#anyway I’ve written enough tags now

[fujii-draws]

Pt 2 (getting into more positives!!)

OKAY! Chatot rant in tags below! Read at your own discretion.

[thebigbiwolf]

Spittle - Part 1/2

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.

I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.

From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary. 

As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp. 

Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.

You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.

You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.

You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?

You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.

As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.” 

Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”

“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”

You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass? 

Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where did you find this?” 

You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.” 

He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.

“Well, can you read it or not?”

His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”

That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.

You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.

“It looks like candy.”

“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”

You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.

–

During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent. 

You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.

You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.

As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest. 

Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.

It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.

When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.

A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..

Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers. 

Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.

Astarion. 

His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself. 

He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.

His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.

“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.

“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”

–

You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.

You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched. 

Hot. Why is everything so hot? 

It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.

Could this be some sort of illness? A fever? 

No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off. 

Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.

It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf. 

His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -

Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.

A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.

This is - well, you have no idea what this is. 

You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.

You’re soaked .

N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared. 

“What  in the hells…?” 

You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve. 

You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain. 

Pleasure to the point of agony.

The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear. 

Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle. 

After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat. 

But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.

‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.  

‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’

It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.

You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’

You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.

Think, please. There has to be a reason this -

“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”

Shit.

‘Ooh, this one might do!’  You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You try not to panic. 

Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.

The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before. 

You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat. 

“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you. 

Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.

“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”

She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.” 

‘Well, I think you look delectable.’

You groan.

At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence. 

Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.

Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy. 

It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.

The disembodied voice squeals with delight.

She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.

“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”

Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?

You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.

A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again. 

You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.

“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.” 

Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.

[heeseungiez]

love letter | hyung line (0)

— a teaser

your whole life, you’ve only known one thing: relaying love letters. but what happens when one of those letters is addressed to you?

— pairings! heeseung x reader; jay x reader; jake x reader; sunghoon x reader

— featuring! enhypen members, haewon from nmixx, yuna from itzy and possibly other idols

— genre! romcom, high school au, found family, fluff with a tiny bit of angst (?)

— author’s note! i’ve really been loving family by choice so far and the whole love letters plot inspired this fic, sooo 🤭

— tags! open

check out my masterlist !!

“Here,” says a girl you recognise from your year. Jang Wonyoung holds up a carefully wrapped letter with cute drawings on the outside. It also smells very sweet and fruity, like lemon and peaches.

“To whom?” you ask automatically, grabbing the letter without studying it further. To you, it’s just another one on top of many, many more. 

“Park Sunghoon,” she replies, a giggle leaving her lips at the mere mention of the boy. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s not that you don’t understand— okay, you don’t understand, actually. Sunghoon never shows any interest in any girls whatsoever, and yet they keep trying to approach him or give him love letters through you, and honestly, you’re tired.

“Fine. But I can’t guarantee he will read it nor respond to it nor that he won’t simply throw it away,” you say in a monotone because it’s an automatic response that leaves your lips every time you receive a letter. You might as well be considered a customer service worker — an office worker, really — with the way you deal with them. 

“I know. But thanks anyway.” Wonyoung smiles at you because realistically, she’s nice. From what you’ve heard about her, she’s great. So you’re a bit put off by the fact she’d show any interest in Park Sunghoon, of all people.

Sighing, you put the letter in a paper bag that has a sticker of a penguin on skates on it and Park Sunghoon’s name written right underneath. The bag has been with you for years by now. You made it back in fourth grade, probably, so it’s a miracle it still holds on. Especially because it’s already overflowing with letters from this morning.

Next to it, you glance at the other three bags. One with a sticker of a golden retriever and Sim Jaeyun in glittery letters, one with a black cat holding a knife and Park Jongseong written in cursive on it, and the last being a basketball sticker with the name LEE HEESEUNG in capital letters. 

This is what you get for befriending your neighbours, you guess. But seven-year-old you wanted to have older brothers, and seven-year-old you did not know that once you grow up, something like love and crushes would exist in your world. Until you did grow up, and you learned the hard way what it meant to be the so-called little sister of four decently looking boys. 

None of which have ever shown interest in anyone, ever, as far as you can tell. Or they simply haven’t told you anything about their love lives which, honestly, you prefer. It’s enough that you have to relay love letters to them, having to hear about them actually dating someone would be far worse. But somehow you doubt they’ve dated anyone — unless they’re much better at keeping secrets than you thought. Because the whole school would be taken by storm had anyone found out. Even if it was just the old janitor who found either one of them hiding in the broom closet with a girl, the whole school would know by the next day if not within the next hour. 

To put it simply, they’re popular.

Park Sunghoon, the figure skater whose entire life has been spent mainly on ice. People at school call him the ice prince for the obvious reasons, and the less obvious ones, where he just regards everyone as if they’re beneath him unless they’re his friends or, well… you.

Sim Jaeyun or Jake, the football prodigy and team captain who moved here from Australia and therefore has an Australian accent and is bilingual which, for some reason, girls love. He’s also the nicest person anyone could ever meet, so that might also be a factor. A golden retriever in human form, people say. The only reason you like him is because he’s been bribing you with snacks since middle school, though (said jokingly… maybe). 

Park Jongseong or Jay who, on the other hand, moved here from the United States and is known for his love of music and bands and guitars and the fact he can play the instrument. He’s in a band with some other guys from school, but you’re not all that familiar with them since Jay mostly keeps them away from you, for whatever stupid reason he’s made up about protecting you and whatnot.

And lastly, the oldest of the four, Lee Heeseung who is the basketball team captain and a huge nerd which girls also love? You’re half-convinced that if he were partially blind and had to wear glasses, the whole school would fall apart with the amount of people trying to catch a single glance of him. (Yes, he wears fake glasses sometimes, so maybe you’re speaking from experience.) He’s the guy you’d go to if you need help with school but he literally does not have any time in between his so-called game time, which is punished by death if interrupted, studying, and basketball practice. The only way to receive help with studying from Lee Heeseung is to either (1) study exactly what he is studying or (2) be you. 

Someone shoves another letter right in front of your face.

“Who?” you ask without looking up. But the letter is waved in front of your face with such violence that you roll your eyes, sigh, and look up. You’re met with the sight of one of your best friends, Kim Sunoo, whose cheeks must be hurting from how big his grin is.

“It’s not for them,” he says giddily, dropping the letter on your desk.

You study it for a second, noticing one glaringly obvious thing.

To: Y/N.

It’s addressed to you.

“Who gave this to you?” Your eyes widen as you turn to Sunoo with question marks in your eyes. But the boy shrugs, clueless.

“I have no idea. It wasn’t exactly given to me, you know. There was someone who just bumped into me without saying sorry or turning around, and they dropped this. So, obviously, I had to check what they dropped and well… it turned out to be a letter addressed to you,” Sunoo recalls the story, dramatically motioning with his hands to emphasise the whole scene.

You grin, staring at the letter.

“For me?” you ask yourself, your eyes fixated on the name written in neat handwriting.

“Open it,” Sunoo encourages you.

“Open what?” A new voice joins the conversation, and your smile grows even brighter at the sight of Yang Jungwon, your other friend, and class president.

“Look!” you say, grabbing the letter to wave it in front of his face. “I got a letter. Can you believe it? Me. Not the guys, but me.”

“Are you sure it’s real?” Jungwon asks sceptically, his eyes narrowed. “What if someone’s making fun of you?”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” Sunoo frowns, looking at Jungwon. “I think someone likes Y/N. It was about time, too. Her life needs to stop revolving about those four.” It’s not that Sunoo has anything against Heeseung, Jay, Jake or Sunghoon personally, but he’s not fond of how much time you spend doing things that are seemingly just for them. Like constantly dealing with their love letters. It seems that your entire existence at school is as the girl that talks to them.

“I’m not disagreeing, but still. It’s a bit weird that the letter came out of nowhere.” Jungwon shrugs, ending his point there. He connects his lips together in a thin line, and you know that he won’t argue any further.

“Should we maybe open it with Yuna and Haewon, too?” you ask, your eyes never leaving the letter. “We need more opinions.”

“At lunch?”

“At lunch.”

“Fine. But I’d still be careful.” Jungwon sighs, shaking his head. “If the person can’t give the letter directly to you, they’re not really worth it.” It’s funny how Jungwon just managed to indirectly attack every single girl that has ever made you relay a love letter without thinking much about it.

“You sound like Jay,” you point out anyway, making a face. Sunoo hums in agreement. 

“That’s not a bad thing.” Jungwon nudges your shoulder with a soft laugh.

[almostempty]

self esteem (joel x f!reader)

wc: 2.9k | masterlist | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 |

part 2 ⎯ part 3 ⎯ part 4

summary: Joel blows you off for your date. You end up blowing him when he shows up looking to score. Inspired by the song Self Esteem by The Offspring. 

tags/warnings: kinda mean/fuckboy joel, mild dub con, smut, PWP, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected piv sex, joel comes on your tits, dirty talk, one (1) slap, choose your own joel era, reader is on some dumb bitch juice for this man (i would be too), hit and run, smash and dash,

a/n: PLEASE send any feedback, this is the first thing i’ve ever written and posted, i’m tryn’ to practice and gain confidence bc my dream fic doesn’t exist so i gotta write it, it’s scary to post, y’all are so brave wtf 

It’s purgatory. You’d made plans to go out tonight with Joel. It’s useless to expect him to show up, but you got ready and anxiously paced around your living room anyway. Checking your phone, at thirty minutes past the time he had said he’d pick you up. You sent him a text. His read receipts were on; he saw your message. Another thirty minutes pass agonizingly slowly. He hasn’t responded. You can feel a mild headache forming behind your eyes. 

You grab a drink from your fridge and collapse on the couch with a sigh. A mixture of anger, regret, and rejection churns in your gut. You shouldn’t have set yourself up for disappointment. 

No, he shouldn’t be such an asshole. You’ve got to stick up for yourself. Tell him off for his bullshit. The manipulation, standing you up, the lies. You know he’s using you. 

Unfortunately, you find the toxic rush addictive. The way he charms and seduces you after disappearing or acting like an idiot. You enable his behavior every time. 

And it’s sick that you like it. You like knowing it’s your door he knocks on in the middle of the night. He won’t take you on a date, but he still can’t stay away. 

No. Not this time. You’re done letting him waste your time with plans that never materialize. You’re going to practice all the things you should say. Tell him to fuck off. 

You grab another drink and return to the couch. The rejection is sinking in, and you’re feeling pretty low. You silence notifications from him in an attempt to take control of your thoughts. To stop waiting for it to light up with his name. You aren’t going to keep waiting for him. 

You shower and change into a big T-shirt and underwear. Returning to the couch, you turn on some trash TV to shut your brain off. It helps. Keeps you distracted. When it hits 2 AM, you crawl off the couch and turn out the lights. You hope you’re tired enough to sleep without Joel haunting your thoughts. 

You’re getting a glass of water to take to bed when you hear the knock at your door. Your stomach swoops and your body tenses with excitement. 

You’re fucked. 

You can’t stop the smile that breaks out on your face. 

He’s like a stray cat. Or, more like a tomcat. You know he’s gonna sweet talk his way in. You should ignore him. You should leave him outside on your doorstep, horny and alone. Let him feel rejected this time. 

You crack open the door and face Joel. He glows in the moonlight, stupid eyes sparkling when he looks at you. He leans an arm on the door frame and purrs at you. 

“Baby.”  

You roll your eyes. His breath smells like whiskey. 

“What the fuck, Joel? Where were you?”

He frowns. Big brown eyes try to weaken your defenses. 

“Work thing.” 

“Til 2 AM?” 

“One of the guys on the crew. Was his birthday, so we had to take him out.” 

You don’t believe him. You feel the urge to slap him across his scruffy cheek. You feel the urge to pull him in and kiss him. 

No. You can’t listen to that voice. The voice that still gets butterflies over him showing up at the door. He’s only here because all the bars closed, and now he’s looking to score. 

He preys on your moment of weakness. You’re in a debate with your inner demons, and he barges his way into your space. He moves like a blur. You blink and his rough hand is tracing the line of your jaw. 

He’s caging you in against the back of your door. He leans in closer. Hot breath fanning over your face. Your breath is still caught in your throat. You have half a mind to shove him off of you and begin your lecture, but he gives you no chance. 

He presses urgent kisses and bites along your jawline and down the column of your throat. A vampire at your door. You didn’t invite him in, but he’s got his teeth sinking into your flesh anyway. 

He smells like sweat, sawdust, and some over-scented men’s deodorant. Smells like a man, your lizard brain thinks. 

Trapped between him and the door, the closeness is intoxicating. His body is large and powerful and radiates a frenetic energy. Like he’s buzzing with need for you. You can’t help it; you like feeling wanted like this. Desired. The way he crashes into you like a feral beast—

“Wait.” Some sense flashes into your conscience. 

“Hmm?” he growls in your ear. His face is still buried against your neck while his hands grope at your body. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. His hands move to knead at your breasts through your soft, faded shirt. You fight to ignore the pleasure. 

“Joel.”

“Hmm.”

“You can’t just show up in the middle of the night after bailing on me and expect to get laid.” 

His hands slide under your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes you dizzy. He pinches and pulls at your nipples, and you fight back a moan, trying to refocus. 

“Joel!” you snap at him. 

“C’mon, I’m sorry, baby,” he coos into your skin. 

He rocks his hips against you, and the sensation of his hard bulge in his jeans against your soft skin sends a jolt of need through your nervous system. The words you practiced earlier slip further and further from your mind. 

“You can’t keep treating me like this.” You lob at him. The rest of your speech is hazy. You're grasping at sentence fragments, trying to remember the points you wanted to make. 

“Not gonna keep working.”

“Quit,” he replies sharply. 

“What?” 

One of his large hands slides up, still under your shirt, bunching it up, and wraps around your throat. He bites at your chin. Sharp teeth. He kisses your cheek. Soft lips. He nips your earlobe. You gasp. He sucks it into his hot mouth. Your eyes slam shut. 

You feel like you’re at his mercy, and the cavewoman inside of you just wants him to drag you to bed. 

“Quit arguing,” he grumbles. His deep voice in your ear sends a rush of arousal down your spine. 

“It’s not fair,” you protest. 

He shifts. His hands travel downward to squeeze at the plush skin of your ass. He tugs you forward and shoves his knee between your legs. You lose any train of thought. Cruel man. You don’t care anymore. You’ll let him keep tearing pieces out of your heart. As long as you can keep using each other's bodies. 

The pressure and friction of his thigh against your tingling pussy is the ultimate betrayal. You can’t stop the whiny gasps that come out of your mouth at the contact. 

He lets out a satisfied chuckle at that. Cocky bastard. 

“Not fair,” he repeats after you. “Hmm. Tell that to your wet cunt dripping on my leg, baby.” 

Your core flutters at his words. You feel your face flush, but it’s hard to argue with him. 

“I think you want me,” he continues. 

You try to glare at him. Your hips don’t care, though, as they roll against him. 

“S’alright, baby.”

You wish it were. 

“I only want you.” 

You desperately want to believe him. You shove that thought out of your mind. 

He pulls your shirt off and rakes his eyes down your body. He’s menacing. His broad shoulders and tense muscles loom over you. He’s fully clothed while you’re bare except for your wet panties clinging to your folds. 

Your chest heaves as you watch him. He has a carnivorous gaze. You’re prey with your soft body exposed; he’s a hungry predator waiting to make a lethal move. 

But he doesn’t strike. 

He moves painfully slowly. Tracing a finger down over your lips, down your chest, and belly, to the hem of your underwear. He slips the tip of his finger underneath and skates it across your skin from left to right. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, tense and twitching at the sensations. It’s too delicate. His expression looks like he wants to eat you whole, but his movement is restrained. 

“Know you do.” his voice washes over you, and a slight hum echoes in your throat. 

“You want me.” he husks. 

He pushes you back off his thigh. His hand dives further into your panties, and he drags his fingers through the pool of your arousal and spreads it through your folds. A smile breaks out on his face. 

“Yes,” you exhale as your body shudders. 

A look flashes across his features, and his eyes darken with lust. You peer down to watch his hand disappear in your underwear. 

“Say it.” He demands. 

“What?” Your eyes flick up to his. 

“Say it.” He repeats firmly. 

You writhe a little as he continues to toy with you. He’s wicked. Tracing circles around your clit, but not long enough to build a satisfying rhythm before he dips down and fills you with two fingers. He moves them lazily for his own enjoyment. 

You groan in frustration. It’s a tempting sound to his ears, but he doesn’t look amused. He’s waiting to hear it. 

“I want you?” you guess what he’s waiting for you to say. 

There's no use lying about it if that’s what he wants to hear. You want him. Even if you’ve been ruminating over his shitty behavior all night. 

“You askin’ or tellin’?” 

“Want you,” you repeat as a statement. 

He pulls his hand away completely. Your body jerks, chasing his touch. 

“Please,” you try. 

“Again.” he’s gruff. Ferocious as he demands you confess your desire. 

You sigh. Maybe for giving up so quickly or maybe because you always knew you would. 

“I want you.” 

He doesn’t relax. Or move. 

“Again.” He repeats like he’s a malfunctioning robot. 

“I want you, Joel.” 

“Again.”

“Please, Joel, I want you.” 

The hint of a smirk appears on his face. 

He taps your chin, encouraging you to part your lips. He slides his wet fingers in your mouth, along your tongue, and then removes them. He holds your open mouth, fingers around your jaw, and looks as if he’s assessing the quality of your tongue. 

“Prove it.” He commands. 

His tone does something to your brain.

Tomorrow, you might be confused at how he blew you off, but you ended up on your knees blowing him. But right now, you’re chasing a desperate need.

He steps back to give you space. You drop to your knees as he undoes his belt. Your eager hands work his jeans and boxers down far enough to expose his leaking cock. 

If you looked, you might’ve caught his condescending smirk, now fully exposed. 

You don’t look. You don’t wait for further instructions. You lap at his tip and tease with your tongue. You start working him into your mouth. 

The weight of his cock on your tongue causes you to moan. The vibrations cause him to moan right back. 

His arm shoots out to the door behind you for support. His head hangs, watching you move. 

“Fuck,” he groans at the sight of your lips wrapped around him. His clipped grunts and the way his core flexes encourage you. Your soft hand works in tandem with your mouth, and you’re drooling openly. You coat him in saliva. Messy. Your lips are swollen. 

When he breaches your throat, you slow down to focus on your breathing and swallowing. Little gags contract around the head of his cock as you focus on relaxing. 

“Fuck. Yeah, baby, show me you want it,” he rambles above you. 

You keep going and take him deep until your jaw aches and your pussy throbs. Hearing him react and spew filth at you stokes the fire in your core. 

“Knew your cock hungry mouth was waiting for me,” he slurs. 

A flash of embarrassment courses through you at that statement. 

You did wait for him. You should’ve said no. But it’s so hard when he shows up ready to go. You may be dumb for tolerating his actions, but you’re not going to turn down a man that looks like him and fucks like he does.  

“Eyes up,” he orders. 

You whine around him, looking up through your lashes. Obedient. With your eyes locked on each other, something passes briefly between you. Easy to miss, hard to describe. Like you could look at each other like that forever. Then it’s gone. 

He slides out of your mouth. Ogling the pornographic way spit trails between his tip and your tongue. The way your lashes are wet from trying to blink away the tears of exertion. 

“I did wait, Joel. Waited for you all night,” your voice comes out a little hoarse. You can’t be bothered if it sounds desperate. 

“‘Course you did,” he smiles and cradles your cheek in his palm. “Get up.” 

You don’t argue. He helps to pull you up, spins you around, and walks you the few steps over to your couch. He bends you over the armrest. You’re burning with need. 

He takes his time pulling your panties off. The way he has you presented for him makes you impatient. 

“Joel,” you whine his name in protest. 

“Quit.” He slaps your ass to make his point. 

You huff, but when both of his large palms spread your cheeks wider for his own enjoyment, another needy whine slips out of your throat. 

He chuckles darkly at you. 

“I’ll give you what you need,” he assures you before he sinks into your desperately empty hole. 

You groan in unison as he fills you. 

“So deep,” you murmur. He fits like he was made for you. Fills you up, so you can’t think of anything else. Can’t think of what you wanted to say or how you felt watching the time pass while you waited for him to show up earlier. 

“Always,” he agrees. 

He picks up a bruising pace. On edge for so long, you might go blind with the force of your building climax. 

He grasps your hair at the base of your skull and pulls, further arching your back and ripping another moan from deep in your chest. The sensations are overwhelming, and your mind feels blank. The sounds of his hips slapping into you and your combined panting, grunting, and babbling turn to white noise. The consistent drive of his cock against the perfect spot inside of you has you hurtling to the edge. 

“Yeah, baby, I know what you want,” he croons. Your breasts bounce with every thrust, and his other hand wraps around you to squeeze at them tightly. He remains steady and brutal with his movements. He does know what you want. And he keeps giving it to you. 

“Please, yes, don’t stop,” you beg. 

You wriggle one hand down to touch yourself. The pressure from your fingers around your clit brings you over the edge. You clench around him and gasp as you come.

“Yeah, that’s it. You come on this cock,” he rasps behind you as he works you through it. 

