles. “That good?”

You pull him down by his belt, until his chest pressing against yours again. “That good,” you agree before you crash your mouth against his in the most consuming way you’ve ever kissed someone.

Mark eventually has his pants off and you switch positions when he’s finally stark naked. He’s so shy about the whole thing that he barely keeps eye contact with you, and he stutters hard, asking where the condom is when you begin to position yourself on top of him. You shake your head, telling him that you don’t have one and add, “Just tell me when you’re about to come so you can pull out just in time.”

Mark opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping for air, probably about to protest but can’t come up with any better solution. Besides, he basically just throws everything out of the door when you sit down on his lap, your walls stretching against his length in one swift motion and he throws his head back.

“Fuck!” He breathes heavily, looking at you specifically at the part where you both are connected. “You’re wet—how are you so wet—and warm—oh my God—I’m—“

“You’re rambling again.” It’s the third time you said that to him in the last hour, which must have been some kind of a record. Not important right now, though. You’re focusing yourself to adapt to his length—because he’s nowhere small, it turns out—and slide up and down when it stings less.

“Okay, shit, wait—“ Mark sinks his nails on the sides of your hips, making you wince a little and he pulls back, muttering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m going crazy. Can we stop?”

“Too much?”

“Too much.”

You tease him by clenching your walls around him and he just groans loudly in the sexiest way you’ve ever heard a man groan. “Babe, please,” he begs, eyes half-lidded in lust. “You’re not being fair. It’s my first time.”

“So?” You can’t help it. You’re having so much fun. You rock your hips against him again and he just loses it. Mark grabs you by the waist, bringing you back down to the bed and muffle your laughter with his mouth.

“Since you can’t stop teasing me about it,” Mark says, spreading your legs apart by instinct and seeing him between your thighs is just the sexiest thing you’ve ever witnessed. “I’ll take control from here.”

Mark moves rather awkwardly, and sloppily from time to time but he is hitting the right spot. He’s too enthusiastic though, which doesn’t make him last long. He comes undone soon after, dripping liquid onto your stomach before your own orgasm can hit you but he doesn’t spend his time lying beside you on the bed. Instead, he quickly inserts one finger into you, then two, pumping in and out as he analyses your expression—making sure that he’s doing right and not hurting you in the process. You clutch your fingers around his bicep, urging him to go faster with your mouth parting halfway in pleasure and he smiles proudly at the sight. Smirking, he brings his mouth back to suck on whatever that is that makes you feel like the world is ending and you don’t fucking care because of Mark, oh yes, Mark!

When you’re done, he pulls his fingers out and licks the tips. He’s probably not trying to be sexy but more out of curiosity or just trying to imitate some dudes in those porn videos he watches from time to time, but goddamn, please do that again.

“Sorry for making such a mess,” he says, pushing the bangs out of your eyes, “I’ll go grab some tissues to clean you up—”

You bring him down to kiss him, senselessly, longingly, and languidly. Just enjoying the moment as you come down from your high. “You know,” you say, “I don’t know if I’m a good teacher, or you’re just one hell of a student, but that was amazing.”

Mark blushes but he grins like a child. “Am I better than Haechan?”

“I hate you for bringing him up because he no longer exists in my life but I bet my ass he’s never going to be as good as you. Our first time is ten times better than my last time with him.”

“You’re being honest?”

“Ten thousand percent.”

Mark plops down on the bed next to you, punching the air in a winning pose. “Hell yes!”

“Mark?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Let’s take a shower together. You see, practice makes perfect.”

As he’s busy trying to wash the blush away from his face, there’s a loud knocking sound coming from the other side of your door.

“Have you two bunnies done fucking each other’s brains out yet? I need to take my AirPods you borrowed.”

Mark stares at you in horror when you finally remember that you, indeed, borrowed Johnny’s AirPods this morning.

You begin to sweat. “Oops?”

***

1K notes · View notes

romanticahwi · 3 years ago

Text

Stray Kids as Princes

requested: no

genre: fluff + a bit suggestive

ship: skz x gn!reader

warnings: a bit of suggestiveness of sexual deeds, mentions of swords and fighting, mentions of injuries, lmk if there is more

not proof read! (minors dni)

a/n: we apologize for being so inactive recently! here’s a new work we’ve been working on, we hope it makes up for our long absence.

Bang Chan

• Probably one of the sweetest rulers ever

• Incredibly approachable

• Gives you the best advice you’ve ever heard sometimes whenever you’re having problems

• Sometimes you forget he’s royalty because you just feel so comfortable around him

• Lots of people swoon over him because honestly how could you not? Especially since he’s so sweet literally 24/7

• Nobody has ever seen him unhappy before, and he has certainly never been seen angry - only slightly annoyed but that itself is a rare sight

• He has a big soft spot for puppies and just all things cute

• He might have once proposed to change the name of his kingdom to something puppy-related (Succeeded in changing the national flag to something that had puppy paws in it)

• He enjoys swimming a lot, and there will almost always be a crowd of fans watching him and cheering him on every time! He may get really shy about it, but on the inside, he secretly likes it and it motivates him to do better!

Bang Chan As Your Prince

• As a lover, this man treats you like you’re royalty too, even if you aren’t!

• He will never allow you to degrade yourself or put yourself down but if that’s your way of coping, he won’t hesitate to give you his full, undivided attention…and then he’ll shower you with love and very kind words (he’s incredible with them - it never fails to blow you away)

• His singing voice is lovely, you often ask for him to sing you to sleep which is something he loves to do! He sees it as a way to get in some minutes of practice so he can improve himself

• He always wants to better himself and take care of others so much to the point that he’ll ignore his own needs, so he’ll definitely need someone to take care of him

• You sometimes can’t believe you’re lucky enough to call him yours, but he feels the same about you too, and he’ll always make it known (You swear your heart melts a little (in the best way possible) whenever he gets shy)

• He’s very cuddly, he loves giving you hugs; if there’s a day that goes by where he doesn’t give you one at least once throughout the day, then you know something is wrong

• He giggles a lot, and anything can set him off but you find it to be incredibly endearing

• He is just so soft…especially in the bedroom, but there are times when things get a little more heated

• “In a world that was dark and grey, you came along and painted beautiful, vibrant colors”

Lee Know

• He seems unapproachable at first because of his icy stare, but that’s quite the contrary actually (he’s actually an incredibly warm human being)

• Loves to crack jokes! Most of them are cat-related, but don’t comment on that or else he’ll probably stare at you weirdly and will continue to do so until you let it go

• Don’t tell anyone, but he secretly loves playing with cats in his free time, and sometimes whenever he has to spend a full day tending to his ✨ royal duties ✨ you’ll find him squeezing time in to pet some stray cats or to rescue them

• Speaking of rescuing stray cats, he’s incredibly passionate that no cat should be homeless and each should be loved and taken care of

• Not just cats, but he believes any stray animal shouldn’t be left without a home or a loving owner (He himself has three cats)

• He’s basically the president of the kingdom’s animal rescue team, and he often checks up on the shelter to either play with some of the animals there, or he’ll chose one and spontaneously run around the kingdom to promote how adorable they are in hopes of finding them a home at the end of the day

Lee Know as your Prince

• You must be an animal lover like him, because you guys will spend so much time together at the shelter to play with them!

• He’s a little awkward when it comes to affection, specifically hugs, but with given time, he’ll warm up to it! Plus, he’s awkward in a cute way

• He’s gifted you a cat plushie which you’re unable to sleep without at night, sometimes you’ll catch him stealing it from you because he claims that it’s just too adorable

• You guys have ice cream dates a lot, because he seems to have a second stomach for it

• Whenever you go with him to get his portrait painted, he loves to pose in funny positions and make funny faces, there are a lot of portraits consisting of him doing so, finding a more serious one is kind of rare but hey…you’re just glad to see his true personality that he’s a bit hesitant to share with the rest of the kingdom

• You happened to discover this on accident, but he likes it when you ruffle his hair and look at him fondly, it makes his heart race

• He often guards his emotions, but you feel thankful whenever he opens up to you because sometimes you get worried when he bottles them up for a little too long

• He can be a bit evil sometimes, and that shows in the bedroom but he makes sure to never do something you’re not comfortable with - your needs come first

• “You are my pride and joy, I feel so lucky to have you”

Changbin

• SUCH A FUN MAN!

• Nicknamed the prince of fun! Only by a few people…everyone else refers to him as the “pig-bunny prince” because he has a big obsession with Dwaekki (he might even be the face of the kingdom…literally. aka the national flag)

• You can trust him with practically anything. But do expect him to playfully tease you most of the time!

• He can be really loud! Even if you’re a few rooms down from whatever room he’s in, there’s no doubt you’ll be able to hear him

• He really loves music, he’s in charge of anything music-related (He’s hosted rap classes before, and a lot of people found them to be a bit on the difficult side because he can rap incredibly fast)

• He’s pretty chill, and kind of like a best friend to everyone - he’s that open to things and he’s incredibly reliable (He’s got everyone’s back, whether you’re close to him or not.)

Changbin As Your Prince

• He’s a very fun lover as well, your love life together is always full of excitement

• Certain activities could possibly cause him to get severely injured, and you always mentally note that you should tell him to stop, but seeing the pure joy on his face…you can’t help but to change your mind. (He’s a little daredevil, it’s kind of rare to see him mellowed-out, and when you do, you should probably be concerned when he isn’t being his loud, hyper self)

• He can be pretty affectionate when he wants to be but he displays his love for you through other actions rather than physical affection

• He too, is very good with his words! He makes you feel like you’re on cloud 9

• That “cool guy” act that he’s got going on? It doesn’t show up as much when he’s with you, because he’s just that comfortable with you. (Plus he thinks that you deserve to see the true Changbin…the man behind the prince that everyone else doesn’t get to see)

• His playfulness shows up in the bedroom too, along with ruthless teasing, like sometimes you’ll have to beg for him to have mercy on you but in his opinion that just makes things more exciting

“What was my life before? Ever since we met, I can’t seem to live without you anymore”

Hyunjin

the softest when it came to serving his kingdom

his gentle voice and soft smile always brought people to ease when they were around him

an equestrian. when not attending to royal duties, he’s always riding a horse or in the stable

as the only child and only son, he must take over the kingdom, no questions asked

throws an annual winter wonderland festival to show his gratitude to his subjects

his kind smile is loved by all

Hyunjin as your Prince

so so so loving oh my

would help you make bracelets for the small children in the kingdom

would press loving kisses to your face with that shy smile of his

would also take you on horse rides! in the morning, middle of the day, at night? you name it!

intimacy between you two was so loving and soft

he would show you how much he loves you with sweet kisses and gentle words

“everyday when I watch the sunset, I realize I’ll get to spend another day with you.”

Han

he gives off the vibe that he wouldn’t want to rule the kingdom after his father.

he wants to pursue music, but the king is against it.

so against it, that Jisung has to do what he loves behind his father’s back

very playful; loves sword fighting and horseback riding

everyone in the kingdom as a slight crush on him

he’s known for being very heroic; he’s saved many people and the protected the kingdom with an iron fist

he may not want to rule in the future, but he still cares about his subjects like family

very giving as well; always there if anyone is in a bad situation, whether it’s big or small.

Han as your Prince

very loving; loves pressing kisses all over your face, and having his hands on your body

very protective. If anyone looks at you with barely even a little interest, it’s all over.

when you two get intimate, I see him being the one to initiate everything

he would take care of you, kissing down your body with soft praises and soft touches

holds your waist gently while doing the do

“ there are many bright stars in the sky, but you’re the brightest out of them all, baby.”

Felix

the sweetest prince ever.

cares so much about his subjects; maybe more than himself

everyone loves him, and are very ready for him to take over the kingdom

hosts monthly bake sales that the entire kingdom can participate in, which also helps feed people in need

dances when he’s not attending to royal duties, and oh my, he’s a beautiful dancer

during the cold winters, he hosts as much shelter for people as he can

being the only son in his family, he needs to find a significant other soon because his father is getting old to keep running the kingdom

Felix as your Prince

no surprise, but he’s the sweetest

he can’t keep his hands off of you when you’re together

hands on your waist, holding your hand, any skinship, he’s doing it.

when you two were intimate, regardless of his roll, his eyes would be filled with so much love.

loves it when you run your hands through his hair, tugging it gently

nonstop kisses. he’s completely addicted to your lips.

“i might be the kingdoms pride and joy, but you are my absolute universe.”

Seungmin

very strategic and well educated. he knows what he’s doing, and knows how to do it well.

extremely brave. he’s saved the country multiple times.

he comes off as cold, but behind closed castle doors, he’s an energetic puppy.

loves to sing in his free time

often gets caught singing in the castle garden, and gosh he sounds beautiful

extremely protective over his family. You hurt them, he hurts you.

Seungmin as your Prince

cold on the outside, warm on the inside

will not go father than keeping his arm out for you to wrap around when you’re in public

but within castle walls? he’s all over you.

kisses kisses kisses galore

smiles brightly only for you :(

sings you to sleep every night

when you two are intimate, he usually wants it soft and slow so he can show you how much he loves you

soft praises and slow, romantic kisses

holds your hand the entire time

“you are more beautiful than the cherry blossom blooms on a sunny day.”