You feel the release melt your muscles, causing you to slump forward. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, and you know he’s trying to hold on as he pulls out and pants heavily. 

“Turn around for me,” he demands, stepping back. “On your knees.” 

You obey and turn to kneel in front of him. He looks wrecked, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth hanging open. His fist wrapped around his cock, still glistening from your release. 

It’s a debauched scene. He’s still fully dressed, only as exposed as necessary. He charges towards his climax with frantic force. You pose for him eagerly despite your boneless, damp form. 

He looks so primal it makes you lightheaded. You bite your lip to stop yourself from letting a giggle out. Your face shines with a sated glow.

You tilt your head up and squeeze your tits together for him. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he rasps out like it’s the only word he knows at this point. Your glossy, swollen lips pout up at him. Like, you need him to finish for you. That sends him. He comes across your chest as you release your hands, dropping your breasts with a little bounce.. 

He stares at you as his breathing slows. His warm spend is rapidly cooling against your skin. You still have a glowy, dreamy look on your face. Content.

“You look so good like that,” he praises you. A flush creeps up your chest and neck. 

You stand up and grab your forgotten water from the coffee table. He tucks himself back into his jeans and fastens his belt. 

“You gonna buy me breakfast to make up for bailing?” you float the idea with a joking tone, but there’s hope behind it. 

“Sorry, baby, got a job early in the morning.” 

“Right,” you snarl at him as he leans in to kiss you. 

“How about dinner after?” he suggests and fishes for his keys in his pocket. 

“Okay, yeah, what time?” You ask. 

“Not sure when I’ll be done.” He’s not looking at you. “I’ll text you.” 

He turns, slips out the door, and then he’s gone. 

You’re still standing there, naked and dumbfounded, with his drying come across your tits as he drives away. 

You groan and curse at yourself. He’s not going to text you tomorrow. 

You should stick up for yourself. But he did say he wants only you. And the more you suffer, the more it shows you really care, right? 

-> NEXT

[7ouls]

daisuke x fem reader where they’re both super awkward and swansea is tired of them being oblivious to the way they feel for eachother that he makes both of his interns work on a project together

omg i totally loved writing this even tho i hcent written in a while so it might look weird? im really sorry its been a long time… (and its pretty short sorry abt that) also swansea is probably a bit ooc (i think u say it like that? idk) cause i have really bad memory so sorry abt that too…

this is set before the crash

No matter how many times the two interns tried to communicate it would always end up being awkward since everyone but them knew about their obvious crush on each other.

Nobody cares enough to help them realise that, except their boss Swansea.

That shortly explains how the three of them are now repeating the bases of engineering.

“So is that clear?” The older man looked at the young adults as they nodded.

“Great, i don’t have to repeat myself for once. Now to see how much you’ve understood try to fix this.”

He said taking an old radio that sat behind him and handed them the needed tools. He then proceeded to leave but not before giving a smirk to his interns that blushed as a reaction.

Daisuke was the first to speak up. “I didn’t actually understand all of it.”

Y/n giggled at the boy and he soon joined too. “Don’t worry… I barely managed to take some notes. Swansea isn’t really the best teacher…”

“But we don’t really have much of a choice”

“Right, so here. You can read some of my notes and umm… i guess start working.” She said handing him her notebook. He started quietly reading all of it as the girl got slowly closer and closer to read with him.

After a while Daisuke stopped and thanked her, then realised how close she’s gotten to him. Y/n panicking apologised as she didn’t notice the close distance between them.

He quickly straightened himself. “No need to apologise! We’re supposed to work together so that eventually would’ve happened, not that i mind anyways…” He muttered the last part.

Y/n raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t question it. “We should get the work started now.” She said as he nodded happily.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It has been around two hours when the two finally ended their work and were now chatting.

“Sooo… would you be free after dinner tonight?” Daisuke asked nervously, Y/n blushed at the question then smiled. “I mean… there’s not much else to do so yes. Why do you ask?”

The boy grinned and answered. “Well, i’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now. Would you like to play on my gameboy with me? We can take turns! And then we can eat all the sweets that i have and stay up all night!” He exclaimed out of breath.

Y/n was surprised to hear the boy so excited and soon replied. “Sure, we can do that. We’ll just have to make sure to be quiet or else we’ll wake the captain up.” Daisuke happily nodded as he watched the girl get up and wave at him.

When she left he let put a puff of air he didn’t know he was holding. “Holy moly. She’s like super cool!”

i took the gameboy idea from a daisuke fanfic on here but i dont remember the tag. sorry this is kinda short as i said i have to get used to weiting it’s been like 2 years since i last did it. maybe i’ll write about that sleepover soemtime!! (i swear this looked longer whem i wrote it on my diary)

[beat-the-morning]

🖤Guitar Face || Hozier x Reader🖤

FULL FIC ON TUMBLR AFTER CUT || READ ON AO3

Rating: 18+ - Smut

Tags: Pre-Debut Hozier, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, vaginal sex, teasing, protected sex.

Summary: Andrew teaches you how to play guitar while you both try to ignore the very obvious and overwhelming sexual tension between you.

Word count: 5.4k

A/N: I’m back after a month of not posting (sorry lol) with a long fic to make up for lost time (yay) and to take our minds off of everything, really. When will I post my next fic, you ask? I don’t fucking know man, I’m just vibing. I do have a few ideas that I want to start, including a multichapter fic that will get written someday. Love you all, enjoy this pre-debut hozier fic💙

💙FULL FIC UNDER THE CUT💙

You needed a hobby, urgently. It was your second semester of your first year of university at Trinity College Dublin, and you had yet to find something to occupy your time that wasn’t studying, working, or just doing nothing with the group of friends that, despite your nervous and introverted nature, you had managed to form in your first semester. You were desperate for something new to do, a new skill or pastime to occupy you when all your friends were busy or simply when you felt like doing something other than hanging out with them.

The idea of learning guitar came to you after talking to one of your friends about your newfound need for a hobby, she mentioned that you had a great sense of rhythm and that you already really liked music, so why not pick up an instrument. She didn’t tell you to pick up guitar specifically, but it seemed like a good choice for learning in your spare time, and it’s not like you had the money to buy a keyboard or drums, much less a more classical instrument like a violin, a cello or a harp, and you already knew that you didn’t have the lungs for wind instruments.

You asked around your friend group if anyone had any suggestions for cheap guitars to buy, you got one that was moderately good and within your budget. You started to learn by yourself, the only thing was that you sucked, you barely understood the tutorials you found on youtube and didn’t even know if you were really doing it right, your fingers were sloppy and uncoordinated and you only angered yourself more and more with each note you got wrong. So, after two weeks and a half of frustration, you decided that maybe a guitar teacher wasn’t a bad idea, and that if that didn’t work you’d sell your guitar and pick up photography or something that didn’t require you to use your fingers as much.

It was Friday evening, and some members of Trinity Orchestra were having a small rehearsal/get together, and you knew your friend would be there since she was a pianist in the orchestra, so maybe she could help you learn guitar or at the very least find a teacher. You arrived at the get together when it was almost finished, you didn’t want to interrupt them, even if it wasn’t really a rehearsal, you felt out of place just by being there. Miranda, your friend, spotted you from her bench and beckoned you over to her, she’d been expecting you since you told her earlier that day that you’d go see her at the rehearsal, she was leaning on the closed piano, a half eaten bag of crisps sat on the cover of its keys. “I thought you’d come sooner, you missed the little concert.” She smiled.

“Nah, I’d rather not interrupt.” You smiled back, “anyway, what I wanted to talk about before you ran off today because of your horrible time manage skills-“

“-They’re not that bad, come on.” She pouted playfully, faking indignation.

“Bullshit.” You argued back, trying to hold in a laugh. “Now, do you know how to play guitar?”

“No, just piano, and the organ, kind of. Why?”

“I’ve been trying to learn how to play on my own but I can’t get the hang of it, I need a teacher or something.” You explained, trying to be quiet enough so that no one else would hear.

“Teacher for what?” A masculine voice asked from behind you, making you jump slightly in surprise. You turned around, a lanky guy with dorky glasses and a blonde fringe stood there, looking at you as he tried to guess who you were. “Have we met before?” He finally asked.

“I don’t think so,” you answered, a nervous smile on your face

“I’m Alex,” he smiled back to you, but his smile was more welcoming than anything else. You told him your name, and that you were a friend of Miranda, which prompted her to speak up.

“They’re trying to learn guitar,” she joined in. “Maybe you could help them?”

“Can’t, I’m drowning in coursework already, sorry,” Alex said earnestly, seeming genuinely sorry that he wasn’t able to help you learn how to play.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure I’ll find someone to teach me.” You assured him, relaxing a bit more now that you had spoken the slightest bit more to him.

“Andy could help you, though.” A smirk grew on his face, “he’s always looking for an excuse to not do his work.”

“Andrew’s a vocalist though isn’t he?” Miranda chimed in again.

“He does more things apart from singing, you know.” Answered Alex.

“I didn’t know he played guitar though, I’ve never seen him play it.” She argued.

“He does! He’s self taught though, so his has this weird way of playing where he-“

“Sorry, but, who’s Andrew?” You interrupted, needing some clarification as to who they were talking about.

“Right, you don’t know who he is,” Alex chuckled, “he’s that one over there.” He said, pointing over to a group of about five guys all chatting while standing around a table.

“Which one?” You asked, still not knowing who to look at.

“The tall one.” Alex and Miranda said in unison. Your eyes focused on him, a pale, lanky guy with dark, shaggy curls on his head and a 3 day stubble on his face and neck, he was at least half a head taller than the second tallest man in the conversation circle. He was smiling, his cheeks a rosy tone from how much he’d been laughing, his front teeth were slightly crooked from what you could see from a distance, and you noticed a pair of glasses in his left hand as your eyes trailed down his body, you assumed that they were his glasses with how he was holding them so close to his body. He was so cute, you thought to yourself, a bit of a nerd maybe but it’s not like you weren’t into it as well.

“Andy!” Alex’s call broke your train of thought, and maybe that was for the best, who knows where you were going to end up with those. Andrew turned to look at Alex, noticing Miranda sat on her seat, and then you, you could’ve sworn you saw him look you up and down as a small smirk formed on his face. Alex moved his arm to call him over, and he approached without hesitation, quickly walking over to the little group you were in.

Alex introduced you to each other and quickly explained your situation to Andrew, who agreed to teach you. You agreed on payment, how many times a week you’d meet, the whole thing, really, and then you exchanged numbers.

“If you want we can meet up tomorrow and we can start with the basics,” he suggested, putting on his glasses as he put your number in his phone. Fucking hell, he looked adorable with them on, you felt your cheeks heat up as you looked at him.

“Yeah, that’d be good,” you agreed without thinking, “I’ll send you my address and we can meet at my place if you want.”

“Sure,” he looked at you with a small smile. You decided on a time to meet and then went home for the night after saying goodbye to your friend.

You felt a nervous knot in your stomach as you laid down in your bed, the worry of making a fool of yourself in front of a cute guy was catching up on you. You shook those thoughts off, putting on some faint music before finally going to sleep.

You woke up the next day, looking at the clock on your bedside table only to find that it wasn’t actually morning, but past noon, almost 1pm in fact. You got ready for the day and had what could best be described as a big brunch before deciding to clean your apartment before Andrew arrived later in the day, something that you only remembered when you saw a message from him confirming that he had your address right. Why did you agree to this again? You cursed yourself as you cleaned up the small space you lived in, it was an attic converted into a studio apartment that was way too cheap for how big it was, but it’s not like you were going to complain.

Time passed as you finished cleaning your apartment, having just enough time to shower before Andrew arrived. You had just finished dressing up when your phone rang, you picked up to find Andrew on the other side of the line, asking you to open since the doorbell wasn’t working, so, taking your keys in your hand, you ran downstairs to open the front door for him. He was carrying a guitar case and what you assumed was a small amp, he wore a very simple outfit, a shirt and jeans with a brown leather jacket and some old tattered converse, but no glasses. “I like the jacket.” You said while guiding him towards the elevator.

“Thanks,” he smiled shyly, “I brought my electric guitar, I hope you don’t mind, my acoustic one has a broken string and I still need to replace it.”

“It’s fine, mine is electric too.” You smiled back.

You went into your apartment, he commented on the fact that it was a studio, and on the absence of a sofa. “The TV’s over there so I usually just put all my pillows on my bed and use it as a couch.” You explained, pointing out the TV on the wall next to the bed. Andrew laughed to himself, he mumbled something under his breath that you thought sounded like “that’s so fucking cute”. He sat on your bed, taking out his guitar and tuning it without even plugging it in to the amp.

You took out yours, tuning it as well with an app on your phone. You and Andrew talked for a bit, making jokes and breaking the tension before he explained the basics of guitar playing to you. You listened attentively and asked questions about the things you didn’t understand, he was a great teacher so far, and you could honestly listen to him speak for hours, his voice was lovely, no wonder Miranda said he was mainly a vocalist.

The time came to finally plug in the guitars, yours was already plugged to your amp, you just needed to turn it on, which you quickly did while Andrew set up his, he plugged the amp to the wall, grabbing the cable to plug it into his guitar, he wasn’t paying much attention to it though, his mind was somewhere else. While his head was, in fact, pointing down towards the guitar, his eyes were mostly looking up at you through his brows, using his curls as a shield so you wouldn’t notice him staring. His hand faltered, the jack circled the plug it was supposed to go in, making some magnetic noises come from the amplifier, you smiled at his dorkiness, finding it adorable. “Trouble putting it in?” You asked, not fully realising the other possible meaning of the question until it was already out of your mouth, he looked up at you with a quizzical look before you both burst into laughter at the question.

“I’m good, thanks,” he said between laughs, getting the jack into the plug once he finally stopped looking up at you. “‘trouble putting it in,’?” He echoed your words with a lovingly mocking tone, trying not to laugh again.

“I wasn’t thinking!” You tried to defend yourself while suppressing more laughter.

“Clearly,” he giggled.

The real, practical, lesson finally began, you spent the next hour and a half learning to play a couple chords and how to transition between them. It was hell, your hands were oddly shaky and very uncoordinated, so you asked for a break before you threw your guitar out the window. “Tea?” You asked, already thinking about making some for yourself so you could have an excuse to wander your apartment for a bit.

“Sure, I’ll have whatever you have.” Andrew nodded, standing up and stretching a bit and walking over to your bookshelf.

You went over to the kitchenette to put the kettle on, your thoughts wandering to how Andrew looked, he was so pretty, and you were definitely embarrassing yourself with your horrible guitar skills, but he had to have expected that, right? You did tell him that you knew basically nothing about playing guitar after all.

He walked closer to you, leaning on the kitchen island. “You’re not as bad as you told me you’d be yesterday, you know.” He said with a kind look in his eyes.

“I’m not?” You asked as you turned to face him.

“Yeah, I mean, your fingers are a bit uncoordinated and all but that’s just getting the hang of it.” He explained. “You picked up the chords and their positions on the neck of the guitar pretty quickly, though, that’s a good sign.”

“Oh, well that’s good at least,” you chuckled, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of it, though, I have horrible hand-eye coordination.”

“It can’t be that bad, come on,” he scoffed playfully, walking over to you and almost-sitting on the counter closest to you

“It is.”

“I think your hands are just fine, you just need to practise, and maybe learning guitar will help when you do other things with your hands, it did for me.” He winked, you felt your face heat up.

“What other things?” You tilted your head to the side as you smirked.

“Just… things, you’ll see what I mean.” He chuckled, he pressed his thumb into his palm. His eyes looked you up and down slowly, but you pretended not to notice.

“Oh I’m sure.” You laughed.

The water boiled and you made the tea, you lost the track of time as your conversation went on, it was ever so slightly flirty, just some comments here and there that made you both blush coupled with a few lingering touches. You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t want to do more than just learn guitar with him, but you didn’t want to be too forward, so you waited.

/#/#/#/

You met with Andrew for guitar lessons every other day for the next four weeks, slowly improving on your skill while also getting to know each other more and more, to the point that you’d hang out with him even if you weren’t practising, you’d gone to the pub with him and a few more friends a couple times and would just randomly message each other every so often throughout the day just to check on one another. It was nice, and, even if your crush on him had only gotten stronger as the days passed, you were glad to have a new friend. He was so sweet and just the right amount of dorky nerd that you couldn’t help but love him, you only hoped he felt the same way about you.

It was a Saturday evening, Andrew had been over at your apartment since lunch, you’d started the lesson right after he arrived at 1 and it was now 6:30pm, he’d been teaching you a song, or more so trying to. It wasn’t even a hard one, your hands just were not collaborating today and both you and Andrew were growing increasingly frustrated.

You were standing next to your bed while Andrew sat down on it, the guitar was strapped around you, you were considering making it against the ground in frustration. “You look angry, darling.” He pointed out, his expression unreadable.

“I’m not,” you lied, “just frustrated, I don’t know why I can’t get it right.”

“Maybe your hands are just tired, rest a bit and try again later.” He suggested.

“No.”

“The guitar won’t leave if you stop playing for a second, you know?”

“I just want to get this part right, just to hear how it sounds and then I’ll rest.”

Andrew scoffed, the smallest smirk forming on his face, he rolled his eyes before standing up and walking over to you, his frame towering over yours. “Let’s hear it then.” He ordered.

You swallowed air nervously, slightly intimidated by the combination of his height and the more strict and dominant tone his voice had taken. Your fingers moved on the guitar, clumsily playing the song and restarting it every time you messed up a note. After a few failed attempts, he moved behind you, grabbing the guitar even though it was still on you.

He pushed himself flush against your back, his hands playing the instrument as if you weren’t there. You felt the vibrations of the guitar against your abdomen and his body against your back, and, thanks to your height difference, you could perfectly feel his crotch pressing against your lower back. You felt your face heat up and a few whimpers escaping your mouth as he played, and he was definitely getting a bit into it as well, thrusting his hips into you as the song went on, the worst part was that you weren’t even sure if he was doing it because of the song or to rile you up, but that was the effect it was having anyway.

He stopped playing before he got to the chorus of the song, taking the guitar off you before he finally stepped away. “Heard it. Now, rest.” He instructed, throwing himself back on your makeshift couch.

“What the hell was that?” You asked dumbfounded, a nervous chuckle escaped you.

“Sorry, I just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, it was weird.” He mumbled, his eyes focusing on your pillows instead of on you.

“I didn’t think it was weird,” you stretched the truth lightly, you had thought it slightly weird when he did that, but you also couldn’t ignore the burning between your thighs and you needed to know if he was feeling the same way you were right now. “You could’ve just taken the guitar off me, though.”

“It wouldn’t have worked, you would’ve gotten mad at me.” He bit his lip to fight back a smirk. “I wasn’t really thinking, anyway, and you said you wanted to hear how it sounded so… yeah.”

Your eyes wandered to his crotch for a second, he looked like he was at least slightly hard. Quickly focusing back on his face, you giggled and threw yourself on the makeshift couch next to him, you laid on your side, looking at Andrew with a small, loving smile on your face.

“What’s the smile for?” He asked, turning to his side so he could face you as well.

“Nothing,” you continued to smile. “It’s just funny that you’re kind of beating yourself up about it when I actually kinda liked it.”

“Oh?” His eyes widened for a second as he scooted closer to you. “And what about it did you like?”

“I like how the guitar felt against me. The vibrations of it, you know? I play so slow that I don’t usually feel them like… that.” You bit your thumb lightly, trying to appear a bit more innocent so he wouldn’t guess what you were really thinking about.

“Yeah, they’re nice,” he looked at your lips as well, then scooted even closer. “Anything else you liked?”

“Well… I liked how you felt… against me.” You admitted, only to see Andrew’s smile widening. His hand moved to your cheek, silently encouraging you to keep going. “I liked how you were thrusting against me, it felt nice.”

“Just nice?” He teased, caressing your cheek.

“It was kinda hot, too.”

“I thought so too, maybe we could do something about it?” He suggested, his hand moving to your hip.

You nodded weakly, your lips parting ever so slightly. Andrew lunged in to kiss you, his mouth crashing against yours as you kissed him back passionately. Slowly he moved to be on top of you as you kissed, his right leg moved between yours, pressing against your core. Your hips moved against his legs, desperate for any kind of release. His tongue darted into your mouth, exploring as it pleased while your hands tangled in his shaggy curls.

You deepened the kiss, it became sloppier and more desperate as the seconds passed by, Andrew pulled back, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths to each other’s. His breathing mirrored yours, ragged and irregular even as you tried to calm down slightly. His glasses were slipping off his nose, so, as one does, you moved your hand from his hair and adjusted them, making him chuckle softly. “I feel like a fucking teenager.” He laughed, leaning in to plant small kisses on your jaw and neck.

“You’re twenty-two, not that far from it.” You teased while quiet moans escaped your lips.

“Shut up.” He laughed, his kisses on your skin turning more demanding. His hands snaked under your shirt, slowly pulling it off you until he could finally throw it on to the floor. He grabbed your breasts, moving his face between them before starting to kiss and lightly bite them, you arched your back into him, more moans escaping you.

“Fuck! Andy… please,” you moaned loudly, he hummed against your chest.

“What is it, baby?” He asked with a wicked smile, looking up at you through the rim of his glasses. You whimpered and rubbed yourself against his leg as a response, making him chuckle once more. “So needy… I’ve been wanting you for a while, let me at least play a little before I ravage you.”