I.N.

playful but caring

he always is holding a smile on his face. there’s never a point and time where people weren’t seeing him smiling.

however he takes his royal duties very seriously. when someone is in trouble, he’ll put the villain in their place.

a fencer. he finds such a thrill in fighting someone with a sword.

since he has an older brother, he doesn’t have to take over the kingdom, and he’s happy about it.

ideally want to live in a forest, surrounded by trees and wonder.

I.N. as your Prince

so so so caring. he cares about no one when it comes to you.

he loves to press gentle kisses all across your face, neck, jaw, etc. he just thinks you’re so beautiful.

would love it when you showed up to his fencing matches. he loved it when you were there to cheer him on.

you two would stay up till the rise of the sun singing and giggling with each other.

would hold you close when you two eventually fell asleep.

this sweetheart would let you take any role when it came to intimacy. he was an absolute fool for you.

“When the sky is filled with sweet, bird songs, I get reminded of you.”

- atalia & arya

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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

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At Last (Frankie Morales x gn!Reader)

Summary: you, Frankie, and your fur baby go camping! Little does Frankie know what you have planned.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: flirting, innuendo, alcohol, food, language, otherwise, this is toothaching fluff!

A/N: SAMMY MY BELOVED @sanchosammy GAVE ME THIS IDEA! I hope it’s as cute as I think it is :) also, Charlie (Frankie’s pup) isn’t involved in this fic but she is still part of the fam :)

Pine trees surround you on either side, tall and majestic. You can see the blue-gray sky patching through the canopy; the clouds are leaving, but some linger a little longer to clog up the sky. The air is warm and slightly humid, but a wonderful breeze rustles through the trees and rushes across your bare arms. Your trail shoes squelch underfoot in the damp ground. You sigh, totally content with this moment.

Frankie’s flannel is tied around his waist, leaving him in his khaki cargo pants and t-shirt. A couple of curls peek out from under his ball cap, turning into little ringlets at the nape of his neck. He walks in front of you on the trail, his boots pressing prints into the soft ground. His back profile is beautiful, even with the large camping pack, and you can’t help but grin.

Foxtrot embodies her name- Frankie is holding her leash, and the auburn and white dog trots up ahead of him, sniffing along the mulched and muddied path. The air smells of humidity that’s just passed over and that wonderful accompanying petrichor. Fox’s white paws are surely getting dirtied, but that’s only to be expected. You don’t care, too excited to watch your boyfriend and dog walk ahead of you.

Frowning at the bend of Frankie’s back, you catch up and take his free hand. “Let me carry something, baby.”

“No,” he shakes his head, lacing his fingers through yours. “You have important cargo,” he teases and pats your back lightly.

Strapped to your back, in a backpack-style blue case, is your ukulele. One hand carries the cooler, slung over your shoulder, filled with food and drinks for tonight. Frankie carries the heavy-duty stuff- the tent, stakes, more essential supplies. “At least let me take Fox.”

Her red ears perk up at her name and she stops, turning and growing excited, as if she forgot you were there. “Yeah, hi Foxy!” You coo as she runs towards you, jumping with her front paws in the air in excitement. “Yeah, you love it out here, don’t you?” You ask her in a baby voice, scratching behind her ears as she circles around your legs and prevents you from moving. Frankie drops her leash in order to prevent your legs from being tourniqueted by it, and it drags behind her in the mud.

When you pick up the leash, it’s sludgy and damp, but you don’t mind too much. You continue the hike forward and Frankie and Fox follow at your sides, both beaming ear to ear and enjoying the serenity of the woods.

Frankie picked the campsite, so he’s technically leading the way, but the trail is fairly straightforward, meaning you don’t need to be led. Frankie points out wildlife here and there: chipmunks, rabbits, cardinals and chickadees flitting through the pine-needled canopy. He’s in his element, and you’re in yours: with him.

The mud gives way to drier ground ahead, and luckily enough Frankie pulls off to the side. It’s the perfect spot, with a beautiful little field of wildflowers. “Welcome to your five-star hotel for the night, babe,” he assures you and kisses you softly, making you giggle and kiss him back with excitement and a pinch of nerves in your stomach.

There’s a routine the two of you have silently adopted. Frankie sets up the small tent, just big enough for the two of you and Fox. You gather kindling, set up a fire, arrange the chairs and all-around make the outdoor area of your campsite ideal.

Frankie is a man of patience, truly, but sometimes the little portable tent proves to be a challenge. You allow Fox off of her leash, knowing she’s well-trained enough to stick around the site, and find your way to the mess of fabric and stakes covering the man. “Baby. For the love of God, we do this all the time,” you tease.

“Well, something must’ve fucking changed,” he grumbles as he fiddles with the parts. You get on your knees on the soft bed of dried pine needles and help him out. With your help, the tent takes no time at all to put up, and you stand and brush off your hands. Frankie gives you a sheepish smile and you give him a kiss.

The two of you don’t need to converse while you set things up. You enjoy the woods, the rustling of the wind and chirping of birds. Fox curls up on the blanket you set out for her, and when everything is done, you unzip the cooler and hand Frankie a beer. “Well, now we’re all set.”

“Let the fun begin,” he chuckles and twists the top open, clinking his glass bottle to yours.

“So, Francisco,” you smile over at him. “What do you have planned for this trip? I know you have some sort of plan laid out up there,” you tease and rap on his head softly, through the trucker cap resting there.

He blushes a little and looks away. “I don’t always have a plan.”

“Hey.” You turn his face back to yours by the chin. “You do and I absolutely love it. Now tell me about it, please, baby.”

Frankie removes his hat and runs a hand through his curls. “Well, I figured we could start the fire soon, cook dinner over it. It’ll get dark pretty quick. Then hang around the campfire, maybe play some of the games I packed.”

“Is a quiet tumble in the tent on the cards?” You ask him with a teasing grin, nudging his side.

He shrugs, jokingly, as if he’s considering it. “I don’t see why we couldn’t squeeze that in. We only have, oh… three hours of time in between these plans.”

“Then we’ll use all three of those hours,” you shrug and steal a kiss, smiling into his lips. “I love you. And I love it out here.” You were never a nature person before Frankie, usually preferring indoors adventures to hiking or camping. Frankie looks like he belongs out here, and he probably thinks he does. Even if you didn’t enjoy the fun of outdoors adventuring, you’d have at least one thing to enjoy: Frankie’s excitement and enthusiasm over it. “Thank you.”

Fox is curled at Frankie’s feet, and he bends over to scratch her ears, running his fingers through her scruffy fur. “Thank you, baby. For coming out here with me and putting up with all of this. I couldn’t ask for a better adventure partner.”

You do, indeed, cook dinner over the fire. You’d prepped all kinds of chopped vegetables to be grilled over an open flame, and had additionally packed pre-cooked hot dogs as well as s’mores ingredients. Frankie is a firm believer that it’s not camping if it doesn’t include graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows.

Luckily, your Frankie is a skilled griller. He always is, always has been. He takes care of the cooking part, since you prepared everything else, though he lets you hold the hot dogs over the fire to roast. “I feel like I’m at camp again,” you laugh as you slowly rotate the food over the fire.

Frankie is taking charge of the vegetables, expertly. They’re getting a beautiful char, you notice. “It’s much better, because you don’t have to sneak around to make out with your boyfriend at night, huh?” He teases and tosses you a grin.

“But I get my boyfriend all to myself,” you nod and confirm. “And I have my baby girl with me,” you coo as you rub Foxtrot’s head, where she’s resting at your side.

The meal is delicious, of course, when the two of you work together and each used your strong skills. Frankie slips bites to Fox when he thinks you’re not looking, of course, but it’s endearing, the way the dog’s big brown eyes mirror those looking down at her.

There’s not much conversation while you eat, mouths occupied with food rather than speaking. That’s alright. There’s plenty of time for that tonight and tomorrow.

The sun starts sinking lower when Frankie brings the marshmallows from the tent. “Guess what time it is!” He exclaims as he rips open the bag, skewering two marshmallows and holding them over the fire.

Like he’s a skilled griller, he’s also a wonderful marshmallow-toaster. Frankie toasts yours to perfection, just the way you like it, and you do your part as the s’more-sandwicher, shoving the marshmallow between the graham crackers and chocolate.

There’s no signal out here, and you agreed neither of you would use your phones unless an emergency happened. Frankie frowns as he sees your phone. “Hey. Put that away. Don’t use that.”

“There’s an emergency, Frankie,” you whine, opening the camera app with one hand and eating the sugary dessert with the other.

“And what’s that?” He asks, taking a bite of his s’more.

Strings of gooey marshmallow connect the sandwich to his lips, making him laugh, and you snap a picture at the perfect moment: Frankie’s closed-lipped smile as his s’more falls apart on him. “You’re too damn cute, that’s the emergency,” you laugh and set the photo as your lock screen, tossing it away.

Frankie’s schedule actually worked itself naturally. After the s’mores and a wet-wipe hand-washing to remove the endless marshmallow from Frankie’s hands, you find yourself sitting around the fire, no light left in the sky. When you look up, all you can see is inky blue and pine trees, the stars yet to make their nightly rise.

“I have a song request,” Frankie asks and raises his hand like a child in a classroom.

“Yes, Francisco?” You tease as you walk to the tent, grabbing your ukulele and returning with it, sitting back in your lawn chair with it. “Hit me.”

“Only The Good Die Young by Billy Joel. No, wait- Country Roads.”

Laughing, you noodle around with the strings for a moment. You knew this moment would come, and here’s the opportunity. “I can play all of those and more, Frankie. We’ll do the Billy Joel first,” you nod decisively.

Frankie sounds like the forest wolves at night when he sings along. He absolutely howls, taken away by the song, taken to a place where his voice isn’t just a little on the rougher end of good. He belts the words and dances along in his seat, like you do.

Then Country Roads. You thought the last one was bad before you hear Frankie’s booming voice echoing the ballad of West Virginia through seemingly the entire preserve. But you don’t care in the slightest. You sing along proudly, strumming your ukulele harder and harder until you’re sure you can’t add any more volume before snapping a string.

After the song, you pause and rest your ukulele flat on your lap. “Frankie, baby. Can I ask you something?”

He nods, smiling over at you. “Any time. What’s up, buttercup?” He asks, taking one of your hands and kissing the knuckles.

“Will you marry me?” You ask. The question is straight and to the point, blunt and honest. Your face conveys your hope, and the grandiose speech follows. “I love you beyond belief, Frankie. I love you almost as much as you love these woods. I know you love me too. I just… think it’s time. We’ll be perfect for it. What do you say?”

You can feel Frankie’s slightly-chapped lips curve into a smile against your hand. He’s grinning and then he’s crying, soft water droplets forming in the corners of his eyes. “Of course I’ll marry you,” he grins, grabbing your ukulele and setting it aside.

Once the ukulele is on the ground, Frankie stands in front of your chair and lifts you to your feet, kissing you with such fervor you can’t help but gasp. When he breaks away, you smile, eyes watering too. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of proposals, but-”

“It was the most us,” Frankie cuts you off with a teary grin. “I would be honored to be your husband, my love. You really want me enough to do that?”

“Frankie,” you coo, cupping his face in your hand. “You are the best husband I could ever want, could ever dream for,” you assure him and kiss his nose gently.

The man laughs, wiping his tears away. “Then let’s get married,” he whoops excitedly, then lets out an excited shout to the woods. “We’re getting married!”

You laugh at his loud and booming declaration, but nothing can detract you for the love and joy in your heart.

When you and Frankie settle down in your chairs again, you pick up the ukulele and finish off with one last beautiful song that you and Frankie have always adored, with a title that truly fits: At Last.

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 3 years ago

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Michael in the Mainstream: The Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad has frequently been touted as one of the worst comic book movies ever, and honestly? I don’t really agree, even if I almost wholeheartedly agree with every criticism of it. The editing is bad, the story is a mess, the Squad’s friendship is nonexistent, characters like Waller act like absolute idiots, Enchantress is a bad character and an absurd villain for these people to face… And yet, the core cast of scoundrels are all pretty likable when you wipe off the crap they’re buried under. These characters all could have shined bright if they were given competent writing and direction; the ideas are there, but the execution is unbelievably flawed due to excessive executive meddling (and probably a bit of pretentiousness on director David Ayer’s part). If only there was a director capable of taking the concept of a bunch of C-list villains getting together and performing dangerous missions and, along the way, becoming a found family…

That director thankfully exists, and his name is James Gunn. Gunn has already shown twice that he is capable of doing “a bunch of assholes become a found family” really well with the two Guardians of the Galaxy films, films that have a lot of style and flair that help make them the best films in the MCU, and considering Suicide Squad was mangled the way it was to try and be more in line with his Guardians films, it only makes sense to pull him in to give Task Force X another shot. Why settle for imitations when you can get the real thing? It’s not like he was doing anything else while Mickey Mouse put him in time out for naughty tweets, after all.

But this isn’t Gunn under the thumb of the Mouse, oh no; this is Gunn allowed to go absolutely wild. This is Gunn given the budget of a modern superhero film and asked to make a Troma picture, with all the blood, gore, and cheesiness that entails, and by god did he pull it off. Right from the get go we are given a taste of just what sort of movie we’re in for as a mangy child-murdering weasel man shows up and Nathan Fillion detaches his arms from his body to gently tap enemy soldiers on the head, and somehow things only get wackier from there.