“Play faster, I want you now.” You whined again, pulling him in to kiss him. He happily obliged, kissing you back while his hands made quick work of your jeans.

Your jeans and underwear quickly joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on your floor, leaving you completely bare. Your hands moved from Andrew’s hair as he pulled away from your mouth, instead trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone once more, your touch moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling at the cloth to try and pull it off him already. He quickly caught onto that and pulled his own shirt and undershirt off himself, uncovering his torso. He was still as lanky and thin as he was with clothes on, but he was a bit fuller than you had imagined, the slightest bit of pudge gathering on his abdomen. Your gaze turned him slightly shy, his cheeks reddening as he looked away for a second.

“I know this probably isn’t what you imagined,” he said sheepishly, a nervous tone in his voice, “I’m s-“

“You’re so pretty,” you interrupted him, still staring at his body.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do.” You smiled, your hands grazed his skin. “You’re very hot, too.”

“Flatterer.” He smiled back, leaning in to kiss you again. You felt goosebumps forming on his skin the more you caressed him.

“I would never, I’m only saying what I think.” You kissed him back.

He hummed happily into the kiss, his hand travelling lower and lower on your body until it reached your core. He gently caressed it with two fingers, smiling darkly when he felt just how wet you were. Slowly, he played with your clit, making you whimper and buckle your hips against his hand, silently begging for more. He obliged, moving to push two fingers inside you and making you gasp at the intrusion, he slowly pumped them in and out, his thumb moving to play with your clit.

“Is this something that playing guitar helps with?” You teased while trying to suppress your moans.

Andrew chuckled, his fingers quickening. “Yes, actually.” He kissed along your jaw. “It helps a lot, makes it easier to fuck you.”

You moaned more, holding onto him like a lifeline as he played with you. His lips moved to your neck again, leaving passionate kisses and hickeys as he memorised every inch of your skin. His movements quickened even more, his thumb playing with your clit in a way that made your legs shake slightly, his other hand grabbed your hip, his nails digging into your skin. You felt the all-familiar burning-white desire in your lower abdomen, your whines got more and more high pitched until they were nothing more than needy whimpers.

Andrew chuckled, pulling away from your neck to look at your face as you came undone before him. “That’s it, let go for me,” he whispered softly, his free hand now moving up to brush your hair away from your face. “That’s it, good girl. Let me feel you, baby, please.”

You felt something snap within you at his words, pure pleasure running through you as you came on his fingers, covering them with your essence. He smiled at your blissed out expression, taking it in as he fingered you through your orgasm. Once it subsided he pulled out his fingers and licked them clean as you looked at him, a moan escaping him as he finally tasted you.

“Fuck, you’re delicious, I’m going to fucking devour you next time.” He growled.

“Why not now?” You teased breathlessly, still recovering from your orgasm.

“Because I might explode if I don’t put my dick inside you right now.” He teased back, reaching into his wallet for a condom. “Can I fuck you now, baby? Or do you need to recover a bit more first?”

“Now, please.” You begged without thinking.

Andrew smiled at your eagerness, taking off his pants and underwear to reveal his cock, it was as long as you thought, or hoped, it’d be, somewhere above average that was still enjoyable, but his thickness surprised you, he was wider than you’d imagined. You felt your mouth watering. “You’re staring.” He said firmly, rolling on the condom, “does it scare you?” He asked, his tone a mixture of dominance and genuine concern.

“No.” You smiled, opening your legs more. “I was just a bit surprised.”

“A good surprise, I hope.” He smiled back, grabbing your legs and pulling you closer to him. You chuckled at his words.

“A very good surprise, yeah.”

You reached out to touch him once again, his hands catching yours and pushing them to be above your head. He held them in place with his left hand while his right travelled to your thigh, lifting it ever so slightly as he positioned himself between your legs. His cock brushed lightly against your core, making you both whimper lightly at the feeling, then, slowly, he pushed in. Your gasp matched his moaning, soft and quiet enough that it was almost whispered, he was pushing in slowly, making sure it wasn’t painful for you. He bottomed out after a few more seconds, his movements stopping as he let you get used to his size. He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, loving kiss that had you melting into his touch even more.

You moved your hips after a few kisses, signalling Andrew to move. He happily obliged, slowly thrusting in and out of you. Your moans filled the room, making a symphony with his. “You feel so fucking good, baby, oh my god.” He practically whimpered into your ear, interlocking his fingers with yours. His other hand held tightly onto your thigh, his grip almost bruising as he lost himself in you. You shook your hand free from his, moving it to his hair along with your other hand to pull him in for a kiss, muffling your moans.

“Faster, please.” You begged between kisses, Andrew growled in response, letting go of all his restraint. His pace quickened to a brutal one, pistoning in and out of you without a care in the world. Your hands moved down to his back, your nails leaving scratches as you neared your peak just from the feeling of his cock inside you.

He straightened up, getting a better view of you, completely blissed out and moaning like crazy, sweat making some of your hair stick to your face. His hand caressed your cheek lovingly, his thumb pressing on your mouth to pry it open. “Open up, baby.” He ordered, and you obeyed without hesitation. His thumb moved inside your mouth, pressing on your tongue. “Suck.” He added.

And you did, sucking gently on his thumb as a lopsided smile grew in his face. He whispered soft praises as he fucked you, his thumb thrusting slightly in and out at a gentle pace to contrast the one of his hips.

He moved your leg with his other hand so your ankle would be resting on his shoulder, changing the angle in just the right position so his pubic bone would hit your clit every time he bottomed out. Your moans got louder, or as much as they could since your sucking of his thumb muffled most of the noise. Andrew moaned too, quieter, softer moans that could only be audible between your own, but you loved every single one you could hear. You felt his cock twitch inside you.

You felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your own hand moving to your clit to give you the extra friction you needed. Andrew pulled his thumb out of your mouth and moved it to your clit before you could reach it on your own, flicking it rapidly as he moved your leg off his shoulder so he could lean in to kiss you again. You moaned into his mouth and he moaned into yours, both of you nearing your respective climaxes, his cock twitched more inside you, his thrusting becoming erratic and uncoordinated. You felt the pure, unadulterated ecstasy threatening to explode within you once more, your hands moving once more to Andrew’s hair as he kissed you.

“Come for me, baby, come on, let me hear you again pet.” He moaned, pulling back slightly so he could see your face as you came undone below him. “So fuckin’ pretty, come on, love.”

You came under him not long after, pure pleasure flowing through you as your body shook with your orgasm. But Andrew didn’t stop, chasing his own release as his thrusts became even more irregular than before, and, just as you were starting to feel the overstimulation taking over, he came, releasing his spent into the condom and stopping his movements almost completely, savouring the feeling of your walls around him. He moaned loudly, his head going back slightly as his eyes closed and his jaw slacked, you grinned slightly, recognising his current expression as the same one he did when playing a more upbeat guitar solo.

After a few more seconds, you both calmed down, and Andrew leaned in to kiss you once more, slowly and lovingly this time. You kissed back, your bodies still entangled with each other as you savoured the afterglow of your lovemaking. Carefully, and despite how much neither of you wanted that, he pulled out of you, detaching himself from you so he could take off the condom and throw it out. “I’ll be back in a second, stay put.” He murmured before giving you a quick kiss and walking towards your bathroom.

He came back not long after with a damp washcloth in hand, cleaning you up slightly before helping you sit up on your bed. “I should go to the bathroom,” you pointed out.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “go on, I’ll wait here for you.”

You smiled lovingly, getting up and into the bathroom, coming out of it a few minutes later after refreshing yourself. You found Andrew laying on your bed, having put his boxers back on while you’d been washing up. He smiled at the sight of you, opening his arms for you to cuddle into, and that you did, crawling into your bed and hugging him tight. He played with your hair as you cuddled, talking about random things before you decided to be a bit cheeky. “Did you know you have the exact same face when playing guitar that you do when you cum?”

“Shut up,” he laughed, “…do I really?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it at least a nice face or do I look like an idiot?” His face reddened ever so slightly.

“I think it’s a very pretty face, just like your normal one.” You assured him honestly.

“Thank god.” He laughed again, holding you tighter to him. “Can I stay the night?” He added, a hint of uncertainty and pleading in his tone.

“You better stay.” You smiled, nuzzling your face into his chest.

Andrew smiled back, burying his face in your hair and taking in your scent.

[animeyanderelover]

Can I ask this for Kaneki, Ayato, from TG and Sukuna (+some other characters of JJK)?

I’ve read your reply about wanting PM and ADA Dazai also added in here and it doesn’t count as a second request.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, clinginess, manipulation, paranoia, stalking, sadism, abduction, death

Tags: @flaming-vulpix @shumidehiro @leveyani @izanami78 @lovley-valentine7

S/o has a tattoo of the name of their ex

Kaneki Ken

🔲​You would have never told Kaneki about the tattoo that decorates your back even if you would have known him before he abducted you. There is no need for you to even attempt to hide it from him as the ghoul finds out anyways. He is a rather devoted stalker, all the time on edge out of worry that something may happen to you if he isn't watching you. It is to be expected that he at one point catches a glimpse of the tattoo on your back, though he didn't mean to peek when you were undressing yet he doesn't avert his gaze quick enough to avoid catching a glimpse of the name you have written on your back. All effort to be polite by looking away is instantly wiped from his mind as his eyes are glued to the tattoo on your back. What-what is that? Whose name is that? His throat tightens as the air he breathes in suddenly seems to have a new weight to it, his chest heaving as he is unable to tear his gaze away from the black ink etched on your back.

🔲​That tattoo becomes one of the biggest sources of insecurity for Kaneki and he is unable to get it out of his mind, constantly envisioning that name. He can already imagine whose name it might be but he is terrified to ask you and confirm his suspicions as soon as he has abducted you. The question often lingers on the tip of his tongue yet it becomes lead the moment he attempts to vocalise the words. It doesn't fly over your head how he constantly stares at your back with that queasy gleam in his eyes, knowing exactly what is beneath your shirt. It is when he sees the sight of it again by accident that he snaps and breaks down. Tears stream down his face, his lips wobble and fingers dig into your flesh painfully as he asks you with a trembling voice to whom that name belongs. He has always feared your answer yet not even his worst imagination could have prepared him for the feeling of his heart being crushed when you fearfully confess that it is the name of your ex. He isn't able to look at your back properly anymore from that day on without breaking down again. You'd probably never be able to love him the same way, right? Of course not... He's absolutely despicable.

Kirishima Ayato

🌌​It's quite difficult for Ayato to come to term with the fact that he has fallen in love with the very thing he has despised his entire life. He's always loathed humans for fearing and hunting down his own kind and he has gladly slaughtered your kind without feeling any lingering remorse yet now he's got you. You exhibit the same fear as soon as he has abducted you and it only fuels his anger. Your kind really just can't stop judging and hating his kind, can't you? He's very rough with you and no matter what you do it only seems to get on his nerves. During one particularly frightening argument where you try to run away he accidentally rips your shirt apart when he yanks you back, revealing the tattoo written on your shoulder blade to him. You cower on the ground as you expect screaming yet nothing ever happens. You dare to turn your head around to look at him with teary eyes only to feel your heart stopping when you see his activated Kakugan as he stares at the tattoo. What...the fuck is this?

🌌​You're subjected to a bitter anger from that day on as Ayato actively degrades you for the tattoo. You really are pathetic, you know? Who is dumb enough to let a name of their lover to be engraved on their skin? Especially since that person isn't even with you anymore. He always barks at you to cover up that tattoo to spare him the disgusting sight as seeing the black ink always triggers him to be thrown into a whirlwind of emotions. There's a deep hatred for the person who made you stupid enough to make this decision and he considers if he should perhaps question you where they live so he can just murder them to vent out some of the seething anger inside of him. Maybe he'll just do it but before that the abomination on your skin has to be gone. His angered sadism might get the better of him as the threat for him to bite the spot and rip a portion of your skin and flesh out of you is a chance though he wouldn't swallow the gross skin of yours where their name is written on.

Pm! Dazai Osamu

🤎​A sickly sweet facade to lure you closer to him only for him to eventually reveal his venomous fangs to you and unleash his inner beast on you. That is Dazai from the Port Mafia for you. As soon as he has you where he wants you to be he will expose his everything to you and his darkness threatens to swallow you whole. Hot and harsh kisses are what you remember on that night as his fingers dig painfully into your skin, brown eyes gleaming with the devil's look as he takes in the sight of your tears as you feel your clothes slowly being removed. And then all of it stops. Fearful confusion twists your intestines as you gather the shaky courage to open your eyes only to see his face void of any emotions, his eyes focused on the inside of your thighs. It takes you a few seconds to piece everything together as your mind is slowed down due to the overwhelimg fear. Only then do you realise with a hitch of your breath that he must have discovered your tattoo, hidden down there. It is the audible stutter of your breath that has those terrifying orbs snap up to your face, a dark look on his face as he asks you slowly what that tattoo symbolises.

🤎​The following days after he has discovered your little secret he leaves you dangling over the abyss. You're thoroughly shaken up as you estimate this to be his intended calm before the storm where he leaves your mind and heart quivering with fear. All for this one moment so indescribably horrifying that no words could explain it as he escorts you to a basement only for you to be met with the sight of your half-dead ex. A gun is pushed into your palm as he guides your arm so that the weapon is pointed at your ex, his voice whispering into your ear to shoot. You're frozen in fear as Dazai uses you like a puppet, his fingers guiding yours to push the trigger one time, two times, three times... Even after your ex has died he forces you to keep shooting until you are out of bullets. You sink to your knees as soon as he removes himself from you, your mind still in shambles as it tries to catch up with what just happened before you hear the rattling of chains, your gaze slowly moving up only to see Dazai giving you a lopsided grin with chains, tattoo needles and a knife in his hands. Be sweet for him whilst he's going to correct your tattoo. After all you love being branded by the person who currently owns you, don't you?

ADA! Dazai Osamu

🤎​Dazai is already well acquainted with the unsavory fact that you had someone you used to call his lover before him but as petty as he is, he has stayed away from them because he also knows that you have broken off contact with them and they have done the same. Aah~ What wonderful opportunity to swoop in and mend the broken heart of a damsel in distress. Now that they are gone from your life he can claim your heart and your love for himself. If there is one thing he can do wonderfully it is knowing how to attach himself to your hips as he swoons over you and dotes on you. All of those sweet feelings are temporarily shattered the moment he catches a glimpse of your tattoo, the name spelled out on your shoulder. A sudden lump forms in his throat as he stares oddly at the tattoo until your voice brings him back to reality and he musters a wry grin as he apologises for spacing out there. You have noticed what he has spotted though and admit to him nonchalantly that this is the name of your ex.

🤎​It is from that moment on that Dazai starts focusing more on that ex of yours as it is a hard knowledge for him to digest that at one point you were so madly in love with them that you tainted your pretty skin with their ugly name. Pettiness and jealousy can truly do wonders as Dazai resents them, envies them for the fact that you once held so much affection for them that you tattooed their name on your shoulder. He starts subtly questioning you about them as he wants to ensure that you truly do not have any affection left for them and he might even be motivated enough to pay that ex of yours a visit to have a polite talk with them to ensure that they never think of contacting you again either. He truly loathes that tattoo but he hides it behind silly reactions as good as he can though he is wondering when exactly you plan to get rid of that name. After all they aren't even your lover anymore. You do not hold any lingering affection for them still, do you? That would be a bit troublesome after all.

Ryomen Sukuna

🗾​In Sukuna's eyes you are utterly his. He is the King who takes what he desires and no one dares to subject, not even you after you have learnt your place. After all you should know that you will never be an equal to him and should instead be grateful that he allows you to be so close to him in the first place. You'll never regret the day you made the decision to engrave the name of your now ex-lover onto your skin as much as the moment where Sukuna spots the black ink on the back of your neck. One of his arms effortlessly keeps you in place by wrapping itself around your waist whilst another hand of his grabs the back of your head and pushes it down, forcing you to tilt your head as he observes the tattoo on your skin. Nothing but silence follows for a few moments where he keeps your head in that uncomfortable position and you feel blood rushing to your brain as the atmosphere grows heavier, causing your stomach to churn anxiously as the curse lets you bathe in your own anxiety before he asks you with only a mild hint of displeasure in his tone who that person is. Surely they must be quite important for you to have a tattoo of their name on your skin.

🗾​You shouldn't keep secrets from him, little mortal. He's your owner now so if his belonging has been spoiled before he must know of it. A sadistic grin soon finds its way on his face as he lets go of you and asks you if you'd like for him to serve you their head to truly help you realise how pathetic their human life was and, by extension, how pathetic you were for ever thinking it'd be a good idea to get inked with their name. If you love being branded by your current owner so much you should have just told him so from the beginning. He relishes in the sight of seeing you cower beneath his form as you are barely able to look up at him. Now, now, there is no need to be so skittish. He'll even be kind enough to let you choose. Would you prefer for him to slaughter that paltry former companion of yours first or would you prefer for him to erase their mark on you and give you a new brand which will claim you as his first? Flames appear on the tips of his fingers, only adding to the wriggling terror deep within your soul as he looks down at you. Hurry and make your decision or else he'll decide for you.

Nanami Kento

💛​Nanami takes his time to properly court you and get to know you. Even though he knows of his own obsession he prefers to do things the proper way instead of doing it half-heartedly. You inform him quite early on that you used to be in a relationship but had to break things off since it just didn't work anymore and he respects that. What you did not tell him though is that their name is still decorating your ankle, something that Nanami has the displeasure to discover all by himself. There is only a short flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he puts on a poker face to hide all of his displeased feelings for the moment, his eyes finding yours as the unspoken question lingers in the room. The frustration on your face is quite visible as well as the slice of embarrassment. So you deliberately chose to not tell him about this. He must say that this does disappoint him a bit even if he understands that this is probably a bit of a difficult topic to talk about, especially considering that you aren't even together with the very person whose name is tattooed on your ankle.

💛​It is safe to say that he would prefer for you to get that tattoo removed. It would be quite awkward for him to be your new partner all whilst you have the name of your ex inked on your skin. He'll even take over all the costs that would come with the tattoo removal. Surely you'd agree to his offer, won't you? If you were to give him signs of hesitation he would have to assume that maybe there are still lingering feelings for your ex, something he cannot tolerate. Perhaps he should get acquainted with your ex after all even if he is confident that it won't be a pleasant experience to figure out how their feelings are in regards to you. In the meantime he will slowly change your mind so that you agree with his suggestion. His arguments are logical as he is dismissing any lingering feelings of yours, especially since you and your ex broke things off quite some time ago. Any chance for you to get in contact with them again will be taken care off by him secretly as that ex of yours is luckily civilised enough to understand the message as soon as Nanami meets them privately as he clarifies to them what kind of relationship he has with you.

[miaowitch]

What Makes a Date? (18+)

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Read on Ao3 or below !!

Sam (SDV) / Fem! Farmer OC

cw ⋆｡‧˚♡ swearing, smut, porn with plot, grinding over clothes, blowjobs, cumming without warning, sam pov, sams a loser?, canon/oc

summary ⋆｡‧˚♡

Sam has two tickets to his favorite band, but none of his friends want to come with him. What does he do instead? Ask the farmer on a totally platonic outing, just as friends with no underlying feelings! Everything should go according to plan, especially the part where he ends up in her house! Right?

5k words

Sam found himself in an odd situation. Two tickets to a concert in Zuzu City, two busy friends, and one available farmer. He’d been talking with Bella for a few months. Every time she came around he couldn’t help feeling like his heart would burst from his chest alien-style, but all in all he tried his hardest to be normal around her. Even if he’d written hundreds of scrapped melodies about her, even if he dreamt of her constantly, even if he wanted her laugh as his alarm clock. Samuel Neilson was a normal 20-year-old who could have hot friends. 

He’d been a fan of the band JamPot since middle school, and he figured Sebastian and Abigail would’ve died hearing about the tickets. They were all massive fans in fact, they’d discovered them together on YouTube in fact. Sure, he could only take one, but Sebastian rarely left his house anyway. Abigail was his backup plan for concerts most times, he just liked extending the offer to Seb. Abigail would never turn down the option to go to a concert without paying. 

He decided to ask them both on their weekly pool night, Sebastian was riding on his first win of the night and Abigail was lounging on the couch closest to the table. Sam thumbed the tickets in his pocket before working up the courage to ask, “Hey uh-” He started, pulling out the envelope. “Either of you wanna go with me to see JamPot on Saturday?” Sam’s hopeful tone was instantly crushed by their simultaneous rejection. “Sorry, Sammy. I’ve got plans on Saturday.” Abigail finally looked up from her phone to look at his defeated expression. “Yeah, I’ve gotta catch up on work. It wouldn’t be smart to..” Sebastian had just finished setting up the next game, but Sam couldn’t care less. “Whaat?” Sam whined out, leaning on the pool stick now. “I spent 50 on the other ticket, just hoping one of you’d tag along!” 

Sebastian, as if he was unbothered by his friend's distress, just rolled his eyes in response. “Just ask Bella.” Beginning the match by hitting the cue ball, managing to hit a solid color into a corner pocket. Sam stood dumbfounded. He didn’t want to go alone, but he also didn’t know if Bella would even agree to the…date? Would it be a date? He pondered for a minute before Sebastian cleared his throat in frustration. “You’re stripes, now play the fucking game, dude.”

The rest of the night, Sam was in a sort of daze, wondering if he was even close enough to the farmer to ask her to a concert. What if she rejected him, thinking it was a date? What if he wanted it to be a date? After his…circumstances with Penny, he wasn’t sure if he should even try to make a move. Walking out of the pub at 11, he was still thinking about Sebastian’s suggestion. Abigail waved goodbye, the one sober member of the group. Sam was slumped on Sebastian’s shoulder, the two held each other up with drunk motivation. “Can I..” Sam sighed, tossing his head back. “Just take me to your basement, Sebby.” He didn’t plan on drinking so much, but he knew his mom would kill him if he walked in wasted. “Whatev’r…” Sebastian slurred back, as he lead Sam around the corner to the mountain path. 

Sam didn’t quite remember how he’d gotten to Sebastian’s house. He woke up with a twinging headache, sprawled on the rug next to Sebastian’s bed. An old throw blanket was tossed over top of his body, but no pillow. His mouth was dry, lips cracked slightly as he pried them apart. “Seb…” He groaned, his voice was dangerously hoarse. Clearing it, he called once more as he sat up. “Seb. Get up.” Sam reached up to push at Sebastian’s sleeping back, but only received an angry groan in return. Being friends with Sebastian for so long, he understood that groan as a rejection to waking up.

Sam decided to just leave on his own, his mother was probably concerned about the fact that he hadn’t even come home. The alarm clock on Sebastian’s bedside read off [11:00 am]. He sighed, searching for his shirt that had been thrown off in the night. Picking himself up from the floor, he grabbed his phone, found his shirt, and slipped on his laceless shoes. Hobbling up the stairs was the hardest part, with stiff joints it was hard to even walk a straight line.

“Hello, Sam!” Robin announced to the house as Sam emerged from the basement. He winced at her volume, but still put on a smile. “Hey, Robin, sorry I crashed last night.” Sam adjusted the faded band shirt, hoping she couldn’t tell he’d been half naked two seconds prior. “Seb’s still asleep downstairs, I don’t know if he’s getting up any time soon.” He rubbed the back of his neck, anxious that Robin could still smell the alcohol. She didn’t seem to catch on, laughing softly. “Oh, Sam, you don’t have to apologize for staying over.” She sat back in the chair behind the front counter. “You two always stay up so late at night, at least you’re having fun.” 

Sam said his goodbyes, walking out the front door and closing it silently for the sake of his aching head. He took a deep breath, feeling around in his pocket for his phone to text his mom that he was headed home. Instead, Sam found the tickets that cursed him. “Fuck.” He muttered to himself, but apparently not quiet enough. Bella was rounding the corner at that very moment. 

“Fuck what?” She appeared with a sly, teasing smile. Sam felt his throat tighten up. “Me?” He replied with a violent voice crack. Sam couldn't help feeling like an ass when Bella was around. Something about her jet black hair, piercing blue eyes, and….assets? He didn't want to disrespect her, she was a nice friend. Why would he talk about her like that? He respected her too much. 

Bella laughed, harmoniously (to Sam). While covering her smile, which killed Sam, she dropped it after her giggles. A happy sigh escaped her, straightening up to really get a good look at him. “You look rough.” Bella spoke with almost a hinge of concern, looking him up and down. Sam had been so caught up in overthinking, he forgot completely about why he had been overthinking. “Rough? Yeah, I guess I feel the same too.” His hand nervously rubbed at his neck, Sam had a habit of doing it. “A-Actually I had a question for you!” Bella cocked her head, Sam felt his stomach toss. 

Bella was a girl who loved music. It was her and Sam’s first conversation. Wearing an old TilledSoil shirt, a band Sam had seen upwards of 10 times. After their hour of conversation on their favorite bands, Sam deemed Bella to be cool. He knew she would agree to going to a free concert with him, but was he even confident enough to ask her out? “What’s up?” Bella asked, now actually concerned for Sam. He’d been clutching the tickets for the entire time. The ticket envelope crumpled in his grip. “Do you wanna go to a concert with me- If you’re not busy or- or anything.” He felt like a total ass. 

There was no reason for her to actually reject him, but every bone in his body was cringing out. Standing in front of his best friend’s house, asking someone to go on a maybe-date. If Sebastian had been awake, he’d be instantly cooked. “What band?” Bella spoke up to break the internal panic that fogged his brain. That and the hangover headache. “JamPot!” Sam blurted out, making his headache come back with a vengeance. “They’re just…some dumb pop punk band from overseas.. I just have another ticket!” Yet she was already smiling, “JamPot? I don’t think I’ve listened to them since middle school!” Pulling out her phone, she looked back up at him. “When’s the show?”

Sam seemingly forgot every single detail about the show in that very minute. After frantically opening the envelope to look at the tickets, he looked back up. “Tomorrow, doors at 7?” Bella then started looking through her phone for a moment. “I’ll drive too! All you gotta do is tag along!” Sam wasn’t trying to beg, but god, he just didn’t want to waste the money. She looked back up with a smile, “Deal, I’m free to go tomorrow.” Stammering to himself for a moment, Sam finally got out a sentence. “Cool! I’ll pick you up at 6?” Bella agreed, and Sam floated back into town on a high.

Sure, his mom was pissed, and he was slightly late to work. Sam just couldn’t care. He was just really excited to hang out with his friend Bella. There wasn’t anything else lingering there, no matter how many times Sebastian and Abigail brought it up. This was just two really good friends going to hang out at a concert. Getting close, and sweaty…and doing normal friend things. Sam wasn’t going to ruin anything. Surely. 

Sebastian and Abigail heard the ‘news’ from him over a text, both were convinced it was going to end in Sam’s demise. Abigail bet on Bella thinking it was a date, but Sam shut her down immediately. There’s no way Bella would think it was a date. Even as he put a little bit of extra time into getting ready the next day, he was positive that Bella was on the same page as him. After assuring himself that his hair was perfectly quaffed, he headed out to pick up Bella. 

His car was just a hand-me-down from Jodie, her old car from before they’d gotten a family van. Sam wasted a few minutes throwing trash from the passenger to the backseat. Scrambling just to make it to the farm at six. Pelican Town wasn’t the most drivable, but it was still nice to have a car for longer trips. He just hoped it was comfortable enough for Bella. Not that it was a big deal, of course, she was just like every other friend. He just wanted her to enjoy her first ride in his car.

Sam arrived at the farm at 5:52, pulling into the gravel driveway just after he was done freaking out about being late. He fixed his hair in the rearview mirror, fussing over nothing at all. Waiting for just another minute, he was too impatient and honked at the horn once. He didn’t have her number, but he also wasn’t sure if he could just walk up to the front door. What if she thought he was rushing her? At the moment Sam honked– Bella opened her front door. A black cat ran from the house, and Bella locked up the front door. Sam was leaning on the steering wheel, watching her. When she looked at him with a smile, he instantly straightened up. His palms were grossly sweaty, and suddenly he felt underdressed. 

Bella walked to the passenger side of the car. Sam for a moment felt compelled to brush off the seat before she sat down, but still held himself back. Sharing greetings, Sam took a moment to really look at her. Trying to get his breath back, he smiled. “Ready for the show?” Sam managed to get out, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Bella could probably wear a burlap sack and look good, but her black skinny jeans and cropped tee suited her perfectly. Bella smiled back, buckling in. “You know it.” 

It was hard to pay attention to the road with her in the passenger seat. Bella wasn’t distracting in a bad way, but Sam couldn’t help wondering what the feeling in his gut was. He just didn’t want to mess anything up. The drive wasn’t boring by any means, Bella and Sam talked the whole way there. Bella mentioned listening to JamPot’s new album, and Sam had to hold himself back from gushing about each detail in the chord progressions. But– It wasn’t long until he did start gushing about it. It was really difficult for Sam to not spill every thought around her. Normally, people would just grin and bare it while Sam rambled about music, but Bella listened to him. She seemed like she really was interested, a rare find. The drive and the time spent waiting in line was mostly just the pair talking about shared interests. Finding out she also preferred Hawaiian Pizza was a game changer for him. 

The venue was old. It’d been there since the early 70s, but was still kept up with. High ceilings, low concrete floors and bars located on both sides. It was already halfway packed in, the merch tables weren’t busy either. Small fairy lights decorated the trim of the brick walls, highlighting the merch tables easily. 

When they were actually in the venue, Bella split off to find the merch table while Sam grabbed a spot on the floor. “I’ll see you in a few.” She smiled, softly placing a hand on his upper arm before walking off. Before Sam melted to the sticky concrete, he had to text his friends. Sending a frantic text to Sebastian, Sam felt his head swimming. [ “Is this a date?” ] He typed the words with nervous, shaking thumbs. Sam was wrong, kicking himself in the ass. What if he was in the process of destroying any chance with Bella? What if he did like her more than he was allowing himself? 

[ “Yes.”  ] Sebastian responded, Sam mentally crumbled.

This was the issue with Sam. He didn’t read the room properly, didn’t understand most situations. It’s what ruined a lot of past relationships for him. Bella didn’t seem like she was hating their conversations, but girls were just so confusing to him. During his overthinking, Bella returned. A new beanie on her head, and a CD in her hand. The new JamPot album. “I got this for you, I wasn’t sure if you had it already.” Holding it out to him, Bella had no clue what had been occurring in Sam’s head. “What?! I’ll pay you back, Bella, I swear.” All fear dropped from his mind, her presence was enough for him to stop overthinking. She shook her head, “It’s for the ticket, don’t worry about it.” Bella’s hand touched his arm again. Soothing his anxiety, but slightly raising his blood pressure. 

After each of the two openers, Bella and Sam kept getting closer and closer. The crowd crushed together in excitement, filling the air with the heat of upwards of 200 people. “Are you okay?” Sam spoke up, bending to Bella’s ear just so she could hear him. She responded with a thumbs up, but still moved closer to Sam. Somehow they’d pressed forward to the barricade, in the middle-left. The headliner hadn’t come on yet, but Sam was preparing. His hands were holding the barricade, with Bella standing between them. He knew she’d be fine on her own in the crowd, but he wanted to keep her safe. The crowd had been rough all night, the openers being much heavier than JamPot, but Sam didn’t want her getting crushed against anyone else. 

Music played across the loudspeakers to fill the silence for the crowd during the stage set. The energy throughout the show had made him less high-strung, less worried on the topic of their night. “You’re having fun, right?” Sam asked, again at a higher volume, just so she could hear him. Bella nodded, leaning against the barricade and looking up at him. “Thanks for bringing me, Sam!” She hadn’t been able to stop smiling that night. 

It was honestly rare that Sam had seen her leave the farm. She and Abigail hung out by the mines occasionally, and he’d see her on walks by the water. Sam just rarely saw her doing anything out of Pelican Town in the few months they’d known each other. He liked taking her out, taking her places with him. “N-No problem.” Feeling that same tossing in his stomach, for some reason his face felt hotter. Maybe it was just the room? 

If Sam thought the first half of the show was close quarters, he wasn’t ready for the second half. Pressing up tightly to Bella’s back as she jumped around was the hardest thing Sam had to endure. On one hand, Bella was safe and comfortable at the barricade, while Sam had to get knocked into continuously. On the other, every single movement against Sam’s dick was like the purest form of torture. It’s not like she was grinding into him, but every once in a while they’d make contact when Bella would start jumping around. Gritting his teeth through it, Sam stood strong. Even if he ached, feeling the slightest brush of her hair against him. Her perfume with hints of clove, brushing by him, was his own heaven. The only thing Sam could circle back to at that moment was the original question.

Was it a date? Sam really tried to focus on the band, but how could he? He’d tune in for a song, then get lost in thought, staring at the back of Bella’s head. The end of the show came quicker than he’d been paying attention. The encore was really just one song, then the whole night was over. Sam felt like an ass, once again, for letting his mind wander all night. Walking out of the venue, Sam stayed close behind Bella. He felt like he’d been a weird freak all night, he just watched her. Bella didn’t notice anything, she’d been talking about how great the show was all the way to the car. Sam bantered back, acting as if he had really watched the concert.

After finally making it to the car, everything sort of shifted. Bella felt a little shyer now that they were fully alone. “Um– Sam?” She asked, as Sam put his keys in to start the car. “Yeah, Bella?” He looked over to her, the radio in the car started playing some obnoxious radio song. The CD hadn’t been automatically reading, so he reached up to press the button. “Well, I just wanted to thank you for taking me on this date. I really had a lot of fun with you tonight.” 

Sam froze in place.

Date? It was a Date?

The annoying pop track played its repetitive tune. Sam was staring at Bella with a dumb look on his face. “It was a–?” He managed to catch himself before saying his first thought, “Right– Well, I just thought..” His extended hand toward the stereo retracted, holding the back of his neck to feel at any beads of sweat. “I just thought it was about time, y’know?” A goofy grin cracked on his face, feeling suddenly free of his worries. “Me too..” Bella had been messing with a strand of hair framing her face. “I really appreciate it, Sam. We should really do this again, okay?” She smiled again, softly. The fluorescent lights in the garage gave her an outer glow, a soft halo on her black hair. Sam had to look away before he forgot the route home. 

Still, a sort of tension lingered in the car. They talked like normal, joking about the show. They talked about typical things from the daily special at the saloon, to weather during the week. Sam considered for a moment that he was just being dense, not understanding the palpable pauses between each topic. Bella adjusted in her seat every few minutes, Sam could’ve sworn he caught her looking his way every few minutes. His energy was high from the concert’s atmosphere, so maybe his mind was just working overtime. 

Eventually, though, they made it to Bella’s home. Pulling in the same gravel driveway as a few hours prior. Sitting in silence for a moment, neither truly wanted the night to be over with. Bella finally offered though, “Sam, I think I might have a pizza in the house. If you’re hungry or something..” Bella played with the fabric of her beanie, now clutched in her lap. Her hair was slightly messed up from hat hair, but to Sam, she hardly looked imperfect. 

“Yeah, uh.. I don’t see why not.” Sam turned off the car a little too enthusiastically. Mentally high-fiving himself for making it this far. Considering how the situation started, he didn’t even think he’d be in a car with Bella. Let alone be on a date with Bella. It was only midnight, his mom knew he’d be back late, so Sam didn’t have any reason to say no. 

“Sorry if it’s a little messy, I don’t normally have people over..” She apologized, unlocking the door with a set of keys attached to a decorated keychain. Sam figured it would probably be cleaner than his room, and he was right in assumption. Bella was exaggerating. Only a couple of cups laid on the coffee table, a few sweatshirts and jackets were draped on one of the dining room tables, and burnt out candles littered the main living room. “It’s not messy, don’t worry.” Sam made sure to close the door behind him, only slightly jumping when a black cat ran through the house and towards the bedroom. 

Sam quickly followed Bella into the kitchen, where she was staring at the box of frozen pizza branded with JojaMart logos. “Have you had this before?” She asked with a pensive tone, looking over her shoulder and back at Sam standing in the doorway. He felt a knot in his throat. “Please, I think I’ve had every frozen pizza in the Joja aisles.” Sam tried to push past it, leaning on the dining table to keep himself from collapsing. 

“It says it’ll take 30 minutes, can you wait that long?” Bella set the box on the counter and turned to him. It was one of those fancier brands with a rising crust. “I could make us some sandwiches if you’re too tired, I know I’m already keeping you out pretty late..” Her lips pursed in thought, but Sam scrambled. “I-I can wait!” Bella began opening the box, and setting the frozen disk pizza onto the tin tray. Watching her preheat the oven, Sam felt his heart race. Two peers, in a house…alone. Sam hadn’t thought this far ahead. 

Sure, he’d kept a condom in his wallet, but that didn’t mean he just expected to get laid. He wasn’t that cocky. He understood that they were just two friends, fresh off an unexpected date. Two very available people that liked each other a considerable amount. Sam just knew the kind of guy that he was. He wasn’t the type to hold off if he wanted something. And god, did he want Bella. 

She turned around now, unaware of the horrible thoughts in Sam’s brain. He wondered if he should just go home. “Well, we’ve got a 30-minute wait… anything you wanna do while we wait?” Bella took a few steps closer, setting the flannel she was wearing on the kitchen table behind Sam. “You.” He felt tempted to say his desires out loud, but held himself firm. “Oh, I could just watch TV if you want.” He was lying, but it was late. Sam doubted that she was that into him. 

Following Bella into her living room, he took a spot on one end of her blue, velvet couch. Bella placed herself on the other side after getting the remote to her tiny television set. She sat forward, stiff as she tapped through channels, just trying to find something to fill their silence. The tension between the two was thick, Sam just tried to relax. Leaning back in his seat and getting comfortable. It was almost 11 at night, there was nothing to be worried about. As if the notorious early bird farmer Bella would stay up much later than 12. 

A couple of minutes passed, but Bella didn’t seem to relax. Sam kept stealing glances, but each time she would lock eyes with him. Her panic hidden as she looked back to the boring music documentary they landed on. “Are you comfortable?” Sam finally offered, figuring that it was an innocent question. Bella finally looked at him, “Um… Well…” She shifted in her seat, “I guess not, I just can’t rest after concerts..” Bella seemed almost embarrassed, “I just have such a hard time laying down..” 

Sam opened an arm at the instant. “C’mere then, I’ll show you how to relax, Bella.” He didn’t have bad intentions at all. Sebastian was the same way, you had to force him down to get any sleep after going through concert adrenaline. Sam had no problem getting cozy, he just wanted to help her out. 

He was more than surprised when she actually agreed to it, Bella gladly crawled over to lay on his chest. Sam positioned himself to lay along the couch, one hand behind his head to pad the hard arm of the couch. Bella just draped herself on the inside of the couch, pressed onto him, but hardly comfortable. She still felt like she wasn't quite comfortable, so Sam let a hand creep down and rub the space between her shoulders. A sigh released, and Bella let her guard down.

Sam’s hand continued to rub circles around her back, and Bella’s sighs became more frequent. Every shift she’d make against his thigh, every shudder as his hand shifted to her mid-back. He wasn’t sure what he was doing to make her react that way, but he’d always been told he had magic hands when it came to massages. “Are you still comfortable?” He asked again, not sure why he was whispering. Bella could hardly be heard as she softly moaned at his touch. Sam felt himself going insane as their eyes met. Her lashes fluttered, his heart could’ve given out at any time. 

It only took a second for Sam to realize what was actually going on. Bella moved up, now straddling him to the couch. A mere centimeter away from his lips as she felt her own hesitation. “Bella? C-Can we…” Sam started, but Bella cut him off. Their lips met with sparks under Sam’s skin. His hands drifted to her waist, rubbing slow circles with his thumb as their tongues mingled. One of Bella’s hands moved to his hair, lacing together with gelled, blonde strands. Even lightly brushed against his hair almost made him burst, but whatever Bella was doing to him made him weaker to the touch. 

Their kiss broke with Sam panting, holding on tighter with one hand on Bella’s waist. Basically guiding her to grind against the center of his crotch. “Ohhh… Oh god, Bella…” Sam couldn’t help begging for her, what else was he supposed to do with a beautiful woman on his dick? Her hips gyrated, moving forwards and back to tease at his quickly hardening cock. 

It’d been too long for Sam. He didn’t fool around as much as he had before Bella came to town, but she was enough to dedicate his life to a monogamous relationship. “Y-You’re so fucking good, holy shit…” He gasped as her hands trailed up his chest. Holding herself firm as she now stopped and held herself up. Moving down, she positioned herself between his legs. Sam propped himself up, sweaty and confused. Watching Bella lay on her stomach with a determined look in her eyes, she understood her intentions as she unbuckled his checkered belt. Her soft hands pulled down blue checkered boxers, taking in everything slowly. 

Sam’s ears were burning hot, he threw his head back to avoid her seeing his embarrassment. Bella, on the other hand, slid her hand around his cock with love. Licking her lips with anticipation as she took it all in. Gently kissing the blushing head of his cock, leaking precum and begging for more. Sam writhed under her, missing her lips after every sweet peck down the shaft. He begged, desperate for something that wasn’t a teasing kiss. Bella listened, smiling devilishly as she swept her long black hair behind her. 

Bella’s hands firmly stayed on Sam’s hips, making sure he wasn’t bucking too hard. Her mouth wrapped around him warmly, lowering slowly to halfway, then bobbing back up. “S-Shit..” Sam cursed, biting his lip to stop from exclusively swearing. His right hand gripped at the back of the couch, while his left hand trailed to Bella’s head. Softly petting as she moved with intention. Her big eyes looking up as if she wasn’t melting him with each move she made. 

“B-Bella slow down, Please-” She bobbed faster, and stopped teasing him. His hand now gripped in her hair, inky black strands lacing between his fingers. “Fuck- Fuck, you’re so good to me, Wh-” Sam’s rambling was cut short by his body near folding from her mouth hitting the base of his cock. Sam wasn’t monstrously lengthy, but he was still slightly longer than average. Aside from the fact that he wasn’t getting very many blowjobs, he’d just assumed deepthroating didn’t exist. Tortuously, she moved her mouth up, with her tongue pressed to the bottom of his shaft. Sam couldn’t keep his mouth closed. A mixture of her name, whimpering, and swears poured out as she worked her head up and down. His head pounded, a whooshing in his ears grew louder.