Gunn seemed to actively go out of his way to fix every single problem of the original film. The characters, for instance, are all fairly similar to those of the first film. Bloodsport is clearly the stand in for Deadshot, but where Deadshot was just your average charming, funny Will Smith role to the point it could get distracting, Idris Elba makes Bloodsport a tired straight man to the wacky antics around him and portrays his growth through the film very well. Peacemaker is the jackass of the team in the vein of Captain Boomerang, but where Boomerang had little use in the narrative despite being the best and funniest non-Harley member of the team, Peacemaker is given his full due, with John Cena making him one of the funniest assholes ever put to film and even giving him a bit of depth and moral complexity. King Shark, AKA Nanaue, is obviously Killer Croc’s replacement, but where Croc was bland and really just stood in the background the whole movie, Nanaue is a sweet, charming, funny oaf with brutal strength who is just absolutely lovable and adorable, all capped off with hilarious vocal delivery from Sylvester Stallone himself. Polka-Dot Man is something of a replacement for El Diablo, though while El Diablo was really bungled by the narrative despite being well-acted and sympathetic, Polka-Dot Man is given ample opportunity to be funny, tragic, and useful all at once, and gives him a bit of an arc (pretty impressive for a character who was added in solely because Gunn googled who the lamest DC villains were). And finally, Ratcatcher is something of the replacement for Katana, being the second woman of the squad and the token good teammate, though where Katana was awkwardly shoehorned in at the last minute, Ratcatcher is clearly the heart of this team and brings the band together. Overall, the new Squad is leagues better than the original, and you will care for this band of criminals by the film’s end.

Returning characters get their due as well, particularly the ones really screwed over by the first film Waller and Flag get it the best of all. In the first film, Waller’s entire scheme was stupid, nonsensical, contradictory, and basically everything she did went against what was told to us about her, namely that she is a master manipulator. It was really a waste of Viola Davis, who had the presence and mannerisms down but who was constantly being failed by a shoddy script. Thankfully, that’s not the case here; Waller is very much the ultimate, manipulative girlboss she should be, from using her own troops as a distraction for another team to threatening Bloodsport with his daughter getting raped and murdered in prison over a minor offense if he doesn’t join her Suicide Squad. She is a stone cold bitch you will love to hate, and is easily one of the best comic book villains in film now (quite the turnaround all things considered). Flag is an actual character in this movie, with great chemistry with the members of the new Squad, particularly Bloodsport and Harley. Much like Bloodsport, he also gets a bit of a rivalry with Peacemaker going, which ends up being entertaining and even leads to a truly sad moment late in the film. Quite impressive for a guy who did nothing but spout awkward exposition in the first film.

Then we have Harley. I’m going to be honest, Harley has never been written better than she was in this film. While Robbie has had the character down from day one, the scripts have consistently failed her. The original film did nothing with her but sexualize her and have her spout crappy one-liners, and while Birds of Prey was a massive step up and had her written as she should be, the overall narrative of that film didn’t quite give her the due she deserved due to her feeling like a passive character pushed around by the flow of the plot. Here, though, Harley fully grasps at what’s given to and takes charge when she can, leading to one of the best action scenes in a film full of them. She ahs great interactions with her teammates and is just consistently funnier than she ever has been before, and it makes me happy to know someone who loves this character as much as Robbie does is finally getting to truly shine as she deserves.

The music and editing are vastly better. Remember how the original film had a new licensed song every minute, and almost all of them made no sense, and the music that played for Deadshot was exclusively rap artists (which was lowkey kinda racist)? Well, Gunn is bringing his ability to weave songs into the narrative with this one, but he also gives plenty of time for the music composed for the film to shine. As for the editing, gone are the obtrusive comic-book style cards that announce stupid throwaway details (and in a few cases, plot points you will very likely miss), replaced by more amusing and less obtrusive gags. The movie is also cut in a way where, you know, it makes sense. Everything flows naturally, and while there are a couple of points where time rewinds so we can see how we got to a certain point, it’s never so confusing that you can’t follow it.

The stakes are vastly overhauled. It made zero sense in the first film that Waller would assemble a team that consists of people whose powers range from “is good with weapons” to “is an Aztec fire god” to “is a big ugly crocodile man” to take on Superman-level threats. This is like if you sent a Boy Scout troop to fight Godzilla, it’s just not gonna end well and there’s an absurd disparity in power levels. Here, the team is being sent on a general black ops mission and have their skills selected by who would be most useful for the mission, and while they do end up taking on something a bit outside their context in the form of a certain cyclopean starfish alien, it’s a bit easier to swallow because of the buildup and because “big angry alien” is a lot more sensible as a threat to black op vigilantes than “ancient interdimensional witch goddess with a zombie army.”

Most importantly, though, is that this film lives up to its title. This is very much a suicide mission, and where the last team made it out relatively unscathed, this film suffers a lot of casualties. Characters die for gags, characters die suddenly, you might think a character is going to be a big, important part of the plot only for them to be dispatched right when it seems they’re getting going. For a film like this, it works perfectly, and some of the deaths are absolutely hilarious. That being said, you can kind of predict who lives and who dies based on star power alone; do you really think Harley’s gonna bite it? Come on.

I don’t really have many issues with the movie, but I will reiterate: this is essentially a Troma film with a massive budget, made by one of their alumni. Troma is a studio that makes gory, gross, and awesome B-grade movies and a similar irreverent mentality is on display here. If you can stomach gore, violence, and absurdity then this is a film you’re probably going to get into, but it’s definitely not the kind of comic book movie for everyone. Thankfully, it is exactly the kind of comic book movie for me. It honestly feels like the sort of movie I’d want to make, where I take a bunch of stupid C-list villains with dumb powers and give them actual development and characterization to the point the audience feels something for them. You’re going to be moved by a girl who controls rats, a stupid shark man, and a depressed dude who shoots polka-dots from his hands, and you’re not going to care.

I really hope they follow this up with another one, especially if they bring James Gunn back. There were a lot of characters he considered for the team, and a lot of them have potential, be that hilarious or dramatic. I mean, the man considered Mr. Freeze, that guy could be one hell of a leading man! Round out the team with some of the considered ideas like Rainbow Creature, Solomon Grundy, Chemo, Livewire, Punch and Jewelee, Man-Bat, Dogwelder, and the almighty Kite Man, and you’ve got one hell of a Suicide Squad! Also, maybe get Gunn to consider Crazy Quilt and Condiment King.

Really, the possibilities are endless, and that’s what the fun of a Suicide Squad movie should be: seeing the dumbest dregs of comic book history thrown into a place where they’re probably going to die horribly. Gunn managed to get that when Ayer couldn’t, and the results are perhaps his magnum opus. This is Gunn at his best and most free, unchained from the restrictions of forcing a film to tie into a bunch of others while also using all the tricks of his signature style to craft a damn fine film that easily holds up on its own outside the context of the DCEU. These are the kind of comic book movies we need, so let’s hope this film gets the respect it deserves so it acts as a wakeup call for studios content to churn out

#Michael in the Mainstream #review #movie review #The Suicide Squad #James Gunn #DC #DCEU #Harley Quinn #King Shark #Bloodsport #polka-dot man #Peacemaker #comic book movie #action movie

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cuddlepilefics · 4 years ago

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can you do a skz one where Chan is working hard for a comeback, doing a lot of writing, producing, ect. but then he gets a cold, (snz centered) but he refuses to take a break, so Felix has to force him to take a break. With lots of Chanlix fluff please. 🥺🥺 (p.s I LOVE your writing, you are quite talented, and just have a way with words. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ love you ❤️)

Thank you, this really means a lot to me considering that English isn’t my first language.

I alread wrote something similar. You can find it here.

It’s never this cold in Australia

Fandom: Stray Kids

Sickie: Chan

Caregiver: Felix

No one’s POV.:

Stray Kids would have another comeback soon, which left them with almost twice as much work as usual. Felix hated those times when they prepared for comebacks, not because he didn’t like to make new music, hell, he loved making new music, rather because Chan would always overdo it on himself and the younger could do nothing but watch the leader run himself into the ground. This time was no different and it had actually been a few days since any of the members had seen their leader apart from the dance practices they spent together. Not even Changbin and Jisung were allowed to stay in the studio with their hyung because after the songs were written and most lines were recorded, Chan had to edit them. Since the other two members of 3racha wouldn’t be able to help much with editing other than approving or disapproving, they were more of a distraction to the Aussie, so in hopes of not stressing him out more, they left him to work in peace. Maybe if there were no distractions, he’d finish faster and take the time to rest afterwards. However, assuming there were no distractions, was wishful thinking. There certainly still were distractions, the worst of them a headache that had started bothering Chan a few days ago. He wasn’t surprised at all, considering he slept even less than usual, spending day and night looking at his laptop screen. The Aussie was no stranger to headaches, often overworking himself. The only thing he was grateful for was that he hadn’t had a migraine yet like he always got them when he was too stressed and sleep-deprived.

As days passed, the headache wasn’t the only thing bothering him. After falling asleep in front of his laptop at the studio again, Chan woke up with a completely blocked nose. Unable to breathe through it in the slightest. The pain had shifted right between his brows, causing his eyes to water. The light coming from the screen in front of him didn’t help either and after saving all his open files, he closed the laptop. Feeling more exhausted than he had in a while, he dropped his head onto the desk and closed his eyes again. If he had the energy, he’d move to the couch at the back of the studio and allow himself a small nap. Not longer than an hour though because he couldn’t afford losing the time he needed to finish everything before their deadlines. He had slept just fine in his chair earlier but now it didn’t work anymore, leaving the Aussie to just sit with his eyes closed, head on his arms, as he started overthinking. Sure, the headache could be caused by exhaustion but now his nose was stuffed up and he felt so cold. If he could, he’d get up and adjust the air conditioning but getting up sounded way too tiring. Though Chan didn’t want to admit it to himself, he could tell he was coming down with something and the thought of getting sick stressed him out. What if he wouldn’t be able to meet the deadlines? No! He could! He had worked through illnesses quite a few times before, so why shouldn’t he manage to do that now?

He didn’t know how much time had passed but his phone started to buzz with a reminder that he had to be at the practice room within the next ten minutes. Groaning at the thought of having to move around and music blearing loudly, Chan forced himself up and tried to remind himself of the positive things. Maybe dancing would help warm him up and he wouldn’t feel so cold afterwards. Stumbling to the door of his studio, the Aussie braced himself against the door frame and drew in a shaky breath. His nose tingled, causing his eyes to water before he ducked into the crook of his elbow with a rough sounding sneeze. Chan cleared his throat, wincing at how raw it felt, and used his sleeve to dab away the irritated tears that had spilled from his eyes. Trying to pull himself together, he made his way to the practice room and occasionally rubbed his arms to generate warmth. His previously blocked nose had started to run and he sniffled lightly before pushing the door open and cringing at the bright ceiling lights. Most of his dongsaengs were already there, stretching or going over short sequences of the choreography that they didn’t feel confident in yet. “Hyung!”, Jisung yelled, jogging over and hugging the leader, “Guys, he’s alive! Hyung, I didn’t think we’d get to see you anymore.” Chan barely noticeably flinched at the rapper’s loud voice and hesitantly hugged back, grateful for some warmth.

After some more teasing about not having seen the oldest in ages, they moved on to practicing but it didn’t go too well for Chan. Just standing upright already made him feel lightheaded, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that the fast step sequences caused the oldest to stumble frequently. His head was thumping with the same beat blasting from the speakers as Chan braced himself on his knees panting. It was only now that he noticed how difficult it was to breathe through a nose that was stuffed up and somehow runny at the same time. The dancing also hadn’t done much to warm him up like he had hoped it would. Usually he’d dance in a t-shirt only but today, he wore a sweater over his t-shirt, not even taking it off after one hour of dancing when all of the members were drenched in sweat. To be fair, he was drenched in sweat too but at the same time, he still felt cold. Seeing how out of breath their oldest was, Minho announced they’d have a ten-minute break to drink something and catch their breaths. They all knew Chan didn’t like to be called out when he wasn’t doing as well as usual, so the others just went to drink something and chat with each other, while Felix made his way over to his fellow Aussie, lowly asking: “Hey, you alright there? You’re looking pretty tired.” – “I am, both. Just haven’t been sleeping much”, the older replied quietly, letting out a shaky breath as he sat down next to his bag. Uncapping his water bottle, he struggled it really drink something because he couldn’t breathe while there was water in his mouth.

Chan put his bottle back into his bag and closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose, willing the headache away. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”, Felix hummed, sitting down next to his friend. The leader shrugged, sniffling: “Jus’ goin’ back to the studio. There’s so much I still need to finish and I don’t nearly have the time to.” The younger hummed in acknowledgement, not pointing out how miserable the other sounded. Felix could tell Chan was sick, the fact that he never took off his sweater being a dead giveaway, the slight rasp and congestion present in his voice only a confirmation. There was something else the dancer knew, the older wouldn’t do anything different from when he was healthy, he’d still work as long and as hard. This was one of the things he hated the most, watching his friend suffer but not being able to help because Chan didn’t want help. Help in this case would mean standing between him and his work and the leader would never tolerate that. Right now, it almost looked like he was dozing of against the wall and Minho felt guilty as he had to call them back to practicing. Felix got up first, reaching out both hands to pull Chan up, smiling sympathetically: “You sure you’re up for more dancing?” – “Lix, come on. I’m fine, really. We nee- ne - we need hESH! *sniff* we need to get this perfect”, the leader replied with a watery smile, that Felix could tell was entirely fake.

He also could tell that Chan was really frustrated with himself. Most of the group already had the dance moves down, the only one still struggling was their leader. They knew the sole reason for his difficulty with the choreography was that he wasn’t feeling well, whether that meant he was sick like Felix claimed or just sleep-deprived from all the hours he had worked through the night. Since they had mastered the dance and knew Chan would master it too when he was feeling better, Minho and Hyunjin, who were in charge of their practice session, called it a day. They convinced Chan that it was only scheduled for two hours and that they had different schedules now. It wasn’t entirely true but they were certain the oldest would end up either hurting himself or fainting if he kept dancing. After their practice was officially over, the group dispersed and practiced the things they wanted to improve for their comeback, singing, rapping or secretly returning to the practice room after Chan went back to his studio. Felix had tried to convince him to come back to the dorm, to take a warm shower and eat a proper meal but the older was stubborn, almost getting mad at the boy who only tried to help him. It wasn’t like the leader didn’t want to take a warm shower to get rid of the sweat and the chill that had settled bone-achingly deep but he was already stressed enough as it was and he knew it would only get more stressful if he wasted time that could better be spent working.

At this point, Felix knew he wouldn’t achieve anything by pestering the older. He’d only make him angry and cause him to hole himself up inside the studio even more, so he relented and watched with a heavy heart as the leader shuffled back to the studio. From around the corner, he heard two painful sounding sneezes and sadly shook his head, walking off into the opposite direction. If he couldn’t get Chan to come home with him, he’d at least get him a fresh t-shirt and hoodie because if the older wasn’t already sick, he’d certainly be after sitting in a room with air conditioning, wearing his sweat-through practice clothes. Unsure about the last time the leader had a decent meal, Felix also took the time to make some soup, pouring it into a thermos and packing a bowl and spoon, so his hyung could eat it at the studio. He grabbed a big sports bag and filled it with fresh clothes, the soup and a thick scarf the older had bought him during the first winter Felix experienced in Korea. Shortly before leaving the dorm again, he remembered to also shove a travel pack of tissues into the bag. If only Chan would take better care of himself.

The leader sat in front of his laptop, suppressing the urge to cry as the screen blurred in front of him. By now, one of his sleeves was constantly pressed against his nose, either to rub at it as he sniffled quietly or to keep him from sneezing all over his keyboard. He couldn’t tell when exactly his nose had gotten so sensitive but it only took as much as one slightly too forceful breath to make it start tickling again, which in turn would make his eyes water more and cause him to see even less of the screen in front of him, yet Chan refused to admit that his attempts of getting something done were unsuccessful. The leader pulled both of his sleeves over his palms to rub at his itchy face, sighing in frustration. His breath started to hitch again and giving into the feeling this time, he simply kept his sleeves over his face, waiting. "h-hESSH! hISH’iew!” He sniffled carefully before he dared to remove his hands, instead swiping his sleeves under his eyes to dry them. When did he start feeling this bad? Sure, he had started to feel this cold coming on earlier, yet he never thought it would cause him more than some congestion. Blinking at his screen, his eyes instantly started to water again, still, he tried to work through it, determined he wouldn’t let a cold keep him from meeting his deadlines.

Chan had taken off his shoes after some time, pulling his legs closer to his body as he curled up in his chair, trying to stay warm. He had already adjusted the air conditioning when he came back to the studio but it didn’t help much. By the time Felix arrived to the studio, it seemed like the leader was staring through his laptop screen rather than at it. He also didn’t notice the younger’s arrival, startling when Felix appeared next to him. The dancer heard him mumble something incoherent, not understanding a word but frowning at how out of it the older was. “Sorry, what was that?”, he hummed, resting a hand on Chan’s shoulder. The leader cleared his throat before repeating: “I said, ‘s never this cold in Australia.” The younger was stunned, to him it felt pretty toasty in the small studio after the air conditioning had been completely turned off. Worriedly he pressed his palm against his hyung’s forehead, causing the older to shudder. He clicked his tongue, stating: “Well, I can tell you why you feel cold. You’re feverish, which I’m pretty sure you knew already.” – “I-I hhh… hh’HDJsHhiew!” – “Mhm, exactly my point. You’re sick and should come home to rest”, Felix emphasized. That seemed to wake Chan. The drowsy fog in his head disappeared as his eyes finally focused on his dongsaeng, arguing: “I can’t. There’s still so much to do, I’m not going to finish this on time. God, I’m already so behind with everything. The comeback is too soon. If I don’t at least finish another three songs tonight, it’ll be a disaster.”

Sighing, Felix turned his chair away from his laptop, so it was facing him instead. “Hyung, it won’t. I know it’s already great as it is and Stay will agree with me. There’s still enough time till the comeback and Binnie-hyung and Sungie can help you. Besides, I don’t think you’re going to get much done with a fever like this”, he tried to reason. Face hardening, Chan got out of his chair, voice raised: “How would you know if the time is enough? You have no idea how many more songs I still have to edit. Those people won’t be Stay anymore if I can’t give him the music they are expecting from us. I could get stuff done tonight if you weren’t distracting me from it!” Voice cracking and giving out towards the end, the leader dropped back into his chair. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he mumbled apologies over and over again. He had never meant to snap at the younger like this and he’d also never raised his voice at Felix like this. Biting his lip, Felix pulled himself out of his dazed stupor. Chan’s outburst had been unexpected but he was sure the older didn’t mean it, so he forced down his shaken-up emotions and embraced the other, who quietly hiccupped, wiping at his eyes.

“Ssh, you’re okay. It’s okay, hyung. Everything’s just a bit too much right now, hm?”, he whispered, running his hand through the other’s disheveled curls. Chan nodded with a wet sniffle, trying to fight back the tears that just continued coming. His bottled-up stress and frustration now bubbling over. Pulling him to his feet, Felix guided the older over to the couch and sat down with him after quickly retrieving the bag he had brought. He pulled out the tissues and handed them to Chan, who messily wiped his cheeks before blowing his nose, irritating it again. “hISH’iew!” – “Bless you”, the dancer hummed, handing him another tissue as the first was already soggy. He kept rubbing his friend’s back, hugging him from time to time as he waited for the older to cry his emotions off of his chest. It took almost twenty minutes for Chan to calm himself down again. He didn’t even know why he was so upset, mainly feeling emotional and sensitive from his fever. Seeing he was still shivering slightly, Felix pulled out the scarf he had brought with him and laid it across the leader’s shoulders before rubbing his arms up and down. The older closed his eyes and leaned against the back of the couch, clearing his throat repeatedly. “Does your throat hurt too?”, the younger asked quietly. Chan shook his head, rasping: “’s jus’ dry from breathing through my mouth.” – “Oh, have some water then”, Felix instructed, handing him the bottle from his desk. He didn’t fully believe his hyung, so he was going to find out the truth differently. Of course, Chan’s wince didn’t go unnoticed as it was obvious swallowing hurt him.

Rolling his eyes at the leader’s stubbornness, Felix handed him the fresh clothes. It took some prodding because Chan was feeling way too cold to take off the shirt he was wearing but he felt much more comfortable in his clean hoodie afterwards. The younger was now wrapping the scarf around his neck to protect his already strained voice from further harm, while Chan was already dozing off in his sitting position. Gently nudging his arm, Felix reminded: “Come on, we still need to go home before you sleep. Did you eat already?” The leader shook his head. “You can either eat a late dinner back at the dorm or I brought you some soup. You could eat here and then go straight to bed when we get back”, he offered. This time Chan nodded. Furrowing his brows, the younger asked: “Yes to which option?” – “Straight to bed”, Chan muttered, barely staying awake. Felix quickly took out the soup he had prepared, glad when he found it still steaming, and agreed: “You can you straight to bed but please eat this first. You can’t run on protein shakes, granola bars and coffee the entire time.” – “That works pretty well”, the older argued, blowing onto the spoon. The dancer rolled his eyes, muttering: “Well, that’s debatable.” They sat in silence, apart from Chan’s soft sniffles, as the leader ate the first warm meal he had had in a week. He didn’t want to admit it but the soup felt nice, warming his sore throat and his entire body from the inside. Plus, His dongsaeng certainly wasn’t a bad cook, at least not as far as he could taste with his nose blocked.

Felix packed up the things he had brought, while Chan saved his files and slid his laptop into his backpack, ready to let the younger take him home. Although the thought of leaving the building into the night didn’t seem too appealing, the leader reminded himself of the warm bed waiting for him at the dorm. A bit lightheaded still, he relied fully on Felix’ arm around his waist, guiding him home as his eyes fought to stay open. He got even more unsteady as his breath hitched and he gripped onto the younger’s shoulder for support. The dancer slowed down even more, steadying his hyung as he brought up his arm sneezing into the crook of his arm twice, almost toppling over. “Bless you. We’re almost there”, Felix promised, dragging a sniffly Chan down another block towards their dorm building. The leader looked dead on his feet as the light in the entrance hall of the building illuminated his face. The younger wince as he grasped just how much the older’s condition had declined since their practice in the afternoon. Quietly whimpering, Chan pulled his hood further over his face to block out the uncomfortably bright light that made his eyes burn and head pound. After what seemed like a whole journey, they made it up to their dorm, kicking off their shoes. As promised, Felix walked the leader straight to his room where all the older did was changing into thicker sweatpants before curling up under his blanket. Felix left the room for a few minutes and returned with some water and medicine, whispering: “Since you ate something earlier, you can take something for your fever and headache now. I’ll leave the water on your nightstand in case you get thirsty or your throat bothers you during the night.” With a grateful but hoarse hum, Chan took the medicine before curling up again and burying his face in his blanket. "hESH! *sniff*” – “Bless you. Do you want cuddles?”, the younger offered. Shaking his head, the older replied pitifully: “Don’t want to get you sick too.” – “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to get me sick, I asked if you wanted cuddles”, Felix chuckled. Letting out a shaky laugh, Chan admitted: “I-I guess I do.” – “Alright, scoot over. Don’t worry if you still feel cold, you’ll get your very personal Australian sun.”

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snelbz · 4 years ago

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The Ranch {9}

An A Court of Thorns and Roses, Nesta x Cassian, Modern AU, fanfiction.

Collaboration: @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty x @tacmc

Summary: Nesta had spent years in Paris, living her dream and drowning in riches as a gourmet chef, capturing the hearts of the city and its people. But, after her father passes away unexpectedly and leaves his cozy, countryside B&B to his oldest daughter, Nesta is moving back home to the tiny town of Velaris, where the ranch, her sisters, and her father’s unfulfilled dream, awaits.

Sidenote: Being posted between two blogs, it is too chaotic to keep up with a tags list, so all chapters will be tagged with “#TheRanchNessian” & “#SharaCollab”.

At nine forty five, Cassian heard a knock at his door. He was off the couch and had it flung open before the third rap against the wood.

He was surprised to see Emerie on the other side.

He groaned. “Em, this really isn’t a good time.”

She breezed by him. “It’s a perfect time. Sit down.” She indicated the couch.

Cass just stared at her. “No, you don’t understand, I don’t have time for a quick fu-.”

“Do you love her?” She cut him off and as her words hung in the air, Cassian contemplated them.

“I- No, not yet. But, I-,” he paused and sighed. “No, but I could.”

Emerie’s face softened. “I didn’t mean to cause you problems.” She sat down on the couch and, knowing there wasn’t about to be an ambush, Cassian sat down next to her. “You didn’t answer your phone, so I thought I’d just run by. I’m sorry, I had no idea she was back.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, and he meant it. Emerie had no way of knowing what she was walking into that day. “It’s not that I don’t like what we’ve had, Em, and we’ve always been great friends-”

“Friends,” she interrupted, chuckling. “Just friends, that’s all we’ve been, what we’ve always been, since high school, so...stop making this sound like a break-up, please.”

Despite his current mood of feeling like shit, Cassian laughed. “Yeah, alright.”

“You should talk to her,” Emerie said, giving him a pointed look. “It was so uncomfortably obvious that she cares about you, too.”

But Cassian shook his head. “I don’t know what that woman feels. She’s already turned me down once….I mean, as things are getting heated and we’re about to have sex, she turned me down.”

Emerie bit on her bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Ouch.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, thanks for not laughing.”

That laughter sputtered out of her mouth, but her eyes were soft as she adjusted herself on the couch to face him. “Look, Cass, I’ve known you for a long time, and I have never seen you look at a woman the way I saw you look at her.”

“What’s your point?” he mumbled, face falling into his hands. “Is it too early for whiskey?”

“Never,” Emerie chuckled, rolling her eyes as she pulled Cassian’s face up to meet her gaze. “It’s never too early. And my point is, dumbass, is that you’re falling in love with her, and if you don’t do something about it, I will personally kick your ass.”

Cassian blinked, staring at her as she held his cheeks in her hands. “I’m pretty sure you missed the part where I said she turned me down.”

“So, what?” Emerie said, shrugging, as if it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Feelings change, and they develop, and Nesta Archeron has feelings for you. That much was obvious when she stared at me with daggers in her eyes.” Emerie’s grin faltered. “It was actually pretty terrifying.”

Cassian laughed, under his breath. “Yeah, she has that effect on people.”