Without warning her, Sam crumpled under her. Cumming into her mouth, now holding onto her head gently to keep her still. Bella moaned, the vibrations only making him moan out louder as he bottomed out. She pulled herself off as his hands fell, a quiet ‘pop’ broke the humming in his head. As she got up and left towards the kitchen. He’d realized the timer started going off when Sam heard the creaking of her oven door. “Bella?” Sam called out, almost missing her after she left the room. A second later, Bella’s head peeked around the wall of the kitchen. “Do you still want pizza?” She acted like she hadn’t just been on his cock, like she still couldn’t taste him in her throat. 

“No, I think I want something else.” He propped himself up, smiling back at her. 

[polaroidpascal]

let me || frankie morales

AO3 || MASTERLIST

pairing : frankie morales x f!reader

summary : after two weeks of frankie coming home knocking on death’s door from exhaustion, you decide to give him a break.

tags : fluff !!, no use of y/n, you taking care of frankie, very small nods to sex, undressing, showering together, cuddling, short and sweet glimpse into domestic life with frankie 🥹

WC : ~1.8k

a/n : i’ve never written pure fluff before, but the frankie brainrot has reached an all-time high and i desperately need to take care of this man. hope you like this little slice of domestic life with frankie 🫶 (not beta read or proofread much, just psa!)

You’re cozied up on your recliner reading a book in the soft light from your lamp when Frankie finally comes home from work.

He opens the door gently, tiredly. He never knows if you’re going to be asleep or not, so he errs on the side of caution just in case. Plus, he’s too exhausted to make more noise anyway.

You watch him from the corner as he sets down his keys. They clink against the ceramic dish that he made for you forever ago after you had moved in together. He sets down his backpack opting to unpack it tomorrow and hangs up his hat, running his hand and fingers through his curls with a long, tired sigh before he kicks off his boots.

He turns around to see you in your pajamas wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, book in hand, the lamp illuminating you from behind like an angel descending from heaven.

No amount of exhaustion can keep the tired smile from blooming across his face. “Hey, baby,” he says, his hand now rubbing the back of his neck to soothe the sore muscles there.

“Hi, love,” you say back sweetly. “How was work?”

He answers with another sigh and tired eyes, his smile fading just a bit remembering the absolutely packed couple of weeks he’s had. “It was alright, just tired.”

Frankie has come home beyond exhausted every day for the past two weeks. The first few nights, you were already asleep by the time he came home, unable to keep your eyes open any longer to wait for him. You had sent him a text telling him to wake you up when he got home, but of course your sweet boyfriend would never do that, not when you look so peaceful in your sleep.

One night, you happened to be awake when he came home, much to his surprise. He tried to play off how drained he was, bringing you in for a hug that swallowed you whole in his broad figure, whisking you off to your bedroom to try and ignore his exhaustion. But you could see it in his eyes from the moment he walked in that he was barely hanging on, and he definitely slept hard that night.

After that, you made sure you were up every night long enough to catch him walking through the door, picking up a new novel series to pass the time while you waited.

You rise from the recliner and shuffle over to Frankie in your fuzzy socks and his t-shirt loosely fitting your frame, the wide neckline exposing your collarbones. “You look tired, Frankie. And I’m not saying that in a mean way.”

He takes you in his arms and kisses the top of your head breathing another sigh, like he’s relearning how to breathe after being so busy all day. “I know, baby.”

You stay wrapped in each other's arms for a minute, Frankie’s head resting atop your own. His dead weight grows each second that passes and you let him stay until you can’t hold him up anymore. You rub and pat his back gently before you whisper, “Why don’t we go take a shower, hm?” looking up when he lifts his head again.

He looks back at you with his big, brown, pouty eyes and mumbles, “But you’re already in your pajamas…”

“I know,” you nod, reaching your hand up to cup his cheek and glancing across his face at his tired and beautiful features. “You’re always taking care of me. Can you let me take care of you this time?”

His eyes are still pouting and nearly half closed now as he pauses, then gently nods, letting you lead him to your bedroom.

He stands in the middle of the room reaching down to the hem of his shirt to undress but your hands stop him. He looks at you confused.

“Let me,” you say. He has no protests.

He watches you lift his shirt exposing his stomach and chest, raising his arms so you can slip it over his head. You toss it to the side while Frankie reaches down to take his socks off. Your hands move down to his belt, slipping it out of the loops of his jeans. It clinks to the floor and you unbutton his pants, slipping them down with his underwear. He watches you the whole time, stepping out when you reach the bottom before you stand up again.

When you meet his gaze, the love radiating from his eyes almost makes your heart burst from your chest. You smile gently at him, reaching up to give him a soft kiss before leading him to the shower.

You run the water warm, more on the hot side, and start to undress yourself. Frankie watches you strip, the way your shoulder blades move as you pull your shirt over your head and unhook your bra. The way your spine flexes as you reach down to pull your pants off and shimmy out of them. How angelically perfect the curves of your body look.

You turn around to look at him and see tears welling in his eyes.

Immediately, your heart drops and you rush to cup his face in your hands. “Oh, Frankie, what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing, I just…” He looks your face up and down examining all the features he finds so beautiful and takes a breath. “I love you so much,” he says, the end of his sentence getting quiet, tapering off choked in emotion.

You stare at the gorgeous boy in front of you, exhausted from his hard work, so full of emotion that he’s brought to tears, and you feel your own eyes start to sting. All you can do is hug him and bury your face into his chest, his warm, soft skin pressed against you as your arms clasp around him. “I love you too, Frankie.”

You feel his breath get a little quicker as he tries to keep himself in check, the fight against his tears getting harder and harder. You pull back and wipe away a few strays that started rolling down his cheeks before pulling him into the shower.

You wash Frankie head to toe helping him clean the day off. He leans down some so you can wash his hair, making sure to give his scalp a little massage while you suds up his curls. His eyes close and he softly hums as your fingers card through each strand. He loves when you play with his hair.

You gently wash his back, watching the soap slowly roll down his body as you rub circles into his skin. The muscles look tight, flexing some just with the slow breaths he’s taking. You reach up and dig your thumbs into the visible knots you see near the base of his neck where he was rubbing before. His head drops forward a bit, a soft groan leaving his lips at the relief.

You turn him around and wash his chest, watching the soapy water cascade down his pecs and stomach.

He watches you as best he can, wanting to savor every second, and he can’t help but close his eyes at the soothing feeling of the warm water flowing across his skin… the soap erasing the dirt from the day… and most importantly of all, your feather-light, loving touch behind every movement.

You rinse his chest a little and give him a soft kiss to his sternum, handing him the sponge to wash the rest of his body while you wash your own.

He silently watches you move, feeling himself get emotional again thinking about how lucky he feels to have you. That you’d do this for him. That you care so much about him. The love in his heart threatens to burst at the seams.

When you’re both done, Frankie grabs your hips and carefully spins you around before leaning down for a kiss. A kiss that’s worth a million words all condensed into one little action. A kiss that screams I love you, endlessly and eternally.

You stay under the shower head, lips locked with the silent words of affection being exchanged. You only think to get out when you feel the water starting to run cold.

When you get out, you loosely wrap a towel around yourself before grabbing another to dry off Frankie. You rub his hair and his face, draping it around his shoulders and tip-toeing up to kiss his nose before you finish drying yourself off.

You slip back into your pajamas and Frankie puts on his sweatpants before you both climb into bed together. Frankie immediately plops down on his side of the bed, lying on his back and draping his arms over his eyes as he sighs deep, finally comfortable after the long, long day he’s had.

He feels you crawl into bed with him, your weight shifting the mattress around him as you climb on top of him, legs straddled over his sides.

He moves his arms to look up at you staring at his chest tracing circles onto his skin. His hands rest on the tops of your thighs and he rests his head back on his pillow, but you swear you can feel his entire energy shift.

“You okay?” you ask, resting your palms on his skin.

“I…” he starts, looking up at you with sad eyes. “I love you so much, you know that… I’m just… I’m really tired, baby. I don’t know if I can—“

“Frankie,” you cut him off. “I’m not in the mood either.”

He looks at you with his pouty doe eyes again. “You’re not?”

“No,” you assure him. “I just wanted to look at you. How pretty you are. How lucky I am to have you.”

Frankie’s chest gets tight, the tears stinging in his eyes again as he wonders what he could have possibly done to deserve someone like you. Who loves him unconditionally. Who takes care of him so tenderly. Who is straddled on top of him just because she wants to look at him.

Before you can catch his eyes getting redder, he pulls you down to lay by his side, cradling you in his arms and kissing the top of your head. “It’s me who’s lucky to have you, amor.”

You hum and settle into his embrace, inhaling his clean scent and relaxing against his soft skin. Just as you’re starting to drift off, you hear a faint mumble, “Thank you.”

And you don’t even need to respond. You just press your body closer somehow, planting a kiss to his chin before nuzzling into his neck.

And it’s the only answer Frankie needs.

[minkyungseokie]

One thing I’ve noticed about the CM fandom is, there’s not enough fluff for the asexual community. I went in the Spencer Reid tag because I recently got back into it and it was mostly just sex. I have the smut tags blocked out so I can easily access the fluff and I…just could barely read any of it.

It goes for the whole fandom, not just Spencer. Like, I want to be drowned in angst and fluff, but all I’m getting is sex. And not enough people write for Arron and Derek either. They get written for, just not as much as you think

It’s hard being asexual and a Derek lover in these streets lol😞

Anyway, that’s just to say that I’m now writing a Spencer x reader (more like oc kind of thing, but she won’t have a name.)

It’ll be following the actual plot and of course that love interest is Spencer. If you’re interested, be on the lookout! And if anyone wants to request something, please do!

[theworldofotps]

Painting (Drabble)

Pairing: Lord Debling x Reader Word Count: 743 Description: Y/n is struggling with a painting when she recieves some much needed help.

So, I have never written fanfiction for Bridgerton before but after watching the first half of season 3 and meeting Lord Debling I couldn't help myself. I'm also very nervous to post this because it's a bit out of my comfort zone but I hope you enjoy anyway.

Dedicated to: @madhatterbri who encouraged me to write this, helped form the plot and is overall one of the best. I appreciate you so much thank you! (I haven't added my normal tag list since those are usually just for wrestling. If you'd like to be added to a tag list of anything I write besides wrestling let me know!) __________ Y/n let out a soft huff as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, staring at the canvas in front of her. She’d spent the last two hours trying to paint a bird from the book set on a stool in front of her. This was a painting she just didn’t want to mess up on but the more she stared at it the worse it seemed to look.

“Is everything alright m’lady?”

“Yes Ruth, just having a bit of difficulty getting these colors to work and blend the way that I wish them too.”

“Please let me know when you are ready, and I shall draw the bath for you.”

“Thank you, Ruth.”

Watching the maid leave, Y/n turns back towards her painting and examines the book once more. Adjusting the apron she wore over her dress to keep from ruining it, she dipped into her paints again. More time passed and her frustrations only grew as the colors started running and made the bird look like a mess.

Dropping the paintbrush in the pot of water she hung her head in defeat, deciding to just start all over again. Not having heard the door open she nearly jumped, feeling a pair of arms wrapping around her before a chuckle sounded in her ear.

“Sorry to startle you love I thought you heard me enter.”

“That’s alright my lord I just was focusing on something else.”

Alfred glanced around to be sure they were alone before pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

“Tell me what’s the matter.”

“I’m trying to paint this bird and all of my colors keep running I’ve spent hours on it but alas to no avail.”

Remaining silently as his eyes drifted over the canvas in front of them, since they had began courting he was trying to take interest in her hobbies. When he found out she had a love for painting much like his mother, it was one he quickly did his best to learn all he could about it.

“Allow me to offer my assistance to you.”

Grabbing her hand gently together they picked up the brush, the sparks of electricity she felt as they moved together dipping into her paint pallet. She could barely concentrate at the feel of him pressed against her back. When the brush touched the canvas, she let out a soft laugh.

“What is it brining you such joy my dear?”

“Your beard tickles my cheek.”

Y/n spoke softly as his own smile grew to match hers the two talking in soft whispers as he helped her fix the once ruined picture.

“What do you think?”

“It looks so much better thank you for your help now we both must sign it.”

She said pointing to the feather quill and pot of ink sat on the desk a few feet away from them, Alfred reached over grabbing the quill. Signing the name Debling then placing the quill in her hand so she could sign her last name.

Placing it back in the ink pot Y/n slowly turned to face him their eyes meeting hers lighting up as his softened.

“Miss. Y/n  I know this may come forth as a bit forward but may I kiss you?”

He asked a slight nervous quiver to his voice if you listened close enough she remained silently causing him to clear in throat. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel pressured into anything. After a moment her smile grew as she leaned closer to him their lips brushing in the softest touch before a knock on the door sent them apart. Composing themselves she turned to see Ruth entering one more.

“Excuse me miss but your mother is looking for you.”

“Thank you, Ruth please tell her, that I will be right there.”

Ruth nodded, leaving them alone again y/n sighing softly she turned back to Alfred who gently touched her cheek.

“I must be going as it is rather late, I shall call upon you tomorrow afternoon would that be alright?”

“Yes, I would enjoy that very much my lord.”

The pair left the room and y/n saw him to the front entrance, his fingers once more touching her cheek in a bid farewell. Watching him leave she sighed her arms wrapping around herself, the thought of his arms around her caused her face to heat up. Turning, she went off in search of her mother.

[ma1dita]

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ welcome to ma1dita's monster mash ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

[REQUESTS CLOSED] trick or treat yourself this halloween season to a special and (mostly) spooky selection written and produced by yours truly!

[STARRING]

sylus (LNDS), joel miller, steve harrington, spencer reid, luke castellan, zuko, the marauders, regulus black… check my guidelines or suggest a character that i can try my hand at!

[FEATURING]

the graveyard smash - they’re bone-ing for sure! (viewer discretion advised, 16+) give 'em pumpkin to talk about - envy is a green-eyed monster and they were broommates - your roommate is hiding a little secret… here for the boos! - too much boo-ze and chaos will ensue

don’t forget to grab a snack, kick back and enjoy the show! (pick up to two so you don’t have to leave during the movie)

🍿 - “Just forget you saw this happen.”🍬 - “I’ve just never seen you this mad before.”🥨 - “Don’t. Move.”🍫 - “Really? Now? God, you have terrible timing.”🍦 - “I know what you did.”🌭 - “Please just play along.”🥤 - “How long have you been watching me?”🍟 - “Blood? Oh it’s not mine.”

[example request: can i get one ticket for here for the boos! starring zuko with a popcorn and soda please! ]

additional warnings: expect gory, unhinged, dubcon, yandere-esque, slightly scary behavior from these fics; i wanna expand my repertoire! i will not do any repeats once a certain combination of character and prompts are requested! please do not ask for anything super specific! don't expect angst because i write enough of that anyway— let’s get spicy and weird and have fun with this ;)

the film festival will end on 10/12/24 & be posted throughout the rest of october <3

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[littlemissmentallyunstable]

Hiii! could you maybe write a Grayson x reader fic with a reader who doesn’t feel she is lovable cos her parents were abusive and taught her that?

hi!! thanks for your request, I realise it’s taken me a while to get around to writing it, so very sorry about that. It was a little dark but I’ll gave it a go. pre-warning I’ve never written anything like this before, so if it’s inaccurate or insensitive, I’m very sorry.

title: never good enough

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: a make out session brings back some unwanted memories that you’re forced to face

warnings: really heated make-out session, suggestive themes (but nothing bad bad), lots of past trauma, swearing, panic attack, abusive parents

a/n: if any of the warnings trigger you, please do not read on, I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s pain!! I’d feel so guilty!!

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @heartwithsimplenotes @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual

I like the way he tastes and the feel of his lips on mine. It’s not something I see myself getting bored of. It feels nice. But what feels nicer is the feeling of someone desiring you, someone wanting you, maybe even needing you. The feeling that someone chose you for a reason, because you matter to them. I like that feeling the best.

With each kiss I imagine that he actually feels something for me. It’s easier to play pretend. If you play pretend for long enough it can start to feel like reality. Growing up, I used to create things in my head all the time. Fictitious fantasies to fill in my empty voids of emotion. I suppose the habit had bled into my adult life.

He moans against my lips. The sound of pleasure indicating I’ve done something right, something he enjoys. My heart swells at this symbol of approval. Why do I thrive off of approval? I shake the feeling away in another deep kiss, burying it under a mound of other things I was ignoring. If I can’t see them they’re not there, if I turn my back, if I close my eyes.

These kisses are meaningless really, my brain knows it, actually it keeps attempting to remind me but I’ve gotten quite good at discarding things people say. They hurt my heart but not my head.

Grayson isn’t one to display how he feels for me publically. He’s mentioned before that he feels he doesn’t need to display how he feels to the world, he’s doesn’t care what the world thinks, he only cares what I think. It’s a beautifully designed excuse to tell me secretly that he doesn’t want to show affection in public because he doesn’t want me. I’m an embarrassment to love. I always have been.

But I don’t care. Our private moments together are bliss because I get to escape the truth and I like that. The truth is bitter like the cud, it’s harsh, it’s cruel, it’s painful. I’ve had too much of that already. So in the moments where I can I indulge so much I blind myself from it, I revel in the occasion. For the while.

His hands are firmly on my hips and I can feel the warmth of them through my clothes. They feel strong and supportive. They might be the only thing holding me together right now or it feels like it anyway. My hands are buried deep within his hair but I’m too caught up in the moment to think about it much. His kisses are quick and sweet, a little gentle. Sometimes he’d draw one or two out into longer, more passionate kisses. I didn’t care, as long as his lips were on mine, my memories would be forgotten. He begins to slide his hand up my body, tracing the curves of my bodice and up all the way until his cupping my face in his hands.

“I love you,” he pants, cheeks rosy and flushed, as we pull apart for breath, “more than you’ll ever know.”

Every time he says those words it ignites yet another fragment of my heart, that burns into ash in my chest. He’s killing me softly and I’m sure he’s enjoying it. He’s just telling me he loves me so I’ll stay with him, give him what he wants until he’s bored enough. That’s fine. I don’t mind. I know this, I’ve always known this. But getting to live in these moments, these moments laced in fierce passion and licked with flames of lust always made the harsh reality easier to swallow.

I don’t reply. Instead I kiss harder, more intensely. Maybe if I kiss with even more vigor, even more passion I can completely forget my pain. Maybe my mind will go blank and won’t be able to fill it in this time. I want the piercing sensation of white light to hit me and if it does I will let it burn me. Until my memories are incinerated and I no longer have to live with the weight of fear on my chest

He registers my sudden serge for more and begins to deliver. He matches my yearning for something deeper, something more. We’re caught up in heavy breathing, racing hearts and profuse sweating. Neither one of us cared. My hands find the hem of his shirt and I am tempted to tug down on the fabric but I don’t trust myself. My mind is too hypnotised by the sweet poison of his persuasive lips, I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t make decisions like these. We’ve never gone further than kisses and I’m not sure if going further right now would make me feel better or worse. But who cares right?

No. I don’t let myself get that carried away. Not yet anyway. Even though I’ve previously been stripped of my dignity I will not be the one to do it to myself now. I take my hands away and slide them around the back of his neck.

We stop. Suddenly. And for a moment the standstill is uncomfortable. The absence of married lips is eerie almost. My mouth is tingling and I crave his taste already, it hasn’t been two seconds. It’s worse than drugs. I don’t want to stop kissing, every time we stop it opens a window for me to remember. A window I’ve been trying to avoid for far too long now.

He looks into my eyes and for a second I actually believe I’m wanted. Pools of gray, like a clear lake glistening in the moonlight. Pretty eyes, pretty face, pretty lips. But pretty doesn’t get you love. He smiles at me gently, a quiet kindness sparkles in his eyes. Sometimes I wonder how he is so perfect at forging this tenderness, how he claimed these masterful acting skills.

He trails his fingers gently down my face. It feels like he cares, the tentative manor misleading. Then suddenly I’m no longer in the apartment with Grayson. I’m back in my old house. No. I couldn’t be here. Not here. Anywhere but here. I don’t want to be back here. I escaped, I ran, I left, it was all over. I made sure it was over. I, I, I -

I’m back.

Sat on the living room sofa, that horrible itchy dull grey sofa, that appeared in my nightmares frequently. It even smells the same. The sour smell, that makes my stomach flip and my hands begin to shake. These four walls still haunt me. It looks as if they’re closing in, slowly, slowly. Like the room is getting smaller and I’m trapped. Claustrophobia seems to be my only companion.

My hands shake uncontrollably and no matter what I try and do to calm down, nothing works. I thought I was getting better, I thought I was coping well, I thought that it was going away. But this is proving otherwise.

I’m reliving a memory. A memory I’ve always wanted to forget. A memory scorched into my brain that tended to replay over and over like a relentless broken record that could never be smashed. I feel sick. I know what’s coming. No. I know who is coming.

His footsteps are an immediate giveaway and the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air. I’m curled in a ball down, small, hiding like a helpless animal in a hole. If I curl up maybe it won’t happen. Maybe he won’t see me.

“What are you doing?”