She patted his knee and stood up. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate that our little agreement is coming to a close. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find someone who can deal with my work schedule and make me cum?” She threw her head back and groaned, but looked back to where he was sitting on the couch. She smirked. “I thought you were supposed to catch feelings for the person you’re actually sleeping with.”

He scratched the back of his neck and said, sheepishly, “Listen, Em, it’s not that I don’t find you-.”

“Oh hush,” she said, heading for the door. “I’m not cut out for the ranch life. This girl was made for the city.” She opened the door, the light from the cabin flooding out and lighting up the front yard. “Now, go talk to her before she goes to sleep.”

————

Nesta watched as the black truck bumped along the driveway, throwing dirt from under the tires. The headlights disappeared into the darkness and she swallowed hard.

She had come back, had spent a good while in Cassian’s cabin, and now she was leaving, once more. Nesta didn’t want to think about what had gone on during their time together, especially after she left things with Cassian hours before, but her mind wandered.

Nesta didn’t know what she hated more: that she had feelings for him, or that she deserved the angry words he’d spat at her that afternoon. He was right. She had shut him down, there was no reason why she shouldn’t want him to be with other women. He deserved as much. Then again, she had thought, had been so certain, that he had felt something for her, too.

She could feel it.

When he looked at her, when those snarky hazel eyes grew soft, she could nearly hear his heart crying out for hers.

Now, as she watched Emerie’s truck disappear, she felt stupid.

That feeling only grew worse as the door to Cassian’s cabin opened again and he stepped out. He spotted her right away, sitting on her little porch in her rocking chair, and swore under his breath. The panic in his eyes didn’t stop him, though, as he trudged down the stairs, hands in his pockets, and meandered toward her across the grass.

Beau, completely unaware of the tension, was running around, wildly, chasing a squirrel.

When Cassian stopped at the bottom of her steps, he said, “Hey.”

The air around them was thick, humid and charged with electricity. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “I… I can’t do this tonight,” she said, voice sounding weary. She stood from the chair and turned to go inside.

“Why do you always run from me?”

She froze, right in front of the screen door. It was a question she had been asked a million times, had asked herself a million times. Why do you always run?

She slowly turned to face him, and was met with such longing and desperation in his hazel eyes. If she walked inside, if she ran away, that would be the end of it.

If she kept running from him, he eventually wouldn’t come back, and Nesta couldn’t bear that thought.

At the bottom of the steps, Cassian was still looking up at her, waiting, patiently, but she didn’t know what to say. There were a million things she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to put them into words. That overwhelming sense of emotion flooded her, that panic, and her eyes lined with tears. She shook her head, hastily, as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling.

“Fuck, please, just talk to me,” he said, taking a step toward her, putting one boot on the wooden step.

She shook her head and the tears spilled over, staining her cheeks. She laughed, but the sound was empty, hollow. “I hope you had fun with Emerie.”

By the time Cassian realized what she was implying, she’d already started for the door. “Nesta, no, that’s not why she came back.” She shut the door with a soft thud. He heard the lock click into place and he was immediately up the stairs, slamming his fist into the door. “You’re so fucking stubborn, please, just let me explain.”

Nesta kept still, her back against the door as it vibrated from his first forcefully making contact with the wood.

“Please,” he begged, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t put herself in that situation, wouldn't put herself in that situation, not again.

Cassian finally stopped knocking, but when she peeked out of the little window at the top of the door, he was still standing there, his forehead leaning against the door.

“We didn’t do anything,” he called, through the door. “Alright? She came back to tell me I was a fucking idiot.”

Well, she wasn’t going to argue with him there.

Her little house was lit up as lightning struck somewhere on the property, thunder rumbling almost immediately.

“I don’t want her,” he said, and the rain began to fall. Anything else he said was drowned out as the bottom dropped out and the rain began to pour. She could hear that he was still out there, hear that he was still talking to her.

Another flash of lightning, followed by a roll of thunder. It was closer than it had been, that lightning, and Nesta squeezed her eyes shut as the small house shook.

When she reopened them, she leaned back against the door, sliding down it and letting her head fall into her hands resting on her knees.

He hadn’t slept with Emerie. She’d come back, and whether she admitted it or not, she would have if she were her. She knew Emerie wasn’t blind, she could see what was in front of her. But Emerie was stunning herself, with her feminine, soft curves and bedroom eyes.

He hadn’t chosen Emerie.

He didn’t want Emerie.

He wanted her.

And Cauldron damn the consequences, she wanted him, too.

She realized that she could no longer hear him on the other side, could no longer hear anything but the storm outside.

She scrambled to her feet and threw the door open, looking for him.

He was nowhere to be seen.

She cried, “Cassian?” but there was no answer.

She waited, looking out into the pasture, unable to see thanks to the rain and the vast darkness. When she realized she couldn’t find him, she stepped out into the rain and ran.

She hadn’t gotten far when she noticed him, walking up to the main house, Beau on his heels.

“Cassian!” she called.

And he turned around, eyes going wide. He didn’t hesitate as he jogged back toward where she stood, in the middle of the grass, completely drenched.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, loudly, to be heard above the downpour. “You should be insi-”

But his words were cut off, because Nesta had taken his face into her hands and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him, hungrily, ignoring everything else, ignoring the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the thoughts of insecurity and doubt lingering in the back of her mind.

At first, his body tensed, but it quickly relaxed, and his arms wrapped around her waist.

Nesta had never been good with words, with expressing any sort of emotion, but she would show him how she felt, and would give herself to him to devour, in hopes that he understood. That she trusted him.

Cassian’s lips trailed from her mouth to her neck, as he lifted her up, and her legs wrapped around his waist, just above his jeans. She clung to him, tangled her fingers into his wet, messy hair, as he carried her, slowly, through the storm, back to the ranch house.

He climbed the stairs of the big wraparound porch and pulled open the storm door, neither of them flinching as it widened and creaked loudly. Never once did he let her slip as he managed to unlock the main door and enter, pressing her back against the wall by the door.

One hand was gripping her ass, the other threaded into her drenched hair. He kissed her wildly, passionately, and it left Nesta breathless. If he kissed like this, she wondered what it was like when he fucked.

He pulled away, just enough for them to both gasp for air, and he breathed, “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

Nesta didn’t say a word. She just leaned up and captured his lips in another bruising kiss.

It was all the permission he needed.

His tongue slid between her lips as he took the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head, and her hands were already roaming Cassian’s back, feeling the hard muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He held her up against the wall with his hips as he threw her tank top on the floor, and unclasped her bra, making it scarce.

He admired her breasts then, as he had done those weeks ago, but this time, she wouldn’t tell him to stop.

“What?” She breathed. Her whisper was quiet, almost unable to be heard over the rain outside.

“I’m still waiting for you to disappear, for you to dissolve in my fingertips.” He softly ran a thumb over her peaked nipple. She bit down the moan building inside of her. “I need to know this is real. I need to know that you aren’t going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she breathed, shaking her head, slowly. “I’m not leaving.”

She slid his shirt up, slowly, revealing the black ink swirled across his chest. He lifted his arms, and when his shirt was tossed aside, she ran her fingers over the intricate designs. Cassian watched her, lips parted, breathing ragged.

“I want you,” she whispered, her hands going still, and when her eyes connected with his, her delicate fingers trailed lower, down his abdomen, to the waistband of his jeans, where they slowly undid the button, the zipper.

Cassian grabbed her wrists and pulled them back up, over her head. His body pressed hers harder against the wall, and her legs wrapped tighter around him as he whispered, “Thank the fucking Cauldron.”

He kissed her with a gentleness she wasn’t expecting, loving the way his lips were constantly moving against hers, on her skin. Tasting, teasing, taunting. When he kissed a path down the column of her throat and his lips closed around the spot where her neck met her shoulder, she was no longer able to stop the moan that she let out.

That moan was Cassian’s undoing.

He kissed her with such a ferocity that she was unable to stop her hips from writhing.

She pulled away, gasping. “Please, please, please.” He released her wrists and her arms wrapped around him, nails scratching at his back. “Cassian, please.”

His eyes met hers, wild and desperate, but he said nothing. His chest rose and fell with every breath. At last, he nodded, slowly, after searching her eyes, once more.

I’m not going anywhere.

Gods, she meant it.

He carried her to the couch, his eyes on hers as he walked, his breath hot against her skin. She clung to him, desperately, afraid if she let go something would happen, again.

Cassian fell back on the couch, and Nesta straddled his waist, fully aware of how hard he’d become inside of his jeans. He went to kiss her, but she pushed him back, and when a look of confusion crossed Cassian’s face, she smirked.

She stood, between his open legs, and unbuttoned her jean shorts before slipping the soaked denim down her legs. Cassian watched attentively with a primal gaze. With an outstretched, steady hand, he traced the lines of her thong with his fingertips.

“Perfect,” he breathed, so quietly that Nesta wondered if he even knew he spoke the thought aloud.

“Your turn,” she said, as he teased a finger in the waistband of the lace.

He looked up at her, letting his eyes rove over her body. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and he stood.

One by one, he toed his drenched boots off and kicked them to the side, not caring where they landed and unzipped his jeans the rest of the way. He paused, catching Nesta staring, and when he caught her eye, he smirked and shucked his heavy jeans off.

Nesta forgot how to breathe. She forgot how to move. She forgot how to do anything that didn’t include worshipping the body before her in any way possible.

She blinked away the shock and cleared her throat, before saying, “So. You don’t wear underwear?”

That smirk hadn’t left his face and he said, “Oh, I do, they’re in my jeans. I just couldn’t wait any longer to see your reaction to…” His eyes flicked down to where his cock stood at attention.

Nesta huffed a laugh and shook her head, tiptoeing closer to him. Her fingers brushed along his chest, and she walked around him to finish observing the view. Her fingers trailed down his shoulder, down his back, across his ass - his beautiful, perfect, sculpted ass. He shuddered beneath her touch.

This Nesta, this beautiful, emboldened woman, this was his Nesta from the pasture earlier. Someone who isn’t afraid to laugh and touch and play. And play they would.

As she stepped back around him, Cassian scooped her up in his arms and dropped her on the couch. Before she had time to orient herself, he was there again, this time on top of her. He gave her just enough of his weight to press her into the cushions, to keep her in place, lips crashing into hers. His hand skimmed down her side, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he reached the lace of her panties. He ran a finger under the front waistband and then traced it over the fabric, over her most sensitive area. She whimpered against his lips, his kiss drowning out any sounds she made. Pulling the fabric to the side, he slipped a finger between her folds, her slick heat meeting him.

He broke the kiss, growling, “You’re fucking soaked.”

Nesta’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips open. “You’ve been teasing me.”

“The only tease here is you,” he growled, pumping his finger inside of her, then two, and three, as his lips found her neck and trailed down her body. He took the waistband of the thin lace into his teeth and pulled them down.

Cassian didn’t warn her as he spread her legs attached his mouth to her sex. He circled her clit with his tongue, still pumping his fingers in and out of her and he listened as her moans echoed around the empty house. Pulling his lips away, he pressed his thumb to her clit as he slid his fingers in and out of her. He turned his head to the side and kissed the inside of her thigh, sucking and teasing. Without warning, he bit the sensitive skin, causing Nesta to cry out and clench around his fingers.

He groaned at how tight she was, the way she tasted, the way she smelled and the noises she made. He kissed a path back up her body, still pumping his fingers in and out, faster and faster every time. His lips brushed hers and he breathed, “Are you close?” Yes,” she breathed, unable to control her voice, unable to control any of the noises pouring out of her mouth. “Fuck, yes. Fuck me.” Her words were shaky, unstable. She wanted him inside of her, needed him inside of her, couldn’t think of anything else.

“Say ‘please’,” Cassian crooned. He stilled his fingers inside of her and at her disappointed whimper, he brushed his fingertip over that elusive spot inside that Nesta had only dreamed of. She gasped and began to writhe, chest heaving, and he could tell she was right on the edge of ecstasy. He stopped with no warning.

Nesta snapped her head up to look at him. “Wha- Why did you stop?

“Do you want to cum?”

“Cauldron, yes,” Nesta groaned. It had been so long since something had given her an orgasm that wasn’t made of plastic or her own hand.

He slowly stroked inside her once more, then began to slowly roll his thumb over her clit. “Then all you gotta say is ‘please”, darlin’.”

Nesta could hardly get the word out. “Please.” Her voice broke, hardly able to form words over every other sound tumbling from her mouth.

“I can’t hear you,” Cassian whispered, thumb rolling faster. Nesta cried out. “Say please.”

Her back arched as her fingers dug into his dripping hair. “Please!” she gritted out, eyes shut, yanking on his hair with such force that he groaned.

Her body felt lighter, like she was floating on air, as the tension in her body slowly began to fade.

She cried out as she came around his fingers. He pumped slower as she did so, watching her eyes widen as her climax took hold. She worked to steady her breathing as her eyes fluttered shut, and his fingers moved, slowly, tauntingly, in and out. When Cassian pulled his fingers out, Nesta’s eyes shot open, just as he moved them to his mouth and sucked off her juices.

Her chest was heaving and her eyes slipped closed as she caught her breath. Cassian couldn’t help but stare at her body; at the tight, sleek lines of her toned stomach; at her long, tanned legs; at her pretty, pink pussy, which was the best fucking thing he’d ever tasted. But her breasts…

Gods, those fucking breasts.

Those breasts had been on his mind every time he’d had to take care of himself in the past few weeks, but seeing them again, tasting them, watching them move with every steadying breath she took…

“You’re thinking about fucking my tits, aren’t you?”

Cassian’s gaze snapped to hers, smirking at him from where she’d propped herself up on her arms.

His eyebrow raised and he said, “I wasn’t, but now I definitely am.”

She laughed, and sat up on the couch, letting him sit down next to her. He didn’t know why he was expecting it to be awkward, why he was expecting her to have changed her mind and run buckass naked out into the storm.

He wasn’t expecting her to flip over and lay on her stomach, breasts pressed against his thighs. He wasn’t expecting her to reach a delicate hand out and grip his cock. And he sure as fuck wasn’t expecting her to wrap those full lips around the head and suck.

But that’s exactly what she did.

He stared, watching her intently, their eyes connected. He was fairly certain he wasn’t breathing as her tongue slowly danced around the head of his cock. His head fell back against the couch cushions, his eyes slowly closing.

The sound that left his body was inhumane as his dick filled her mouth, her head bobbing up and down, that wild tongue gliding over his sensitive skin.

His abdomen contracted as she took him farther into her mouth, and he swore under his breath as his eyes opened and he stared down at her. He could swear there was a laughter in her eyes as she continued to bob her head up and down his considerable length.

“Are you trying to tease me now?” He asked, voice husky. She hummed in response and the vibrations had one of his hands gripping her hair in a hand. The other, he reached over and gripped her ass, firmly squeezing. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Because two can play that game, sweetheart.” He pressed his hand between her legs and trailed a finger along her entrance, swirling it around her clit.

She moaned, lips still around his cock and she nearly swallowed him whole.

He swore, voice low, his fingers intertwined into her hair gripping the strands with far more force, causing Nesta to whimper against him.

All he could think about was how he would feel inside of her. She was so wet, so ready, and he was nearly about to combust.

She moaned around his cock, her eyes shut desperately as the finger he used to circle her clit kept steady.

He gently rolled his hips into her mouth. She gagged, eyes flying open to meet his, once more, as one of her hands met his thigh, nails gripping into his tanned skin, the other cupping his balls.

“If you keep doing that,” he growled, eyes nearly black in his lust for her. “I’m going to be coming down your throat instead of on your tits.”

Nesta removed him from her mouth, nearly gasping for air as the head popped out of her mouth. The second she had moved, he was gripping her shoulders, pulling her onto his lap, his lips crashing into hers. She ground down against him, his erection sliding against her opening, so close to where she needed him.

He gripped her hips and rocked her back and forth against his length, the tip rubbing her clit with every pass, causing her eyes to flutter shut as he brought her right to the peak again.

“Are you close, Nesta?” The words were a hiss, his teeth clenched together. Her head was thrown back, chest heaving. She nodded. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

She groaned, “Gods, yes, please.”

Without warning, he lifted her hips and slammed his cock inside of her.

She cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders to keep from losing herself completely. His name tumbled from her lips, nearly lost in the continuous moan that she couldn’t control. She rode his length, as Cassian held onto her hips, his face nestled between her breasts. He bit into her skin, nipped at her tits with gentle teeth as he groaned, voice low, shamelessly. His curses filled the air as Nesta clenched around his cock.

He breathed her name, and Nesta felt ready to explode into a million pieces.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face between her breasts. His hands moved farther back, gripping the swell of her ass and Nesta bounced quicker and quicker. “Are you going to come again?”

“Yes, yes,” she gasped, wrapping her arms around his head, nearly suffocating him with her tits.

He’d stopped moving, content to let her use him for her pleasure. He lavished her skin, his tongue circling her peaked nipple and he sucked it into his mouth. She clenched around him, moaning his name, and watching her unravel around him, letting her use him as her own personal sex toy, it felt almost as good as ramming his cock into her had felt.

Almost.

As she shattered, as her climax tore through her and she cried out, his name a prayer on her lips, he gripped her ass and stood.

Her back hit the wall and she moaned as he fucked her with no abandon, slamming into her at a relentless, unforgiving pace. His lips found her neck, followed by his teeth and he sucked, unable to stop himself from leaving a mark, from claiming the beautiful woman in his arms for all to see.

Nesta’s hand roamed his back, the other tangled into his damp hair. Her lips tumbled open, but nothing came out as his hips continued to thrust into hers. A string of curse words were muttered into the skin of her neck.

She clung to him, eyes snapped shut, unable to breathe as he groaned into her neck. His lips left her skin as he abruptly pulled out, then he fell into her body as he came, his hips moving slowly as his cock slid beneath her, between her folds, riding out his climax.

He fell against her then, eyes closed, lips still open against her neck, unmoving. She could feel his heart beating against her as they tried to catch their breath in the silence, nothing but the storm raging outside and heavy, shaking, panting to be heard.

“Fuck,” he finally breathed, lifting his head to look at her. There was nothing but pure ecstasy in those stormy eyes. He carefully set her on her feet and stepped back, watching as she leaned heavily against the wall. He smirked. “Legs not working?”

Her response was a breathy chuckle. “No, not quite. I don’t think they’ll be back to normal until tomorrow morning.”

Cassian let his gaze travel down her body, pausing as he saw the trail of mosisture running down her thighs, a mix of both her and him. The sight had his cock hardening again already.

“Oh, darlin’,” he crooned, pulling her against him and nipping at her earlobe. “What makes you think you’ll be getting any rest between now and tomorrow morning?”

Nesta chuckled, letting him scoop her up into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist.

His eyes met hers, and he kissed her, once, before she whispered, “Take me upstairs.”

________

There was no more fucking. Nesta was fairly certain if there was she wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.

But he had carried her upstairs and laid her down in her old bedroom. They found themselves beneath the blankets, the rain pouring outside the large window as they laid awake in a comfortable silence, Nesta wrapped in Cassian's arms.

Which is exactly where she woke up.

He was still asleep, one of his long, heavy legs draped over her, holding her in place. His handsome face looked almost boyish in peaceful sleep, and Nesta hesitated to disturb him, but the sun had been creeping across the wall for almost thirty minutes now.

She pressed soft kisses to his cheeks, over the stubble dusting his jaw, to his forehead and eyelids, until he began to stir.

He groaned as his eyes fluttered open. He met Nesta’s amused gaze with a sleepy one of his own.

“Good morning,” he muttered, voice raspy, quiet, burying his face back into the pillow.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Beau had made himself comfortable after helping himself through the doggy door the night before after they’d left him outside in the rain due to their beautiful, lustful distraction. He was now sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed.

Cassian reached up and brushed Nesta’s hair out of her face. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Then, Cassian asked, “Sleep good?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. Perfect.

“Good,” he breathed. “Me too.”

“You look like you’re surprised I’m still here,” she mumbled, and Cassian’s fingers froze from where they were trailing down her cheek.

Then he laughed, quietly. “Not surprised. Happy, though.” He tentatively leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, gauging her reaction. When she responded, letting her lips move against his own, he rolled on top of her, running a hand down her still naked body. He paused and pulled away, looking at the window. “Shit, what time is it?”

“Like, six-fifteen,” she admitted.

Cassian’s eyes went wide. “I have to get up, I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”

Nesta’s smile was soft. “I figured. You go get started, I’ll make you some breakfast.”

A dark eyebrow rose. “Sex and breakfast? What’s the catch?”

Nesta stilled from where she was rolling off the bed. “Do you want there to be a catch?”

Cassian grinned. “No.”

“Then don’t ask questions,” she said, laughing under her breath as she scurried from the room, fully aware that Cassian was watching her go.

Ten minutes later, she stood in the kitchen, wearing her mother’s robe once again, a pot of coffee brewing in the corner, and bacon sizzling in the pan on the stove. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, and she jumped slightly as he rested his head on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shook her head. “I just didn’t hear you. I sometimes space out when I’m cooking.”

She transferred the bacon to a plate, dabbing it with paper towels to remove the excess grease, before cracking three eggs directly into the pan. He poured himself a cup of coffee and watched her as he pulled his boots on. She glanced over her shoulder and looked at him, biting down the laugh that tried to bubble out of her.

His clothes were horribly wrinkled from where they’d been thrown to the side last night, but at least they were dry.

She pulled a couple of tortillas from the fridge and wrapped the food, handing him the two warm bundles. He took them and smiled. She smiled back.

An awkward silence filled the kitchen and they looked at each other and started laughing. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

Her eyes widened in surprise and she nodded, a grin spreading across her face. “I’d like that.”

#the ranch nessian #shara collab #shara tag #tacmc x throne of ashes and beauty #toab tacmc collab #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #nessian

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intrulogical · 5 years ago

Text

Worthy

author’s note: i will never, ever write a fanfiction ever again. ever. but anyway, this fanfic is just logan angst and remus helping him, and i never typically write stuff but i just like logan angst this much. BIG THANKS to the logang discord for beta reading (oh my poor tenses). specifically, big thanks to: elle, aj, jem, orb, ellie, anders, mac, reese, roan, remy, zippy and everyone else who read it before i got to post it! (i'm not sure if you read it but shoutouts to meg and lo too bc you two are cool)

pairings: Remus/Logan (can be viewed platonically or romantically)

warnings: Logan angst, morally ambiguous light sides & Thomas (I aimed it to be canon compliant but the sides are still Rude), glitching, self-deprecation, self-neglect, self-doubt, bruises, emotional breakdown, self confidence issues, crying

word count: 6242

summary: Remus stood nervously in front of Logan’s door, hesitant to knock as he held an ice pack in hand.

It was ridiculous, really. Remus wasn’t one who’d typically provide comfort for someone, but he couldn’t help but wrap his mind around what he saw earlier.

or,

Remus underestimates how neglected Logan is and attempts to help.

(ao3 link)

Remus stood nervously in front of Logan’s door, hesitant to knock as he held an ice pack in hand.

It was ridiculous, really. Remus wasn’t one who’d typically provide comfort for someone, but he couldn’t help but wrap his mind around what he saw earlier.

While it had been some days since the episode was filmed, the tension that scattered the Mindscape was still incredibly thick. The general atmosphere had been so impossibly unnerving that even Remus felt discouraged to execute any pranks he had in mind because he was just that bothered. Even the “Light” Sides’ daily routine shifted. Remus hadn’t seen them do a Movie Night or eat meals together for a while, and despite how uninvolved Remus was with their problems, it disturbed him to no end.

Something even more worrisome was what Remus had witnessed during dinner some time ago. While the sides didn’t gather during dinner like they used to, Patton still prepared meals for them to eat. Sadly, the sides refused to eat as a group and would simply grab a plate of what Patton prepared and walk right back into their room. Earlier, Remus joined Janus in grabbing something for themselves, and coincidentally, they ran into an uncharacteristically unkempt Logan.

As Remus was about to jab at how incredibly unlike himself he looked, he noticed something off about Logan’s neck-- there was a large splotch of fresh, discolored bruising that coated it. Janus and Remus both shared the same sentiment as they gazed at the logical side in unease, but Logan quickly detached himself from the scene, making a beeline for his room.

There was no mistaking it-- those bruises that covered Logan’s neck were identical to the bruises Remus witnessed manifesting right after Janus violently pulled Logan out of the episode using his cane. As the sides weren’t technically human, some of their injuries heal more quickly than usual, but their healing powers were heavily dependent on how much Thomas acknowledged their worth as a side. One would think it odd that Remus would be informed of the semantics of how a side’s health works, but as a “Dark” Side, he was well acquainted with how physical injuries would heal slower as Thomas didn’t value them as important as the “Light” Sides.

And honestly, it was quite concerning that Logan, one of the more important “Light” Sides, suffered the same kind of neglect that Remus was experiencing.

Maybe that’s why Remus stood in front of Logan’s door. The realization that Logan was just as disregarded as him unexpectedly yet intensely haunted his mind. Despite how different Logan and Remus were in terms of personality, they shared striking similarities with one another, from the way they were treated by others to how talkative they both were. The thought of how Remus related immensely to Logan’s struggles resonated with him, and while he obviously couldn’t forget how poorly they treated each other in the past, he still aimed to mend their relationship for it to become more durable.

After much stalling and lip biting, Remus rose his hand and rapped on Logan’s door frantically. Remus couldn’t help himself; his nervousness mixed with his unending concern amplified his jitteriness. From the other side of the door, he heard a yelp from Logan.

“I apologize, I’m currently working, so I cannot accompany whoever--”

“Do you really think that’s going to stop me from barging in, Mark Zucker-turd?” Remus retorted, earning a disgruntled sound from Logan.

“Remus,” Logan said, sounding exasperated, “Can’t you simply forget about what you’ve witnessed a few moments ago? I assure you that I’ve got everything under--”

“Again, do you think anything you say is gonna stop me from barging in?” Remus replied. Logan was silent for a few moments. Once silent, there were a few things Remus didn’t notice before he knocked. On the other side of the door, Remus heard soft whispers as if there were imps scattered around Logan’s room speaking to him, maybe mocking him. While the voices were hushed, they spoke in unison, yet nothing about it sounded like a symphonic harmony.

Eventually, Logan replied, “Do you really have to?”

“Well, no, I suppose not, but none of my visits ever have a purpose behind them, do they?” Remus said, then continued with, “I also brought some ice.”