A shiver runs down my spine. Every note in his voice is exactly how I remember it. The question echos around my head but I say nothing in reply. My words won’t form in my state of paralysis.

“Answer me girl!” my father barks. His voice venomous, dangerous.

“Nothing,” I reply quickly.

He grabs my arm, his fingers so tight around me that I’m sure that they’ll be bruises forming soon. He yanks me up as I attempt to cower backwards.

“Don’t take that tone with me you whore,” he spits in my face, the pungent wreaking of alcohol on his breath as he throws me to the floor.

I hit it with a thud. A dull aching thud. Just like the dull aching monotony of this scene that was just a part of every day life back then. I don’t move from the ground, I’ve learnt not to fight back. That only landed me in hospital last time. I lay there so still I hope he thinks I’m dead so he’ll leave me alone. He does not. He knows better. Unfortunately for me, he knows his daughter.

“You’re nothing but a piece of shit,” growls the voice that makes my blood curdle, “you hear that?”

I thought I’d left him far behind. I thought he was gone. I thought wrong. I am naive and I’m the idiot I have always been. I don’t reply again. There’s nothing to reply with. Of course I heard.

“I said, you HEAR that?” he screams it louder.

I don’t reply. Stupid mistake but he doesn’t give me time to undo it. He’s already standing over me. It had already begun.

***

He beats my body until my brittle bones long to snap. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. Those four words repeat over and over in my head. They might be the only thing keeping me conscious. No matter how much it hurts he cannot know he’s won. I refuse to hand him that victory of a silver platter, decorated in my jewels of agony.

And for a split second I wonder where my mother is and I don’t even know why. She would’ve do anything, she never did. She just stood there, emotionales, detached. Mothers are meant to protect and defend their children against anything in the world, it made me wonder why mine did not. It made me wonder if I were born to different people or maybe not born at all if things might be better off.

It’s not the time for thinking, I’m reminded. Another kick. I will not cry. A punch. I will not cry. My lip splits open. I will not cry. A twist of my left arm. I will not cry, I think my nose is broken. I will not cry.

“Stubborn little bitch won’t even shed a tear,” he snarls, bitterness so evident on his tongue I was surprised it hasn’t dissolved yet.

Yes I am stubborn. No I will not cry. Not for him. And then it happens. All over again. Beaten, bruised, battered, broken.

I can’t breathe. I’m in so much agony there’s no way I could even scream. So tears roll softly down my face as I’m curled up on the floor in defeat, desperation and humiliation. My body is nearly motionless, my limbs lay slack at my sides. I can’t help myself and no one is coming to save me. I let myself cry, broke the only promise I had to myself. I’m even betrayed my own brain for him.

I look up at him, tear streaked face. Is he happy now? Is he finally happy with me? Am I finally going to revive some sort of approval? Stupid questions to be wondering when I know exactly how this story ends.

As my eyes meet his, my father trails his fingers gently down my face. It still stings from the slap, the cells on my cheek screaming in agony. There’s the faint tinge of metallic blood in my mouth. My father trails his fingers gently down my face. Grayson trails his fingers gently down my face. My father trails his fingers gently- Grayson trails his fingers- My father trails- Grayson tr- my father Grayson my father Grayson my father Grayson my father.

SNAP.

I shiver and jerk away suddenly standing up. I try to back away as Grayson’s eyes fill with concern.

“What’s wrong,” he asks me, trying to reach out to me. I recoil at his attempt of a touch, like a frightened animal.

“I need to leave,” I barely get out, through my shallow breathing as I turn to find the door.

Where is the door? I couldn’t find the door. Breaths come in quicker and faster. Suffocating. I am suffocating. An invisible man has a plastic bag over my head and he is choking me slowly with it. I’m losing oxygen, I’m losing the things that keeps me alive.

Grayson is on his feet beside me, careful not to touch me, “did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s not you,” I pant, so breathless I wonder if I’m still breathing at all, “it’s all me.”

Dizziness rolls over me and I close my eyes. I feel my body sway slightly, my sense of balance robbed from me. A pair of strong hands catch my waist and pull me upright again. I try and focus my eyes but the room is spinning.

“Woah, hey,” it’s Grayson’s soft voice, “come here.”

That’s when I realise his hands are touching me. I try to pull away but can’t see where I’m going. I can’t see anything as black dots dance across my vision.

“No!” I yell, my ear beginning to ring.

“Hey, stop,” he says gently, ”sit down and take a breath.”

“No I can’t, I can’t, you don’t understand,” I hyperventilate, my chest in so much pain.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs rhythmically, extending his hand out towards me for me to take if I wanted.

I flinch away. His eyes are deep with realisation, he knows, he understands. I’ve given my secret away.

“Who hurt you?”

His voice is almost ragged, almost angry. His eyes are blazing, the soft grey hardens into cold steel. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. The words are unable to be spoken, they feel to forbidden. I don’t think I’d ever admitted my childhood out loud. I need air, fresh air. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe.

I feel like I’m drowning. Water blurring my vision, my heat pounding in my chest, my lungs screaming at me for the oxygen I cannot give them. My limbs frozen in a state of paralysis, heavy as lead, dragging me down. I can’t kick myself to the surface, I’m helplessly lost. All I can do I stare up and watch the last sight I’ll probably ever see. Sinking, sinking, sinking. I think I can feel my lungs fill up. They burn as if eager flames are licking the internal organ in pleasure. I can hear someone’s voice, it’s muffled, like there’s water in my ears. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I wonder if this person will haul my body from the water or they’ll give up on me like everyone else.

“It’s okay,” the voice is soft and sweet, it becomes clearer by the second, “don’t say anything, just focus on breathing for me, okay?”

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. I take one look into his silvery grey eyes and in this second trust him with my everything. My heart is racing and I can hear my sharp intakes of breath. I manage a small nod as he helps me back down onto the bed, propping pillows up behind my back. I’m sweating, profusely and I feel revolting. The tremor in my hands is slowing slightly as he clasps them in his.

“I need you to breathe,” he tells me, making direct eye contact.

My chest is so constricted it physically hurts. The aching only grows the more I think about it but I can’t seem to stop. Hair is stuck to the back of my neck and the side of my face. I slick it back using my own sweat.

“I… can’t…” I manage to get out in breathless gasps.

“Yes you can,” he murmurs, “look at me, focus on me.”

I do.

“Yes you can,” he repeats, his voice strong, confident full of faith. Faith for me.

I close my eyes and attempt to slow my rapid breathing. I feel his fingers around my wrist, squeezing a little to check my pulse. He is warm against my cool skin. I reach for his hand with my other one and guide it slowly to my chest. I want to feel his hand on my heart. I want him as close as possible. His hand is on me with my hand pressed firmly against it. I open my eyes and stare at him, wondering if he could read my pleading eyes as well as I could read his compassionate ones. Mellow grey stares back at me in understanding. He keeps his hand on my heart.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, “please.”

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs back, “don’t worry, I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

In and out. In and out. In and out. I try to calm myself. It’s not like I’ve ever faced something like this before, I’d just never faced it in someone’s presence. The fear of him seeing me in this state of vulnerability, stripped of my many masks that tell the world I am okay when I’m not, that made it all worse.

But with some time, that could’ve been two minutes of two hours, my breathing slows, becomes more regulated. Things begin to calm down. I’m no longer sweating uncontrollably though my body is still wet. My shaking hands grow stiller by the second as I fiddle with the ring on my middle finger. Finally my heart rate begins to go down. I hear it less in my ears and feel it less in my chest. But it’s still there.

Grayson’s hand has still not left my heart, just like I asked. Gently I place my hand on his, and guide it back to his lap, letting him silently know he’d done his job. I take a hair tie and throw my hair up into an abomination on my head that I’m too tired to care about.

Grayson’s features have twisted into a way that almost makes him look worried. His eyes are larger than usual, his pupils dilated, swallowing up the comforting concrete grey. His eyes brows are pinched inwards slightly, only just and his lips are parted as if he wants to ask a question but can’t find the words. I want to pretend this look is real, I want to pretend he’ll still want me even after seeing me in my state, I want to pretend that this time it’s different. But I can’t afford to pretend anymore.

“Better?” he asks quietly, after a long period of silence.

“Better,” I rasp, my voice so hoarse it’s unfamiliar to me.

I rest my head back and close my eyes. Breathing in and out normally feels like a luxury now. I’m suddenly more grateful than I’ve even been for a steady flow of air to my lungs. Once I’m completely back to normal I make eye contact with Grayson. His face is difficult to read.

“What happened back there?” he asks me quietly, almost looking guilty for the question.

“What do you mean?” I reply, confused. Hadn’t he been there, hadn’t he seen?

“Why did you start to panic,” he clarifies, “what did I do to set it off?”

I want to shoot the conversation down there and then. Absolutely not. I am not ready to tell him anything, I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to look at me different because of it.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, averting my eyes.

“Of course it does,” he presses further, “sweetheart I love you and-

Oh those three words. How the act as another knife to my chest every time. I love you is not meant for girls like me, I love you is meant for people who are worthy and special, I love you has never once been said to me with any true meaning behind it.

“Stop,” I snap, the word louder and harsher than I intended. It silently echoes through the empty space and takes a moment to sink in.

“What?” he asks after a few beats, confusion distorting his features.

“Just stop that,” I almost yell, as I go to get up, “stop doing that.”

“What am I doing?” he asks quickly.

“You’re lying to me,” I say, my voice wavering when I really didn’t want it to.

“What?”

“Every time you say those stupid words and I can’t afford to believe them,” I exclaim, welling up with this sudden surge of emotion.

“Slow down sweetheart,” he says slowly, “what are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t love me,” I shout. I’m exhausted. Exhausted of living this lie and now I’m at my breaking point and I can’t afford to continue. There are too many lies, in my head, in my heart, in my life. This one I want to be rid of.

“What?”

“I know it so you can stop pretending I matter, that I mean something to you,” I sob.

Great. Now I’m crying again. Again. Pouring out my weaknesses for him to see. I’ve never felt so unbelievably helpless.

“What are you talking about? Of course I love you,” he says it as of I’ve said something stupid or in gibberish.

Of course. Why of course? It isn’t obvious and I’m not an idiot. I’m stood here crying and he has the audacity to tell me this. I look him dead in the eye, my vision blurred a little due to the heaviness of my heart.

“No one can love me.” My voice is low and laced with the agony I’m so desperately trying to conceal.

“Who told you that?” he asks.

How did he know? How could he see through my mask so easily? Was it cracked, had it slipped or was it just all transparent now?

“I didn’t need to be told, it’s just how I am,” I spit back, hoping my bitterness might deter him.

“No,” Grayson replies, his voice so sharp it cut dangerously through the air like a knife.

“What?”

“No, that’s not how you are,” he says, “because I love you.”

He digs a finger into his chest in attempts to prove his point, it looks hard enough to hurt but he doesn’t wince.

“Stop saying that!” I yell over him, “it makes it more painful, every time you say it, it’s like a stab in the heart and I can’t take it anymore.”

I expect him to get angry, to stand up and hurl insults at me. We’ve never argued before. But instead his face softens. “I’m not lying,” he tells me gently, his voice like caramel, “how could I lie?”

He’s not lying? Or at least that’s what he’s telling me. But the softness of his eyes look like he means it. No. I can’t let myself be so naive, I can’t believe everything I’m told, I’ve learnt that the hard way.

“Everyone who I’ve ever trusted has lied to me, why would that make you any different?” I ask bitterly.

“Because I do love you,” he tells me, “with all of my heart. You don’t understand what you do to me. I can’t stop thinking about you, even when you’re not around, you’re the main character of all my thoughts and dreams for that matter. Not a moment goes by without a thought involving you. You are the other half of my heart, you have it, you stole it from me the day we met. And I don’t even care because if I were to meet any thief I would choose you every time and I’m so glad you took it. I mean goddamit, you mean everything to me, everything. I would die for you without thinking twice, without even blinking,” he says, “I just wish you could see yourself how I do. And whoever made you feel this way never deserved a fraction of you. Your beauty, your kindness, your love. They truly didn’t.”

I don’t say anything for a long while. I’m too awestruck. He loves me. He really actually loves me unconditionally. He always did and I always pushed that notion away.

I’ve never said anything about my past out loud. It makes it less real, I can forget if I bury it. Except I can’t I’ve tried and tried desperately to do so but relentlessly as ever my brain has never let it go.

“My father,” I choked horsely, “my abused me physically from when I was young. I thought it was normal.”

Something twists in Grayson’s stomach, I can see it all over his face. He looks ill, all the colour has drained from his face and his eyes are sorrowful, mournful even.

“But the bruises, they were okay,” I murmur, “even the scars, I could deal with them. It was my mother who cut the deepest, without even laying a finger on me. Her words were…” I attempt to pull myself together, “…her words left scars no one will ever be able to understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words are so quiet I can barely hear him. He looks mortified.

“It’s not your fault,” is all I can reply with. There’s nothing else to say.

“No one should have to-“

“But they do,” I choke, my voice getting shaky again, “and you know what, I’m tired.”

I wish I didn’t feel this weak, this powerless. Tears start free flowing down my cheeks, uncontrollably. Salty droplets leave glistening trails on my cheeks like in some sort of abstract painting in an art museum.

“I’m tired of this pain,” I sob, “I just want it to go away, I just want to be normal.”

The pain wracks my body. Grayson takes me into his open arms and holds me to the warmth of his chest. I nuzzle into him, seeking comfort I’d never received from anyone else. I cling to him like a frightened child to their mother, my knuckles white. I’m almost scared to let go, incase that means I have to let go forever. I can hear his steady heartbeat against my ear. I sob louder, my body physically beginning to ache from the crying.

“Hey, shhhh,” he soothes, stroking a soft hand down my hair, “you’re going to get through this and I’m going to help you.”

“How?” I wail. I’m hysterical and I hate it, but it’s taken control of me now.

“We just are, I promise,” he says, so much passion, so much faith behind the words. I want to believe him but I’ve had too many promises broken.

“I thought I was getting better,” I laugh bitterly, the tears flowing thicker and faster and harder, “I thought that I was coping better with all of this and now this is just proof that I’m not.”

I get it all off of my chest, words I’ve longed to speak for so long, the ones that have been locked away and avoided. I can say them. Freely. The caged bird is remembering she has wings, remembering she could once fly.

“Listen to me,” Grayson says, his voice clear, defined, “what you’ve been through isn’t something you just get over overnight, it’s not something you can wash away.”

“Why can’t it be?” I ask, snivelling in an attempt to gulp back my tears that seemed to be endless.

“It doesn’t work that way love,” he says, his voice so soft it could melt butter but instead it melts my heart.

“But…” I trail off into more sobs. I can’t carry on. Words are not enough to describe what I’m feeling, they’re not deep enough, the they aren’t raw enough.

I sob uncontrollably feeling more humiliated by the second. Loud, ugly, horrible sobs. When things are buried you don’t realise that they’ll eventually resurface. My body jolts backwards and forwards each time I let out a cry.

He pulls me close to his chest and whispers sweet nothings to me to comfort me. He doesn’t say anything the whole time. Somehow he knows that’s what I need. He just holds me, lets me know he’s there with the melodic rise and fall of his comfortable chest. He’s so gentle, so soft, he makes me feel fragile and delicate like a sharp of glass. I cry until I’m so dehydrated that there are no tears left and I’m so exhausted that I want to pass out.

And even then he stays holding onto me, supporting my broken body. He holds me, holding all my dilapidated pieces together, keeping me from falling apart. He cradled my head in my arms and tentatively strokes my hair. I feel myself relax a little more, I feel myself shut my eyes. Suddenly I’m aware of a sensation in my chest. At first I think it’s the panic coming back to prey on me some more but the feeling is too calming. It’s spreading across the left side of my chest, tingling a little but in a ticklish manor. It’s almost a warmth.

Is this what love feels like?

I open my eyes and sit up. What am I roping him into? He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to be held back by someone like me. He could have anyone, any body in this whole world. I’m the last person he needs in his life.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say trying to pull myself free of his arms but his grip is tight, oddly reassuring. He’s not going to let me go, he’s not planning on leaving, he wants to say. To take care of me.

“Do what?” he asks, brushing some loose baby hairs out of my puffy face.

“The door is wide open, feel free to walk out on this,” I explain with an elaborate hand gesture, “you don’t have to deal with me.”

“The door is firmly bolted shut and no one will be walking out,” he tells me slowly, “you’re not a problem to be dealt with, you’re a person. A wonderful, beautiful, spectacular person, that I have the pleasure of loving.”

Tears well up in my eyes for what feels like the hundredth time today, I’ve never cried so much in my life. The recurring lump in my throat makes another appearance. I don’t mean to get so emotional, but I do. I’m so used to being strong I suppose there’s only so much one person can take before they burst. I feel loved and wanted and needed and cared for, everything I’ve always wished for. Here is a man giving me all of that and more.

“And what if I don’t know how to be loved?” I whisper, fear clamouring up my throat.

“Then I’ll show you,” he whispers, pulling me closer to his chest.

“I’m going to get it wrong,” I panic, “I don’t know how to love.”

“Yes you do,” he soothes, “I know you do because I can feel it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, I hurt people when I love them,” I tell him as he gently caresses my hair, running his fingers through it.

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he says, “look at me sweetheart, I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

I nod, my heart not feeling so heavy. I lean further into Grayson and let him kiss the top of my head. The small gesture meaning mountains more because I know he loves me. And for the first time in a long time I smile, a real true smile. And it feels nice.

a/n: again, I’ve never written anything like this before so idk if it did it right 😭😭 anyways so sorry for it taking so long, hope you enjoyed

TIG masterlist

[joelmillers-whore]

Hard Light | Chapter 1

summary: when a new english professor begins teaching your class for the duration of your semester, you can’t help but develop an innocent crush on him. he’s as off-limits as he can be, but that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. after a drunk night, you accidentally email him something that wasn’t intended to ever be seen by anyone. but that doesn’t matter. it triggers a misunderstanding that manifests into an affair with your professor who is twenty years your senior. nothing good could come of this, right? 

pairings: professor!joel x college student!reader

word count: 2.2K

series or one-shot

warnings: 18+ explicit, minors DNI, no mention of Y/N, alternate universe, professor/student relationship, eventual smut, self-esteem issues, workaholic, joel x female!reader, infatuation bordering on obsession (stay delulu friends), some sexual thoughts, masturbation (f), joel being a huge tease lol, (will add more tags as i write)

AN: i am so excited by the response that my joel one-shot got a few days ago and i’ve been itching to get something else out to you all. big, giant forehead kisses for those who want one, i love you all. so, anyway, a mini-series about professor joel is coming at you fast. i’ve written the first few chapters, so expect those in the near future. i’m thinking once a week? this fic is going to be something else and i’m so excited to share it with ya’ll. enjoy, and let me know what you think. find my ao3 here for more content and other fandoms.

You were running late for your shift at the coffee shop on campus, rummaging around your dresser, trying to find the low-cut black top you always wore when you had a shift. You weren’t usually one to feed into the peer pressure of those around you, but push came to shove when you found it nearly impossible to keep yourself afloat as a twenty-something student without the added extra tips from your part-time job.

So what if you had to show a little bit of cleavage? Right? There was no harm. Student loans were a bitch and on top of rent and food costs, you had to get a job at the coffee shop and balance a full course load just to make ends meet. 

A thought popped into your head and you rushed to your laptop, throwing it open as you checked the time; 5:45 AM. If you busted out your lightning-fast typing skills, you would have enough time to catch the next bus and make it to campus with five minutes to spare. If only your crappy second-hand computer would work.

The thing honestly sounded like a chopper engine, getting ready for lift-off. You were surprised you’d gotten this far with it. Not that you weren’t appreciative, your older brother had passed it down and it had relieved a huge weight—  and expense off of your shoulders. 

You tabbed into your school portal, typing in your credentials and selecting your English course. You sighed heavily, as you skimmed over the assignment for this week, something to do with a sonnet that you couldn’t care less about. You loved school but ever since becoming an English major, the spark that you once had for literature sort of just evaporated.

You couldn’t tell if it was because of how busy you were with everything else that you just couldn’t find the time to enjoy it, or the thought that really scared you, you had fallen out of love with it. 

It had been two years of go, go, go and you were, for lack of a better word, burnt out. You’d tried dropping courses last semester, thinking that you just needed a little bit of ease when it came to your course load, but when that didn’t solve the problem and only made things worse for you, you spent the last two semesters trying to catch up and get yourself to a place where you could finally breathe.

But it wasn’t easy. You were only now caught up to where you had been, the illusion that you were someone who could afford to take time off and slow down was a distant memory. 

In bold letters, the words Paid Internship jumped off of the screen. You smiled as you leaned in closer to the screen, making sure you read through everything correctly. This was the break above the surface that you needed, the reprieve that you had been chasing. A paid internship was exactly how you’d be able to make more money and maybe have a little breathing room before you worked yourself into an early grave.

You clicked the mail icon at the top and clicked into a new email, deciding that the worst-case scenario was that you wouldn’t get the internship. All you were doing was inquiring about the application process. Best-case scenario; you’d get it and make some extra pocket money. 