He heard a sigh coming from Logan, “Fine, you may enter, but I strictly prohibit you from staying for more than five--!”

Remus didn’t allow Logan to finish his sentence before slamming the door open with some vigorous force. Logan jolted at his thunderous entrance, even dropping his pen from the suddenness of it. Remus grinned widely at the logical side, shutting the door quickly as he sauntered toward Logan. “Catch,” Remus said, tossing the ice pack at Logan, and impressively, Logan caught it.

“Thank you,” Logan said in a deadpan tone, immediately pressing the ice pack against his livid bruises, “but you didn’t have to do that.” Logan finished and turned away from Remus to continue his work after he retrieved his dropped pen.

Remus was about to retort with some witty insult before the voices that Remus heard from outside began to chime in again, this time more audible as Remus was inside Logan’s room. Allowing himself to stay silent for a few moments, he decided to listen to the voices that echoed through Logan’s mess of a room. The whispers were just as overwhelming as Remus expected them to be; all of their voices synced together inharmoniously, creating an ear-piercing, bothersome noise.

“Pardon Thomas’s thoughts. I understand that they can be… overbearing, at times.” Logan said, noticing Remus’s disturbed expression, “They’re usually not this clamorous but Thomas has been deeply troubled lately— I’m sure you can understand. Then again, I’m assuming this is tame compared to your room, yes?”

“Well, yea, but there are definitely more voices in your room compared to mine. I’d rather listen to a kindergarten being burned down rather than this crap.” Remus stated.

“That is a lovely image to picture, Remus.” Logan said sarcastically.

“You’re welcome, Dick-ola Tesla.” Remus replied, earning a tired huff from Logan. “What are you doing, by the way? Y’know Thomas isn’t planning to devote any time this week to work on something-- self-care and all that jazz.”

Logan whipped his head around, shooting Remus an incredulous look, “You are aware that I am in charge of Thomas’s memories, right? I’ve had to postpone my work for a few days for… confidential reasons. Because of that, I have to reorganize everything at this moment before the workload becomes too overwhelming.” Logan paused before continuing, “Not that I’d become distressed, of course. I find it rather exhilarating, actually… not that you care, anyway.”

“What?” Remus exclaimed, “No! No, all is good— it looks like you needed someone to talk to, anyway—“

“I was performing quite adequately without your company earlier, Remus.” Logan’s tone remained unwaveringly monotonous.

“Yeah, your gigantic bruise totally proves that,” Remus retorted and Logan stopped writing, “Are you trying to summon Janus or something? Look,” Remus fiddled with his sleeves, “I’m not one who usually provides comfort, I mean—“

“I do not need to be comforted.” Logan sneered.

“When did Thomas stop listening to you?” Remus decided to cut to the chase. The question must’ve set something off within Logan because Remus could hear the sound of paper crinkling. Remus decided to approach Logan to better converse with him, and that’s only when he noticed that Logan had ripped out a page from his notepad and crumpled it in fury.

“What, hit a nerve, dork?” Remus asked, but Logan still refused to look at him directly.

“Thomas still listens to me,” Logan said, but like the expression he had at the moment, his tone was doubtful, unconfident, maybe even mixed with a little bit of hurt. It pained Remus to see him in such denial, and his eyebrows even knit in concern as he observed that Logan’s hand began to shake.

“You know, Thomas doesn’t listen to me either. Then again, I do tell him once a week that he should drink an entire bottle of cooking oil… then again, he doesn’t listen to Orange—“ he saw Logan flinch, “—and Janus either, you know, before the episode, and they are both pretty good guys—“

“I am not like you or your friends, Remus,” Logan said, clearly irritated. “My methods of teaching have just been very difficult to comprehend for Thomas and the others, so I merely have to correct my flaws for Thomas to listen to what I have to say. That is all.”

“Dude, I know I’m just as crazy as Sweeney Todd if he were on crack, but that is seriously fucked up—,“

“I don’t need your input on how flawed I am.” Logan swiftly interrupted him, voice raised to the point it combated the millions of other voices that spoke across the room. Before Remus could reply, Logan grabbed a remote from the corner of his desk and pressed a button that turned on all of the televisions that decorated his walls. Remus had always acknowledged the televisions, but he never knew their specific purposes.

Knowing Logan needed to cool off for a few seconds, he approached the televisions to observe what they were showcasing. All of the screens depicted different events that occurred for the past few days in Thomas’s point of view, ranging from when he achieved his new highscore in Word Crush to when he, Lee, and Mary Lee had a heart to heart about why Thomas was extremely glum during the reception. While it was somewhat a miraculous experience that Logan had access to all of Thomas’s memories, the audio that came from all the speakers and the voices that reverberated through the walls created an eerie dissonance-- Remus was surprised Logan didn’t seem bothered at all by the deafening noise.

“I apologize for raising my voice,” Logan said softly. Remus almost didn’t catch it by how much it blended in with the blaring voices.

“It’s alright, it’s not like you started World War Three or anything.” Remus said, in hopes of making Logan at least chuckle. He was met with no response. Remus chewed on his lip before carrying the conversation further, “Can I just say that all of these TV’s and voices are like, big stalker material? Like, you literally can witness any moment in Thomas’s life, whether he wants you to see it or not, and you can maybe even jerk off to--” “I aim to be as professional as I can be as I handle all of Thomas’s memories, Remus. It would be inappropriate for me to utilize them for personal gain.” Logan said, and Remus thought it was troubling how Logan could easily mask his emotions with a snap of his fingers. One second ago he showed distress, and now, he is indifferent.

“You won’t even use it for blackmail against the other sides?”

“Janus-- Deceit--well, I am unsure of what to refer to him as since he didn’t reveal his name to me directly--is rubbing off on you.”

“So is that a ‘maybe’?”

“I won’t use it as blackmail, Remus,” Logan repeated himself, “Again, I am supposed to be professional.”

Remus rolled his eyes at him jokingly as he watched the different scenes that each television was projecting. On one screen, it showed the exact moment Logan joined the conversation as a person inside a textbox. The scene was highly unsettling as Logan’s digital form looked slightly comedic, but what was undoubtedly more unsettling were the reactions he had gained from appearing. Thomas was about to punch him, Roman had infinite eye rolls for him, Patton’s optimism was so evidently fake that Remus couldn’t help but cringe at his positivity.

While Remus enjoyed the moments he spent with Janus and Orange (and maybe even Virgil despite his newfound spite for the “Dark” Sides), there were also some moments that Remus wasn’t so fond of remembering. Roman and Patton’s behavior towards Logan was reminiscent of the times Janus and Orange would both glare at Remus for being too insufferable. Or maybe it reminded Remus of the days they had to ignore him for being too intolerable.

Logan and Remus really weren’t that different, after all.

“How do you cope watching footage of the others beating you up during every conversation?” Remus said, hoping it would get Logan to open up once more.

Logan stopped writing and shot Remus an unamused look. Remus noticed his grip on the ice pack had tightened as he viewed the television that showed the painful memory. “Last time I checked, I haven’t gotten into a physical altercation with any of the sides, and the closest I’ve gotten is when Janus forced me out of my textbox using his cane.”

“What I mean is, how do you cope watching footage of others shit talking to you? I would rather eat my eyeballs downed in superglue rather than watch any of this footage.”

“This is necessary for Thomas’s--,”

“Yea, yea, it’s very fucking important for Thomas. Y’know what I think? Thomas should just fuck off.”

“Real mature, Remus.”

“But aren’t you hurt at all? Thirty years of watching others insult you nonstop is kind of… overkill.”

If Remus wasn’t being observant, he would’ve missed it, but Remus swore he witnessed some items and furniture within the room glitch for a second. It was as if the furniture belonged to some dysfunctioning game and its material would transform into mere polygons for a few seconds. Remus’s eyes widened, but Logan looked unperturbed as if he didn’t see anything transform at all.

“Thirty years of organizing Thomas’s memories only prompted me to become more professional. Please stop trying to push this narrative that I feel anything negative when I have not felt, nor experienced emotions for that matter, at any moment in my life.” Logan said, voice rising again. This prompted the furniture to glitch one more time, and like earlier, Logan chose to avoid speaking of the elephant in the room.

“Well, I’m not pushing anything! I’m just asking a few harmless questions, that’s all.” Remus pouted, “But you do admit that memories like these prove that you haven’t been listened to for a long time.”

Logan sighed, stiffening a bit, “I…” Logan started, and his death grip on his ice pack is starting to worry Remus, “I suppose there’s no avoiding the fact that Thomas hasn’t been as attentive to my contributions as he was before but I-- I’m sure I can conjure up a plan for that to change. The others had made it understandable that I have been obnoxiously invasive for the past few episodes so if my hypothesis is correct, everything should return to normal if I become less overbearing for Thomas and become more passive while still being able to contribute to their discussions.”

Remus stood wide-eyed as he tried to process what Logan just rambled on about, only able to synthesize about half of it. Logan, with an embarrassed flush on his face, looked away, returning to his notepad, “I apologize. I intended to be less invasive yet ironically did the opposite just a moment ago.” he chuckled sourly to himself before proceeding, “You should probably go.”

“No!” Remus exclaimed, approaching Logan hurriedly.

“No?” Logan quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I’m going to stay until I…” Remus fumbled with his sleeves again, “Until I get to help you. You’re not doing okay, Logan. You’re hurting yourself.” Remus said, trying to sound as sympathetic as he can.

Logan, on the other hand, pulled a troubled expression, before masking it again. The glitches around the room were starting to return and the noise was becoming more unbearable.

“I’m not going to repeat myself, Remus. The only injury I possess at this moment is the neck injury you and Janus inflicted upon me. Other than that, I am doing satisfactory.” Logan said, his voice was wavering once more.

“Logan, out of every side in this hell of a Mindscape, I can understand the feeling of distraught and pain you feel when you get dismissed by the other sides. Their treatment of you isn’t normal, and I cannot emphasize how much nothing about you is flawed or wrong like what the others imply--”

“I-- It’s interesting how my room is beginning to make you speak more logically--”

“You can’t avoid the subject, Logan.” Remus said, and Logan didn’t reply. Remus tried assembling a rational argument within his head, trying to recall anything he remembered from Orange about some weird philosophical lesson that he could apply at the moment. Then, he turned to his left, eyeing the largest television present in Logan’s room. On the bottom right of the screen, there was a red, flashing text that said “LIVE” which implied that whatever is being broadcasted on this screen was what Thomas’s current point of view looks like. And there, on the screen, was Janus, who was presently being summoned by Thomas.

And fortunately, an argument popped into Remus’s head.

“Okay, let’s think about this logically, since that is technically your gig, right?” Remus began, “If the others, including Thomas, stopped listening to you because you were too ‘invasive’, then why did Thomas begin listening to Janus even if he’d only met him once or twice before the episode was filmed?”

Logan gazed at him nervously, his hand reddening by how hard he was gripping the ice pack, “I-- I believe Janus offered some valuable points that would’ve contributed better to Thomas’s dilemma compared to the arguments presented by Patton and Roman--”

“Okay, you got it, but quick question: do you think Janus would’ve ‘improved himself’ if he were a little less invasive or present during that episode?”

Logan looked like his mouth has gone dry, “Uhm--”

“‘Cause if I remember correctly, you weren’t fucking around either during that episode. You presented the others with evidence to back up their arguments-- you practically did the same thing Janus did in this episode with me for when I first appeared! All of this evidence you have stacked up for some stupid hypothesis you formed is all so contradicting!”

“And what’s your point?” Logan glowered.

“This problem you have right now with ‘not being listened to’ isn’t something related to how invasive a side is or how much one talks. Janus’s situation is practically similar to yours, but isn’t it weird that he got listened to for the same reasons behind why you’re getting ignored?”

The thoughts were getting louder again as Thomas began to converse with Janus. Many of the thoughts complimented Janus, and while it exhilarated Remus that Janus was beginning to be more listened to, this only backed up the argument Remus was about to make.

“Don’t you think that maybe, maybe, the others are simply being a little bit too unfair about how they treat you? That nothing about you is wrong at all? It isn’t you who’s being unfair here, Logan, it’s the others! It has always been the others! These thoughts only prove that Thomas has been unfairly biased against you--”

“That-- that doesn’t make sense,” Logan says, and this time, he stood from his office chair. “The others have repeatedly informed me that-- that they know what’s best for me. They all share the same sentiments about-- about me, and-- and they’ve always made sure to showcase to me how correct they are compared to me, and this ‘unfair bias’ they have against me cannot be a possibility--,”

Logan’s saddened tone mixed with all the noises was just sheer torture to Remus’s ears. The thoughts that complimented Janus made it even more uncomfortable as it clashed with Logan’s self-deprecating sentences. “But what if it is? You need to value yourself a little bit more, Logan. You’re ruining yourself by letting others overpower and dominate you as if you were some kind of utility--”

“I told you, I am doing just FINE.”

Right as Logan’s voice began to reverberate across the room as if it was there to mock him, the room proceeded to taunt Logan with a thought that was somehow louder than the rest of the voices. The voice seemed to articulate itself in a less frantic pace, mimicking Thomas’s voice exactly as if he was in the same room talking to them. It spoke,

“Y’know, with how more understanding and intelligent Janus is compared to Logan, he might be an even better logic than Logan himself.”

And with that thought alone, the whole room, including Logan, began to break and dematerialize. The glitches returned violently, not only warping every single item and furniture in the room but also transforming the ceiling and the carpet as if the room was going to destroy itself. No object in the room was safe from the glitch’s grasp as colors flash rapidly while everything practically warped and tremble viciously. The voices all mutated into a staticky mess as the pitch and tempo of each voice were altered to make them sound like something you’d find in a horror movie. The televisions were altered as it pixelated every memory and horribly modified each person’s face to look like it was something a demon would spawn.

And Logan. Logan. He was on his knees with his hands on his ears, trying to block out any distorted sound that tried to mock him. He himself wasn’t even free from the glitching as he was subjected to the same kind of torture every object in his room was experiencing. It was as if this glitch monster thingy, whatever it was, viewed Logan as just as worthless as the things he was surrounded by. He was viewed as something lifeless; he was viewed as an object, as a utility.

Remus didn’t realize he was frozen with panic until he began to hear distorted screams coming from Logan’s lips. He quickly rushed over to Logan’s side anxiously, mumbling incoherent nonsense as he tried to think of any possible solution for this unsettling situation.

“Get me out,” he eventually heard Logan say. Without any hesitation, Remus placed both his hands on Logan’s shoulders, ignoring the massive amounts of shock and pain he felt as he touched the spiky glitches, and he used every bit of his power to force him and Logan to be teleported elsewhere.

The moments in between sinking out and materializing again were always a blur. While it tended to calm down any rampant emotions that overwhelmed a side before they dematerialize, it was also a moment used by the sides to process everything that’s happened.

It was difficult for Remus to glance at Logan, but the grip he had on his shoulders were good enough to convince him that Logan hadn't dissolved or vanished. While Remus already deduced that Logan was negatively impacted by the immense neglect he received from Thomas and the others, he didn’t realize how horrendous their treatment had gotten. Remus even feared that there was a slim yet probable chance that within the next few months, Logan could be part of the “Dark” Sides.

Ignoring the pessimistic thoughts that emerged, Remus tried to focus on bringing he and Logan into his side of the Imagination. At first, he thought that their lounge would have been sufficient enough, but seeing how Logan would visibly flinch at the mention of Orange, Remus thought his room would be a better option. He was also able to accomodate Logan better if he chose the Imagination; nothing about their lounge was comforting besides their soft couch.

Before he entered the Imagination, he tried to manipulate its interior to turn it into something more reassuring for Logan. If Remus remembered correctly, Logan was quite passionate about astronomy, and he thought it’d be appropriate to bring Logan to a place he would find comforting: outer space.

Eventually, they materialized into the room. While Remus’s knowledge on stars and planets were limited, he was hoping that his assumptions on what outer space would be like were enough to appease Logan. Inside, the Imagination stretched infinitely and no place was left unadorned. Although he did not recall the names of every planet nor what they looked like, Remus challenged his creativity to produce his own kind of system of planets and stars. Additionally, he lowered the gravity levels of the room just to add to its realism, and now, he and Logan were floating amidst all of his beautiful creations.

When Remus was sure that everything in the room was executed perfectly, he finally risked glancing at Logan. Logan’s eyes were shut tightly but that didn’t prevent any teardrops from leaking out of his eyelids. As his eyeglasses were left behind, water droplets began to slip out of his eyes freely as it floated around the two of them. Logan even let out a painful whimper as he cried woefully to himself.

“I…” Remus spoke as his heart wrenched at the sight of the crestfallen side. Remus was fearful that he might say something inappropriate so he allowed himself to stay silent for a few moments for him to think. Eventually, he spoke in a reassuring tone, “Can I-- Is it okay if I touch you?”

Logan sniffled before he nodded, prompting Remus to raise his hands and place them delicately on Logan’s cheeks. He thumbed Logan’s tears away as it gradually floated away from his face. Eventually, Logan slowly opened his eyes, blinking away some tears that still remained.

As there was barely any distance between Logan and Remus, this was the only time Remus could properly study Logan’s face. The bags underneath his eyes were excessively darkened as his eyes sagged wearily, and the fact that he was crying didn’t help ease his exhaustion. His hair was incredibly greasy; it was as if he hadn't given himself time to prioritize his wellbeing over the tiresome work he aimed to accomplish. Moreover, the livid bruises that coated his neck were still swelling as the ice pack Remus gave barely did anything to soothe it.

Overall, Logan looked exhausted.

“Remus,” Logan said, his throat slightly parched.

“Yeah?” Replied Remus as he felt Logan’s hands make their way to meet his.

“I’m sorry.” Logan said, averting his gaze away from Remus. “You shouldn’t have witnessed that. I dragged you into my personal issues and it is entirely--” Logan choked as he tried to withhold a sob unsuccessfully. “It-- it is entirely--”

“Logan, you’re allowed to be sad-- you know that, right?” Remus told him, and immediately, Logan’s face crumbled. The tears returned in full force as he placed his forehead against Remus’s chest and began to sob once more. Remus gently wrapped his arms around Logan, pulling him closer as he felt Logan’s hands grip his arms firmly.

“I-- I just-- I’m just not used to this.” Logan uttered.

“No one is, to be honest. Emotions can be a bitch sometimes.” Remus replied.

Logan huffed out a wet chuckle, “Don’t I know it.”

The two of them huddled close for a few minutes, Remus allowing the repressed sadness Logan had within to burst out. As Logan let the long overdue tears shed, Remus rubbed soothing circles on Logan’s back, hoping it would provide Logan with ease and comfort.

Part of Remus was exceptionally disgusted by how much the others’ treatment of Logan has completely ruined him, and the fact that they weren’t aware of their own cynicism only aggravated Remus further. There was an urge in the back of Remus’s mind to pardon himself, grab his mace, and utterly bash the other sides’ head in, and if it weren’t for Logan’s mental breakdown, he would’ve fulfilled that temptation by now.

Instead, he pulls Logan closer to him.

Eventually, after Logan’s sobs subsided. There were a couple sniffs here and there, but it seemed like Logan had slightly calmed down.

Logan was also first to break the silence between them, “I wasn’t aware of how crying like a newborn baby kinda feels relieving.”

Remus chuckled at him, “So you wouldn’t mind telling me about what other thoughts you’ve been repressing in there?” he paused, “Of course, if you feel uncomfortable then I won’t push you--,”

“No, no… I--,” Logan let Remus loosen his grip on him slightly for them to see each other eye to eye. “I don’t think there’s any point to withholding information from you anymore. You are already aware of how… incompetent I am.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent for having emotions, Logan.”

“But then why do the others make it feel like I am incompetent?” Logan blurted out, “No matter how many times I assume I performed something correctly or suggested an idea that I thought was valuable, the others still convince me that I’m wrong or-- or I’m just grabbing attention. Initially, I thought that they were wrong, but then Thomas started to agree with the others every time we had an argument and it really didn’t take many instances for me to begin questioning my worth.”

Remus’s eyebrows knit together in concern, “Other people’s opinions on you don’t dictate your worth, Logan.”

“Then why are they so insistent to prove how-- how-- how fucked up I am?” Logan asked, tone distressed. Consequently, Logan took a deep breath to compose himself. “I’m sorry, I can’t-- I’m just at a loss of what to do. Growing up, I thought I was somewhat like… Thomas’s savior, his key to success, but then it turns out that all my efforts were just a waste.”

“That career change did a number on you, didn’t it?”

Logan’s lips thinned nervously before he replied, “I hate to admit it but I don’t think any moment in my life could amount to how pained I felt when I realized that Thomas didn’t want to pursue a career in engineering or astronomy. I began to question things that I thought were true. Did Thomas even genuinely listen to any plan I told him about? Did he think I was wrong? There were just so many questions, so many hypotheses to prove, and it bothered me so much because you know how I strive to be the most perfect I can be for Thomas. But how can I be perfect if everything I do is brushed aside or ignored?

“But I didn’t think they were wrong for— for neglecting me. They’ve already proven to me how beneficial they are to Thomas and how-- and how righteous and just and correct they are compared to me. It just felt wrong to think of them as wrong when I’ve already accepted the fact that it was me who was being a burden to them all this time. I just… I’m not used to it. I aim to be as perfect as I can be, I want to improve myself, but why does it feel like nothing I do is good enough?

“And sometimes, I don’t know who is to blame. Is it them? Is it me? Is it both of our faults? If they say I’m wrong, and I feel like I’m wrong, am I really wrong? Are they capable of being wrong even if their insults and jabs resonate with me as if they were right? And if they were wrong, then how come I still feel like I’m a terrible side? Why do I want to believe they’re correct so badly?”

Logan sucked in an enormous breath once he finished his spiel. While Remus was unquestionably proud and honored that Logan was able to finally open up to him, comprehending what Logan rambled to him was a whole other story. The sullen expression on his face wasn’t helping either.

“Logan, I…” Remus spoke, “I know nothing I say right now can magically fix this problem as if it never existed in the first place, but you, Logan Sanders, aren’t worthless, and anything the others say about you does not define your worth.”

“But why--”

“Why are they persistent? Well, I don’t know if you know, but the other sides aren’t exactly always so righteous and god-like?” Remus said and proceeded to sigh, “What I mean is, you need to value yourself a little more, Logan. You’ve trained yourself to listen to whatever the others are bitching about and immediately think that they are righteous even if they’re probably just being assholes to you.

“You’ve been so selfless and forgiving towards the other sides that you’ve ignored that you’re destroying yourself, Logan. You have listened to the others and prioritized them so much even if sometimes, the person who really needs to be listened to more than anything else is yourself. You’re worthy, Lo. You’re incredibly intelligent yet you’re so fun to hang around with. You’re so selfless and sweet and so lovable-- there are so many things I can say to convince you that you are worthy, but you also need to do your part in remembering that. Take care of yourself, give yourself some time to rest. You’ve punished yourself too much that it has made you exhausted. You have to value yourself more, Lo.”

And with that line alone, Logan began to shed tears once more, “I know I am exhausted, I just--” he cried, placing his forehead against Remus’s chest once more, “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about my flaws and my mistakes and everything that is wrong about me.”

“Honestly? Same.” Remus said, “It’s never an easy process, Lo.”

“How-- How did you get over it?”

“Well, I had Janus ‘self-care is my number one priority’ Sanders, so that’s one thing.” Remus was glad to hear that that made Logan snort, “Another is… time. And distancing yourself from the people who hurt you.”

“The others haven’t hurt me.”

“They have. It’s okay to admit that the people who you love are capable of hurting you and are capable of being wrong. It’s perfectly normal.” Remus said.

The arms that wrapped Remus tightened, “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.” Logan admitted, “I… Remus I just-- Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”

“You’re welcome, dork.” Remus replied, smiling softly as he looked at Logan, “Well, actually, you’re only welcome if you do take a break, okay? If my efforts in comforting you have all been useless and I see you working your ass off the next day, then fuck you, I guess.” Remus joked, and Logan snorted again.

“I’ll try my best.” Logan replied. They floated in a comfortable silence again as they had their arms wrapped around each other. Logan allowed himself to cry, allowed himself to feel, and Remus couldn’t help but feel immensely proud of Logan.

Like earlier, Logan was first to break the silence once more, “If I… If I were to take a break, would it be alright if I spend it with-- with you?” Logan said, looking up at Remus again, “I’m just scared for the glitch thing to happen again and I think I’d feel much— much safer if I were with you.”

Remus blinked at him once, then twice. Then, the biggest, toothiest grin appeared on Remus’s face. “Of course, Jimmy Nude-tron, you don’t have to be all shy about it! We’ll have the best sleepovers and dissect bodies together and-- and--,”

“Stargaze?” Logan suggested.

“Yeah, hell yeah! We’ll stargaze so fucking hard that Janus is going to be jealous.” Remus exclaimed, making Logan chuckle, “Plus, I can even allow you to make your own planets and stars, if you want! I have no fucking clue what astronomy is really about so maybe you can give me a few lessons here and there.”

Logan eyebrows raised, “Even if you lack knowledge on astronomy, you made such a magnificent replica of outer space, Remus.”

Remus couldn’t help but flush at the compliment, “Oh, uh, thank you, Swell-phaba Thropp.”

Silence.

“That was a horrible nickname.”

“Agreed, pretend I didn’t say anything.” Remus said. While he thought that they'd calmed down enough and were ready to exit the Imagination, there was one more thought that he had in the back of his head that he felt needed to be addressed.

“I don’t mean to bring the mood down but… are you going to tell Thomas about the glitching?” Remus asked, and he physically felt Logan stiffen anxiously.

Remus was about to apologize before Logan interrupted and spoke before he could, “Maybe. But not now. I don’t think I have the energy or the motivation to see him at the moment.”

Remus nodded in understanding, “While I would advise you to do everything at your own pace, I do want to remind you that you shouldn’t stall it too much either because we don’t know what those glitches can do, Lo.”

“I know, Remus. I promise I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”

“Good.” Remus said, “Do you want to get out of the Imagination now?”

“If… If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay here for a few more minutes.”

“That’s perfectly gucci, dork, take all the time you need here.”

And the two continued to float, arms still remained wrapped around each other as it seemed like they didn’t want to let go. While they were too preoccupied with one another to observe the changes in their surroundings, in this very precious moment, the stars that encircled them seemed to be shining brighter than ever before.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #remus sanders #logan sanders #fanfiction #intrulogical #my post #logan angst #logan sanders angst

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