You saw the time, cursing under your breath as you slammed the laptop closed, grabbed your phone out of the charger and ran out of the door. You couldn’t be late, not again. You texted your co-worker Jeremy to open the shop without you and explained to him that you were running a few minutes late, as you barely made it to the bus. You climbed on board, scanned your student pass and found a seat near the back. Your chest was burning from the rush of trying to make it on time, but you could breathe easy now.

You checked your messages mindlessly, scrolling through a bunch of unread ones that you didn’t have the heart to answer. 

Before you knew it, the familiar monuments and buildings of UT Austin came into view, and the subtle change of scenery from downtown to a more densely packed area made your heart skip a beat. It was the same each time you were back on campus. Which, these days, was often. Sliding out of the seat, you made your way to the front, thanking the driver as the bus came to a complete stop. 

The coffee shop was only a short walk from the bus stop but even still you quickened your pace. You didn't want to leave Jeremy alone for long, you already felt bad enough about letting him open by himself. You stifled a yawn as you pushed open the door to the small cafe, leaning your body into the door, slightly cringing at the shrill sound of the bell. 

"There you are", a male voice called, making your head snap up. You wiggled your nose, the familiar timbre of your ex-boyfriend's voice ringing in your ears. "It's about time you got your ass down here". 

You snickered, shrugging your heavy bag off of your shoulder, and dropping it behind the counter, turning around and greeting him with an unamused smirk.

Jeremy and you had gone out for a few months last year, it was your first and, as of right now, the only short-term relationship that you'd had in college. 

Dating your co-worker, even in a relatively small place like the coffee shop on campus, almost always spelled trouble, but Jeremy was not the type to hold something like a failed relationship over your head. He understood that school was a priority for you and making a living for yourself came first, even above something like a relationship. It might not be the healthiest way to live, but it was how it always was. 

Jeremy and you had developed a fast friendship, one that went beyond the romantic relationship that you'd had last year. You parted amicably and now, you had someone you could confide in, someone you could trust. 

"Why don't you say that to my face?", you teased, raising a brow at him over the milk frother you were setting up. 

Jeremy threw his rag down and stalked over to you. "You're snippy this morning", he chided. 

You banged into his shoulder playfully, "Doesn't help that I have to see your ugly mug first thing in the morning". 

You snorted out a laugh and Jeremy looked at you, feigning defensiveness, "Ouch", he paused, returning back to his post near the coffee machine, "Remind me how we ever went out?". 

You scrunched your nose and threw your rag at Jeremy, hitting him square in the face with it, "That was rude". 

He shrugged his shoulder, "You started it".  

You both devolved into a fit of giggles and fell into a comfortable silence, setting up and getting the coffee shop ready for the day. You had a half-day shift to look forward to and then you had class until the late afternoon. The days were long and the nights were longer.

You usually found yourself nose-deep in your textbooks, more often than not, or some classic novel that was required for class, not moving from the couch until your eyes were red and you were seeing double. 

Only then did you retire to sleep, crashing hard until you had to wake up and do it all again the next day. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The coffee shop had been bustling with people since six in the morning, and at one in the afternoon, it hadn't let up, only now you had to go to class. Waving Jeremy goodbye, you sidestepped Tara, the fourth-year who was covering the rest of the afternoon and closing shift. 

You'd crossed the far side of campus, passing by the science building and one of the massive libraries that had acted like a second home to you back when you’d been studying for exams when you were a freshman. You could thank your obnoxious roommates for that one. 

Entering the lecture hall, bodies pressed into you as you weaved through the growing crowd, trying to find a spot in the middle where you could see and hear your English professor. But also blend in with the masses. As if the universe had other plans in mind, and everyone suddenly showed up to the Tuesday lecture all at the same time, you found yourself picking a seat near the front, an exasperated groan leaving you. 

You hated sitting at the front, not because you didn't want to get called on to answer something or because you didn't know the answers, but because you did. You wanted to get through your four years as quickly and unscathed as possible and if people knew, mainly professors, that you knew more about the subject matter than you needed to, you'd surely get called on more often, making you stick out in ways you didn't want. 

It was a terrible curse, going through life with the self-esteem that you did. But it was how you were raised. Blend in. Don't be too loud. Be quiet and only observe. Nerves rapped at your insides when you thought about getting called on when class started. Your heart rate ticked up and you found that your hands were beginning to get clammy, your throat constricting with each breath.

You rubbed your hands up and down your thighs, grounding yourself with the sensation of the material. 

With a jump, you sat up straighter in your seat, being jostled from your thoughts by a loud slam. You snapped your head toward the entrance, eying the person who had startled everyone. It was a man carrying a briefcase.

Your lips tilted up at the edges, amusement tickling you when you thought of anyone using a briefcase nowadays. But here this man was, head down as he made his way to the front of the room, toward the desk. 

You couldn't help keeping your eyes trained on him. On how his slacks tightened around his butt, moulding to the shape and curve of it. You bit your bottom lip out of reflex, your eyes dragging down the length of the mystery man who had crashed your lecture. Maybe he was a TA? Your brows furrowed when you thought about how your professor was nowhere in sight. 

The man with the briefcase placed his case on the desk, turning to face the audience of students who blinked back at him, who now settled down enough to hear him speak. Air caught in your throat when his eyes flicked momentarily to you, and lingered on you for half a second longer than you'd expected. He had massive, warm brown eyes, and soft wrinkles that danced at the edges of his eyes when he smiled, making him seem more boyish than he appeared.

He looked older than a TA would but then again, who were you to judge someone's position in life? You thought that his age did nothing to undermine just how attractive he was, if anything it added to it.  

The man, who may or may not have been moonlighting as your English TA cleared his throat, nodding his head, "My name is Joel, well, Professor Miller to most, but 've always been a little bit more informal than my peers". 

He began to circle the wooden desk nervously, his large hand finding the edge of it and stroking it far more sensually than necessary. You flexed your fingers, gripping the arm of your seat to stabilize yourself. "So, you can call me Joel from here on out... since we'll be seeing more of each other from now on". 

Murmurs began to break out around the lecture hall, and confused and hushed whispers followed. 

Professor Miller— Joel, mumbled something incoherent, and you were unable to hear it from where you sat. He cleared his throat again, "Professor McCarthy has taken a leave of absence, so I'll be filling in for him for the remainder of the semester". 

You crossed your legs, feeling heat rise and a furious blush break out across your face, and shuffled in your seat, a loud creak emitted from it and you stilled, praying that the loud sound had only been heard by you and no one else. But when you lifted your gaze, Joel's eyes were already locked on you, blown and brimming with cautious inquiry. A touch of a smirk graced his lips. 

"And I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you, personally". His eyes were still on you, not ready to release you from their hold. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and you couldn't help but stare. You had every reason to look away from him, he was your professor and given the clear age difference, he was someone who was off limits. But when he didn't look away from you either, trapping you with his gaze, your face heated up, suddenly aware that he was purposely staring at you. 

You swallowed thickly, heart hammering as Joel's eyes finally drifted away from you and back to the faces of your classmates. He continued on with addressing the class, and you noticed that he avoided your eyes for the rest of the lecture. 

Only one thought rang through your mind as you tried and failed to focus back on the lecture. This was going to be one long semester. 

[magicshopaholic]

Dinner at the Kangs’ (Yoongi x OC)

Summary: Yoongi is invited to a dinner he regrets attending, but couldn’t refuse. Every waking moment after that is spent worrying about you.

Pairing: Yoongi x OC

Genre: Suspense, angst, mild fluff (but it’s angsty)

Word count: 9K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, if that

A/N: Literally zero editing has taken place. Set a few weeks after A Lack of Colour.

Tagging: @bbl32 @quarter-life-crisis2 @meirkive @faearchives @margopinkerton @dreaming-with-happiness @confessionsofamarshlily @purpleseoul7 @sumzysworld

Listen to: “hold me” by hojean

yoongi masterlist | main masterlist

Tap tap tap.

Yoongi glances briefly at Miso to his side, to see her gazing out of the window. Her side profile seems calm enough, although her arms are crossed tightly across her chest. It’s a moment before he realises the tapping sounds aren’t coming from her.

She looks at him the same time he turns to face the road.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

The question seems incongruously directed; Yoongi frowns slightly and presses his fingers against the steering wheel to stop them from tapping. 

“I am,” he says deliberately. “Are you?”

She shrugs in response. It’s a long way from her demeanour earlier today, including the investors’ meeting she hadn’t been invited to but had to attend anyway, including the nepo baby whispers he’s sure she’d heard but couldn’t respond to, and the surprise dinner invitation to him from her father she clearly hadn’t expected but needed to echo while in his presence.

Any friend of Miso’s is welcome in our home.

Kang Jaesung’s lips had curled very slightly around his words but his face had stayed unreadable. A couple of years ago, Yoongi would’ve automatically accepted it to be polite. A year ago, he would’ve found it mildly smug but still would’ve said yes, just to keep an investor happy. 

Today, he’d hesitated, his mind immediately trying to work out why he, of all people, had been personally invited to dinner at Miso’s father’s house, while Miso stood right next to him, her eyes going momentarily wide but her face staying still with an effort. Yoongi had met her eyes but she’d looked away instantly, almost as though her father went around inviting a stranger to dinner every day. 

Except he wasn’t a stranger, and Kang Jaesung knew that. The lead producer who had forced Miso into this meeting, someone who probably didn’t even know the names of the other assistant producers, had been open about why she was included. He had probably meant well, too, when he’d gushed breathlessly during his presentation, that Kang Miso has been a pillar for this project, working so hard and burning the midnight oil with her co-producer, never knowing how Yoongi’s stomach had jolted at those words and he’d faced forward - only to see Miso’s father staring right at him.

“Is it about the album?”

Yoongi is about to deny it, but he figures he may as well engage - anything but think about what’s to come.

“Er - kind of.”

Miso waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, she blinks. “Yes, you’ve really painted a picture for me,” she says dryly.

Fighting the urge to sigh, he shakes his head. “The way I’ve written it… it’s perfect. If I may say so myself,” he adds hastily, glancing away from the road momentarily. “That includes a collaboration… with this absolute jackass.”

Miso makes a sound of mild surprise. He pictures her raising her eyebrows in the way she does, which could indicate anything from sympathy to mockery.

“Why’s he a jackass?”

“He said some stuff about us - BTS - back in the day.” Yoongi takes a turn into a wide street, now officially entering the suburbs of Gangnam, home to the rich and famous. Not idol rich. Businessman rich. Chaebol rich.

“What kind of stuff?” Miso prompts him.

“Just… basically implied that some of us were sell-outs for doing the idol thing instead of sticking to hip-hop.” He winces at the memory. “I mean, he apologised publicly for it later, but…” He clicks his tongue.

“You called the guy who dissed you to work on a collab?” She lets out a low whistle. “That doesn’t sound like you, Min Suga.”

He half-chuckles. “It doesn’t?”

“No. Although, I’ve dissed you a bunch of times and it hasn’t kept you from working with me.”

“Not for lack of trying, too.” He hears her snicker at that and his smile widens a bit. “I didn’t call him. He reached out to me - or, his people reached out to mine.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t know.”

Miso is quiet for a moment. “You said he apologised, though.”

“Well, yeah, but -”

“And it’s good for your album?”

“It would be great - he’s an incredible rapper. But -”

“Then what’s the problem? It’s just work.”

Yoongi is about to argue but stops himself, sensing that he isn’t going to make much headway here. Things like baggage, band loyalty, camaraderie - while she understands them on an intellectual level, she seems too detached to actually spot them in reality.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you nervous?”

“About tonight?” Miso hesitates, then shakes her head. “There’s no point thinking about it. You never know what’s going to happen and…” She turns to him, leaning back against her side of the car. “It’s better to just be prepared for anything.”

Yoongi blinks, for this does not help him at all. But there’s a note of resignation in her tone that prevents him from pointing it out and he half-wonders if he himself is overthinking it, or if Miso has just transcended past the mad anxiety into a state of unhinged calm or something.

They don’t speak again until they reach Miso’s house - or, rather, her father’s estate. Like the last time he was here, Yoongi can’t fathom this kind of wealth - the kind that changes people, or the kind that influences things like business and politics beyond what you read in the papers.

He parks the car and they step out together, walking beside each other but with a careful distance between them all the way from the car park to the lawns sprawled in front of the house. It’s dark by now and the perfectly mown grass is damp with dew. Yoongi’s stomach churns unexpectedly; a few more steps and they will be fully visible in the glow of the lights along the garden.

“Miso.”

She takes a couple of more steps before stopping, turning around when she realises he isn’t next to her. “What?”

He stares at her and holds up his hands. “You have to give me something before we go inside. What to expect, what to say - I mean, I have no idea what’s going to happen in there,” he adds, pointing towards the house.

Miso frowns, her arms crossed. “Neither do I. This is quite literally the first time this has ever happened.” 

But something in his expression must have told her he’s serious, for a moment later, she sighs and her face softens a bit. She clears her throat and takes a small step towards him.

“Fine. Don’t tell my mother her house looks nice,” she says. “Tell her the decor is better than every celebrity’s house you’ve ever been to.” She waits for a few seconds, presumably to let this digest. “Don’t… compliment me. But also don’t insult me,” she adds, frowning. “And don’t make it seem like we’ve worked together all that much… but also kind of let it be known that I’m probably the most valuable team member you’ve ever had.”

“How -”

“And try to act intimidated by my father,” she continues, “but not in a… like a simpering way, or he’ll lose respect for you.”

Yoongi scoffs. “I’m not trying to earn his respect.”

Miso purses her lips lightly. “Maybe. But trust me - you don’t want to lose it.”

He bites his lip, his head swimming. He wishes he could enter her mind to try and understand what the hell she’s talking about. But he never has and he doubts tonight is when it will change.

“Let’s go back to your earlier suggestion of not thinking about it,” he mutters. Miso pokes her tongue into her cheek, looking almost as though she’s suppressing a smile. 

“If I were a cliche, I’d tell you to just be yourself,” she tells him as they resume walking. “But that hasn’t worked out so well for me in the past, so…”

“Worked fine on me. Well, not during the first couple of years of knowing you but, you know. After that.”

Miso snorts again, covering her hand with her mouth. “New rule: do not try to make me laugh in there.”

Inexplicably, Yoongi feels his mouth twist. They are almost at her front door now, only a few steps remaining before them. “I’ll do my best, Kang Chanel.”

“Do not call me Kang Chanel in there,” she hisses, her eyes still betraying mirth. “Min Suga,” she tacks on at the end.

Yoongi wants to joke back but at that moment, she reaches forward to push open the door. Just like the first time he’d seen it, it’s enormous, creaking cleanly on hinges. When they step inside and the door closes behind them, it’s like being enclosed in a dungeon again.

The living room is expansive - but it’s also different. He frowns, trying to recall the last time he’d been here, so long ago. Had it always been green?

“Mother took on an interior decorating project earlier this year,” mutters Miso, almost as if she can hear his thoughts. “She thought cream and green were more regal.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond immediately. Once the initial surprise dies down, the olive green and cream combination is actually not too bad, if a bit unexpected. He remembers Miso’s advice and makes a mental note to mention it to her mother.

“Where is -”

“In here.” Miso walks ahead of him, the distance between them already increasing. Yoongi follows her out of the hall and into the dining area, the entire space as big as the apartment he grew up in. The fireplace is immaculate, with electric flames dancing mildly on the base. The floors are shiny enough for him to see his reflection in, and the decor (black, white and light gold) makes him feel like he’s in a hotel. He exhales and turns to look for Miso, only to face the bar - and the bartender.

“Welcome,” says the man behind the bar. He places four glasses before him - three tumblers and one wine glass - with smooth precision. He doesn’t look up until he’s poured a whiskey into the first two glasses. “Do you drink, Yoongi?”

Yoongi starts; he realises he expected the house to be crawling with staff. A cook here, a butler there, a housekeeper, a gardener, possibly a shoe-shiner - definitely not Kang Jaesung himself standing at the bar, making his own drink.

A sound breaks through this revelation; it’s Miso clearing her throat and Yoongi realises he was asked a question.

“Uh, yes… sir.”

Kang Jaesung nods mildly but doesn’t look up, pouring a third whiskey, followed by a few drops of water in each. Yoongi doesn’t know if he’s imagining the sudden aroma of expensive whiskey. A few ice cubes clink with the bottom of each glass; Miso steps forward to pick one up and her father does the same. Just before taking a sip, he pushes the third glass an inch.

“Drink,” he says, finally meeting Yoongi’s eyes. There’s no please, no hint of a question or an offer, but something about his tone takes Yoongi off guard. It’s not a challenge, or even an order - but he doesn’t know what it is either.

After hesitating for a moment, Yoongi picks up the drink. He takes a sip to discover the smoothest whiskey he has ever tasted, and his stomach twists painfully at the thought of how much this bottle would’ve cost.

“Delicious whiskey, Father,” says Miso, standing by the dining table. 

“It’s Scottish,” he replies in answer, now retrieving a bottle of Cabernet from the shelf behind him and pouring it into the remaining wine glass. He finally steps out from behind the bar just as, as if on cue, Miso’s mother appears in a spotless white sleeveless pantsuit. 

“For my lady,” he murmurs, reaching her and offering her the wine. They exchange a momentary hint of a smile and clink their glasses together before drinking together.

Yoongi frowns but immediately straightens his face, instead turning to look at Miso and hoping to see his own confusion reflected in her face. But she isn’t looking confused; in fact, she isn’t even looking at him. She’s walking towards the expansive kitchen and scanning the food neatly laid out - trays of sushi, the choicest cuts of lamb, devilled eggs and salmon. It seems like an awful lot for only four people, but before he can dwell on it, he hears his name.

“Yoongi.” It’s Miso’s mother this time. “How lovely to see you again.”

For some reason, my mother’s got it in her head that I’m her competition. Yoongi’s mind immediately goes back to the hotel, to the restaurant opening, to the coat closet. To his horror, he can feel his cheeks heat up and he hopes to the heavens that they aren’t changing colour.

“You, too, Mrs Kang.”

He bows, a little belatedly, but finds she has simply brushed past him and into the dining area. “Your - your house is beautiful. Much more than some of the other houses I’ve been to in Gangnam,” he adds quickly.

Kang Sera says nothing but a moment later she raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, looking somewhat satisfied. “Thank you. It’s changed a lot since you were last here.”

Yoongi is sure he spots Miso’s eyes widening for a fraction of a second but before he can react, she’s smoothly changed the subject.

“The new drapes are lovely, too, Mother. They are imported, you know?” she says. “From Italy.”

It takes him a moment to realise he’s expected to respond. Meeting her eyes briefly, he nods. “They’re… wonderful.”

There’s a brief silence during which Kang Sera, looking almost bored, takes a seat at one end of the table. Her husband follows suit and sits at the other end after which, finally, Miso pulls out a chair along one of the sides.

“You should offer a seat to our guest first, Miso.” Kang Jaesung speaks, sounding like he’s chiding her for not doing her homework on time. “Yoongi. I apologise for my daughter.”

“Oh, no, that’s - that’s quite alright,” he replies hastily, not quite sure why he’s stuttering. He pulls up a chair as well, directly opposite Miso, who’s pursing her lips with her eyes on her glass.

Kang Jaesung makes a motion and as if out of nowhere, two men appear from somewhere near the kitchen and pick up the trays of food, beginning to silently serve them. 

“So, Yoongi. I hear you’ve been working for Big Hit for a few years now.”

It’s not a question. Yoongi isn’t immediately sure how to respond, especially since no one has ever referred to him as “working” for Big Hit before.

“I - yes. Eight years. Eleven, if you count training.”

“Training?” he asks, eyebrows slightly raised, sounding barely interested.

“Yes. All idols need to train before they can debut. Before they can begin releasing music,” he adds, as if to clarify. But then the next second he cringes inwardly, wondering if that comes across as patronising.

“Idol? So… do you dance and sing and all that?” There’s a hint of a smile on his face, teetering between confusion and amusement. 

He instinctively bristles, becoming instantly defensive. But Yoongi gets a distinct feeling that the question is meant to unsettle him, and he nods.

“That’s right. Sir. I also work as a producer for the company, though.”

Kang Jaesung observes him for a moment, then raises his eyebrows and nods, sitting back in his chair, spine straight. “That’s quite impressive. Two jobs, two roles. Two ways to make the company dependent on you,” he adds, his smile widening slightly, as though sharing a private joke. “Impressive.”

It occurs to Yoongi only now that as such a big stakeholder of Big Hit, it seems unlikely that he would not know about Yoongi’s participation in the group. But the thought seems benign; instinctively, Yoongi smiles back, albeit a little uncomfortably.

“Do you think it’s impressive, Miso?”

Yoongi’s heart jerks a little, but Miso doesn’t even flinch. “It is,” she answers, before looking at Yoongi briefly. “Congratulations.”

Their kiss in the coat closet might as well have been a figment of Yoongi’s imagination for all the distance she’s displaying right now. He tells himself it’s a part she’s playing (too well, possibly) but for now, he finds himself wishing she would at least meet his eyes for longer than a second.

“I suppose it’s a good thing you and Miso are working together,” he continues, as the last of the food is finally served and the waiters shuffle away just as quietly as they’d appeared. “I didn’t think much of it in the beginning but it might be worth it for the experience. And the role models.”

Yoongi can’t tell if he’s being made fun of. There’s that twinkle in Kang Jaesung’s eye again, like he’s bringing Yoongi in on a joke, but a bigger part of his brain is focused on Miso. Surely - surely - this must be making Kang Miso’s blood boil?

Miso takes a sip of her whiskey and looks at her father, tilting her head slightly. “I told you there was an upside, Father,” she says, almost teasingly.

Kang Jaesung nods and smiles, raising his glass slightly. “I concede to you there.”

From across the table, Miso’s mother chuckles. “You may have done the impossible, Miso. Your father doesn’t admit defeat so easily.”

They all laugh lightly and begin tucking into their plates, while Yoongi watches in horrid fascination. It’s as though he’s watching a play - a terribly written play with rubbish storytelling, with actors simply reading off a script.

As the dinner progresses, the same line of delicate conversation continues. Kang Jaesung asks a question whose answer seems elusive as ever, Yoongi uneasily provides one anyway, he responds with a statement that could be taken in ten different ways, while his wife and daughter interject occasionally.

Try as he might, Yoongi can’t understand Kang Jaesung. Until today, he had pigeonholed the business magnate as a narcissistic, sociopathic capitalist who struck a mysterious fear in Miso. Yoongi hated his very existence on principle - which is why he cannot fathom how he is not only sitting next to Kang Jaesung and eating his food and drinking his booze, but he is actually trying.

It’s hard to admit but somewhere through dinner, Yoongi realises he’s genuinely intimidated by Kang Jaesung. It’s not hostile in nature, but the mild smiles and the sparing, passive aggressive compliments make Yoongi want to correct him - to actively appear better in front of him.

The Kangs continue to put on this charade of a well-natured, riffing family which would be amusing if it weren’t so obviously untrue. He wonders how and why Miso is participating, until it occurs to him that this little production isn’t being put on for his benefit. No, it seems far too rehearsed, almost as if it’s been going on for years. 

He also realises a little while later, when there’s a momentary pause after a joke that he’s suddenly sure has broken this facade (but results in a borderline haunting chuckle from Kang Jaesung), that the only reason it seems so fake to him is because he knows it’s fake. Everything Miso has told him, however grudgingly, about her family has been with disdain and resignation and he is suddenly sure he is the first and only person she has ever confided in.

Yoongi tries to meet Miso’s eyes, but it seems hopeless now. She’s acting like he’s just a colleague. Even worse, she’s channelling the Miso he met and resented instantly over a year ago, ignoring the waiters who serve her and seeming more in tune with her horrible wealthy parents than ever.

It isn’t until the dinner is coming to an end, the last course of smoked lamb and caviar (Caviar? On a Wednesday night?) being cleared away that Yoongi gets any indication at all that he isn’t stuck in the most mediocre nightmare he’s ever had. 

Miso has just nonchalantly laughed off a rather backhanded comment by her mother regarding her relationship status. Yoongi, for a plethora of reasons, grits his teeth at this but holds his tongue, biting his lip until his phone buzzes in on the seat of the chair next to him. He’s about to ignore it until he sees Miso’s name flash across the screen.

His chest jolts; looking around and deciding that the minor transition movement of the plates being cleared away, Kang Jaesung checking his phone and Kang Sera motioning for another drink, is safe for him to swipe up the screen.

Kang Chanel [20:35] Fix your face, Min Suga.

Yoongi grits his teeth harder - but, he realises a moment later, only to keep from accidentally smiling. His eyes snap up to look at her but she’s finishing her drink, looking rather haughty and bored in her own dining room, as though she can’t wait for this night to be over.

Yoongi can relate. He is supposed to meet Jungkook to record a demo tonight, he remembers suddenly. Eleven pm was what they had agreed upon which seems doable, but also seems too far away. 

“So, Yoongi,” says Kang Jaesung, as dessert starts being served. “What do you think of my daughter?”

There’s a moment where no one speaks, and Yoongi simply blinks. “Sir?”

He raises his eyebrows. “As her superior,” he clarifies slowly, “what do you think of her? Do you think she has a future in music?”

For the first time all night, Yoongi deliberately does not look in Miso’s direction. “She does,” he replies honestly. “She has shown a good understanding of the different elements of making music and… well, she’s worked on quite a few collaborations that have gone on to release.”

Kang Jaesung smiles; the same small, mild, perfunctory smile. “That’s good to hear, I suppose. Although, it’s tough,” he muses. “You see, for a man in my position, I have to be… discerning, when I hear about my own family. Miso is my heir and I have to be sure that my life’s work, my fortune… it’s in the right hands. I have no doubt she works hard but she will never truly know the desperation to make it,” he says casually, as though his heir and legacy isn’t sitting five feet away from him. “Not like you and me.”

Yoongi’s stomach twists; he feels nauseous. He doesn’t know if it’s Miso being called her father’s “heir”, or Kang Jaesung’s familiarity in lumping himself and Yoongi together, or the fact that a part deep down inside him, the part that once thought very less of Kang Chanel for the exact same reasons, almost agrees. 

He doesn’t want to dwell on how much Kang Jaesung might know of his own struggles; whether he is simply guessing or he’s had a PI tailing him. But it’s dawning on him that accepting this invitation was a huge mistake, on every level. He can’t imagine looking Miso in the eye right now. Does she assume he agrees with her father?

“I suppose one can’t be held responsible for their childhood… sir,” he says finally, feeling both defensive yet drained. “But you can be proud of Miso’s work ethic. She is an asset to - to the team.”

Kang Jaesung nods, then frowns. “I wish I could take your word for it, Yoongi. But you are just one person in the company.”

“Yes, but I have worked with Miso the longest, on multiple songs,” he replies, trying not to sound too argumentative. “It’s been over a year and I can - I can tell you, sir… she has grown a lot. I can vouch for that.”

There’s silence again. Kang Jaesung licks his lips slowly, the hint of a smile still present, observing Yoongi as though he’s just noticed him for the first time. For a moment, Yoongi thinks he’s convinced him, but a movement in his periphery distracts him. 

He turns to look at Kang Sera, who’s just placed a hand under her chin with one slender finger over her mouth, a grim sort of satisfaction on her face. Next to her, Miso is finally looking directly at him, her eyes wary.

And Yoongi realises he might have made a terrible mistake.

—

The Kangs’ living room, now that he’s actually in it, is enormous. It’s like a hotel ballroom, like an extremely luxurious prison cell where a billionaire might be forced to stay in solitary for the crime of not wasting money.

A waiter appears at Yoongi’s elbow where he’s by the floor-to-ceiling glass case, holding a silver tray with a small white coffee cup.

“It’s Arabic,” says Miso’s mother, the only person sitting, legs folded elegantly underneath her on the plush white sofa. “Handpicked coffee beans that are dried and shipped in airtight containers to our doorstep. Costs a fortune.”

Shocker. Yoongi takes a sip; it’s good, but not worthy of a soliloquy.

“It’s delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She nods in satisfaction and goes back to her phone, manicured talons swiping up the screen while she sips her coffee.

“Did you drive here, Yoongi?” Kang Jaesung asks, standing at the other end of the glass case, one hand holding a cup and the other in his pocket, observing a plaque displayed inside.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find the house alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the guards outside? Did they give you any trouble?” He tilts his head towards Yoongi, almost jovially. “They are instructed to protect the house from outsiders after all.”

Yoongi grits his teeth again, frustrated. It’s a double-edged sword, one that cannot keep those guards from getting in trouble either way unless he gives Kang Jaesung the exact response he wants. 

“They recognised Miso, sir.”

“Oh, yes, of course. You drove her here,” he feigns remembering. “I almost forgot.”

Bullshit.

“How nice of you, Yoongi.” Kang Sera looks up from across the room, her gaze flickering towards Miso by the corner of one of the armchairs, shoulders hunched and silently staring into her coffee. “You and Miso must really go far back for you to offer her a ride. Or you’re just a very good boss.” She titters.

No, you witch. Your husband took the car and the driver, and outright asked me to drive your daughter home - apparently just so he can fuck with us.

Kang Jaesung chuckles in agreement, and Yoongi wants to throw the steaming contents of his cup in the older man’s face.

“You’re a lucky girl, Miso,” her father says, glancing back at her. “But she’s always been lucky. She graduated from a university in New Zealand - a year early,” he adds. “Did you know that, Yoongi?”

“Australia,” mutters Miso, but no one save for Yoongi seems to hear her.

“Come. Take a look.” Kang Jaesung motions to Yoongi to join him and waits until he does. He points to a plaque inside, with the name of a university, followed by Class of 2012 embossed in bronze. On the left side is a space for a photo frame, with a picture of a much younger Miso in a red and white graduation gown, holding a diploma.

“Wow,” murmurs Yoongi, only for a lack of anything else to say. 

Her father hums. “Two years after this, she got her business degree from Columbia - Columbia University, that’s in America - but she wanted to move back to Australia straight after.” He shakes his head. “I tried to talk her out of it but she’s really quite stubborn that way.”

Something about this anecdote just does not sound correct at all, but Yoongi knows it’s not his place to ask - not here, anyway. He makes a mental note to bring it up with Miso later, but for now, he just wants this dinner to end.

“I’m sure we have the plaque for that, too - Miso, come here and help me look.”

For a moment, it looks as though Miso might decline but then she walks over, moving straight past Yoongi who takes this opportunity to step away from Kang Jaesung’s immediate radius so he’s standing a few feet away from both father and daughter who are by the glass case.

“Over there,” she mutters, pointing to right behind the first plaque.

“Oh, of course. It’s getting blocked by this.” He opens the case and shifts a framed magazine cover with his own face on it - looking blazing and stony and worldly all at once - and brings Miso’s Columbia plaque forward.

“There we go. That’s better, isn’t it?” 

Miso sips her coffee noncommittally but doesn’t answer. Yoongi gets the feeling she was expected to, however, and finds himself responding.

“Congratulations on the Time cover. Sir.” 

“Thank you. I suppose achievement is genetic as well.” He smiles and looks from his daughter to his wife - the latter of whom has now put down her phone. Any remnant of phone humour has left her face as she stares at her husband, who’s looked away by now.

“They are both quite impressive, Yoongi,” she says after a moment. “In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t see it the last time you were here.”

It’s the second time she’s brought up his last visit to this house, during a time when the only feelings Yoongi could muster towards Miso were resentment, annoyance and some amount of pity. There’s no avoiding it this time, though; Kang Jaesung picks up on it immediately.

“What’s that?” He frowns, his tone sharper than it has been all evening. His eyes snap up to Yoongi. “I didn’t realise you’d been here before.”

He’s telling the truth, Yoongi realises. All evening, Kang Jaesung has been one, maybe several steps ahead of them. This time, though, he’s been caught off guard.

“Of course he has. It was at the family gathering last summer. Don’t you remember, darling? Miso brought Yoongi as her date - I was so excited until Miso told me they were simply colleagues.” She titters again, but there’s no humour there whatsoever.

Yoongi can’t accurately judge the severity of the situation, but even though she’s a few feet away, he can’t almost feel Miso stiffen.

“I see,” says Kang Jaesung, softly. “How amusing.”

“He wasn’t a date, Father,” says Miso, eyes flickering upwards but not meeting her fathers’. “I invited him as a guest, because he was my boss at the time. You had met him, too, in the studio.”

“Is that right? Well, now. It might be my mistake,” he says suddenly. “I wasn’t made aware that I was… setting something else in motion.” His lips curl around the words. “I suppose girls never grow out of keeping things from their fathers.”

There’s the same pretence of good-natured family humour, but Yoongi is not fooled this time. It’s the most tense, uncomfortable situation he can remember being in. He looks up to see Kang Jaesung watching his daughter, while Miso’s fingers tighten around her cup.

Maybe it’s completely innocuous, but something about the motion makes Yoongi’s gaze move to her hands and an image flashes in his mind, of a bluish purple mark on her wrist.

It all happens in an instant. Kang Jaesung raises his hand very slightly - he may have simply been reaching for his phone for all Yoongi knows - to his right, Miso inhales shakily, and Yoongi instinctively steps in between them. At the last second he places his empty coffee cup on the table under the glass case, attempting to be nonchalant.

But the damage is done. Kang Jaesung’s gaze bores into Yoongi, a few seconds which feel like they last several hours, until finally he takes a step back.

“I think we might call it a night here,” he suggests, taking a sip of his coffee and placing his cup right next to Yoongi’s. He picks up his phone and moves away, as though already having forgotten. “Yoongi… forgive me. I’m a busy man.”

Yoongi nods jerkily. “Of course. Thank you for the invite. The dinner was wonderful. Thank you, Mrs Kang,” he adds after a moment. He moves to leave, careful not to acknowledge Miso at all. Just as he’s almost out of the living room, his heart uncomfortably and irregularly beating, Kang Jaesung speaks again.

“Miso, please escort our guest to his car.” 

“Of course.”

There’s no time for Yoongi to react. Miso walks towards him and motions for him to continue, and they exit the house together, down the stairs and across the lawn in complete silence. Yoongi is too on edge to speak, not even sure where to begin. But the mansion looms behind him, opulent and intimidating and it isn’t until they cross beyond the lights bordering the lawn and reach his car in the dark parking lot that Yoongi is finally confident enough to openly face her. 

“Miso,” he says, and he is shocked to hear the worry in his voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what just happened but I - I swear I didn’t mean to say -”

He’s cut off almost instantly, however. Her face is shrouded in the dark of the night underneath a moonless sky, but he can still see the smile flicker across her face before she reaches forward and kisses him.

It takes Yoongi a few bewildered seconds to respond but by the time he can register it, it’s already over.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. She doesn’t look or sound happy, but the smile is still there, almost resigned. She looks like she wants to say more but gives up quickly. On some level, Yoongi is glad. He doesn’t know if either of them wants it out there, in the universe: the implications of his instincts, the reason for their being. But they can’t deny that it happened and that for a moment, someone stood between her and her father.

“I’ll see you around, Yoongi,” she says. Before he can say anything, she turns around and walks back to her house.

—

Miso doesn’t come into work the next day. Yoongi does an all-nighter at the studio, but even when he returns in the late afternoon, after a nap and scarfing down some instant ramen, she still isn’t there. He waits, fidgeting throughout the day, but she never comes. She doesn’t come the next day either, or the day after that.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to feel. Paranoid is a safe word, especially because it implies a fear of nothing in specific, which is exactly what it seems like right now. He calls her, half-heartedly, only to get her voicemail. Disappointed but not quite surprised, he asks Donghyuk.

“She called in sick a couple of days ago,” he supplies, which sounds like bullshit to Yoongi but is none of Donghyuk’s business.

Finally, after four days during which Yoongi tries hard to suppress his helplessness so he can work, Miso returns.

Yoongi is in his studio, working with a young solo artist on a track for her second studio album. They are debating a lyric in the second verse, stuck on the inflection of a particular word, when the door to his studio opens.

“Yoongi,” says Miso, in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. “Donghyuk is asking if you will be available any time today to prep for the marketing meeting tomorrow.”

It’s a full ten seconds before Yoongi is able to answer. It isn’t until she raises her eyebrows and gives him a look that he snaps out of it.

“I - yes. I will be. Uh… when?”

“I don’t know. He’s not here right now, but I can ask him when he gets back.” With that, she nods and retreats, the door swinging shut behind her.

Yoongi stays still, glued to his seat, and takes a deep breath. “Where were we?” he asks the artist next to him, barely noticing when she points out the line they were discussing. He nods and they stay on the topic, tone neutral, while Yoongi counts to a hundred and twenty in his head.

“You know what? Just give me a minute,” he says apologetically, already standing up. “I forgot something - but keep at it. I think we’re finally getting somewhere.” He gives her an encouraging thumbs up before calmly walking out of his studio. The moment the door closes behind him, he rushes to Donghyuk’s studio. 

Without knocking, he throws open the door to see Miso standing at the opposite end of the studio, leaning back against the wall and typing something into her phone. She looks up the moment he enters and a smile starts to form on her face.

Yoongi exhales and strides in, and they meet halfway in a hug. 

“Fucking hell, Kang Miso,” he murmurs, realising at this very moment that not only had he been worried this whole time, but he’d also missed her. “Could’ve dropped me a text or something, you know?”

She chuckles dryly, and her arms tighten around his neck for a moment before she relaxes and steps away. She looks the same as always, but a bit more subdued somehow. He can’t put his finger on it exactly; it’s something in the eyes-face-hair area but the smile she cracks is the same as always.

“Nothing nearly interesting enough to text you about,” she replies, shrugging. “I’m sure me being gone was a net positive - you probably got a lot more work done without me snarking about it.”

“Shut up, that’s not funny,” he mutters, but feels his lips twitch anyway. “Jesus, Miso, where… I mean, how…” He trails away, suddenly with no idea what to ask. A sudden memory flashes through his mind and he grabs her hand, pushing her sleeve up to reveal her pale, slender wrist.

Yoongi blinks at it for a few seconds before slowly meeting her eyes, part relieved and part embarrassed. Miso’s head is tilted slightly, as though she knows where his mind is. He’s saved from trying to speak when the studio door opens and it’s Hyeongseo, the artist he’s been working with all day.

“Hey - oh, sorry,” she says vaguely. Yoongi realises he’s still holding Miso’s hand and drops it immediately, turning away from her. “It’s just… I need to head out for a shoot soon, so…”

“Of course.” He nods and follows Hyeongseo out of the studio but stops just short of the exit to look at Miso. “We’ll, uh…”

She crosses her arms across her chest and nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” There’s a moment of awkward silence during which Yoongi’s feet won’t move. “Don’t leave,” he blurts out, managing to add a warning tone to it at the end to cover up the mortification.

Thankfully she chuckles and waves him away. “Go do some work, Min Suga.”

And Yoongi does just that. For the next hour, he pores over the rest of the song with Hyeongseo and even manages to record a rough demo for their next meeting. His mind is catching the most minute beats and sounds and pronunciations with ease and by the time they listen to the final version of the demo, he’s surprised even himself.

He doesn’t go back to Donghyuk’s studio, though, even after Hyeongseo leaves. He spends a while longer on other work, returns some emails, goes on a smoke break - anything to not be the one to try and accost Miso again, especially after that overeager Don’t leave!

At some point during the night, she drops him a text.

Kang Chanel [21:50] Donghyuk has managed to pick the absolute worst pizza place in the damn city.

It takes Yoongi a few minutes to decode the message, after which he simply decides she wants him to come over on the pretext of helping finish some sub-standard pizza. He turns out to be correct on all accounts and while he’s initially mildly disappointed to see Donghyuk there as well, it ends up being for the best, for it’s the first time since he’s ever known Miso that they have both hung out as friends, with friends, eating pizza and joking around without any sort of awkwardness or discomfort. 

Despite Donghyuk’s reputation for crassness and abrasive attitude, he and Miso genuinely seem to be friends. Yoongi is uncertain how much he knows or what he thinks he’s deduced; it becomes somewhat clear when Donghyuk finally decides to head out for the night and tells them very cryptically to not to do anything he wouldn’t do. It elicits a chuckle from Miso, and Yoongi finds himself grateful on two counts as the other producer bids them goodbye.

“The pizza wasn’t nearly as bad as you made it out to be,” says Yoongi after a moment, when it’s just the two of them. They’re on a revolving chair each, about five feet away from each other.

“Clearly, since you polished off four slices,” she points out, stretching her arms and gathering her hair into a ponytail. She hitches one of her legs up on the chair, the soles of her Converse shoes slightly muddy, and sighs tiredly.

Yoongi glances down at his hands. They’re finally alone but it hits him that despite a lot of worrying, he’s had no way of preparing for this moment.

“So what have I missed?” Miso asks, as though she’s been on vacation. “Aside from that weird new security scanner they have on the floor.”

He doesn’t look up. “A sasaeng managed to break into the building. Twelve hours later, it was there.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really? Wow, some people have a lot of time on their hands. Who was she here for? Wait - is it offensive to assume it was a girl?”

“Miso,” he says.

“Hm?”

Yoongi meets her eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks softly.

“Home,” she answers, without missing a beat.

“Home?”

“Home,” she confirms. “You were there a few days ago.”

He ignores the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, I remember your house,” he mutters. “So you were just… in your house, the last four days?” When she shrugs, he blinks. “Why?”

“I mean…” Miso shifts in her chair and sighs, as though the answer should be obvious. “As you could probably tell, that dinner did not go all that well. My father said he needed to decide if he could - quote unquote - trust me.” She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue nonchalantly. “So I couldn’t go to work until he was sure.” She shrugs again.

The questions in Yoongi’s mind are endless. “So… what? He trusts you now?”

“Apparently.”

“Like, he gave you permission to come to work today?”

“I guess you could call it that.” 

Yoongi sighs deeply. “Miso, come on. I’ve been worried sick about you - I thought I got you in trouble. You’ve got to give me something more here.”

For a moment, she looks like she’s about to argue, but then her eyes soften slightly. “Yoongi, there’s really nothing more to tell. I’m serious - I know what you’re thinking,” she adds when he opens his mouth to retort. “Okay? The sleeve thing was pretty obvious. But I promise you, I was mostly just in my room, getting bored, getting my meals delivered to my doorstep, and trying to read War and Peace.”

“What -”

“It’s a book.”

He stares, feeling a very familiar annoyance surfacing. “I was going to ask, What about your phone?” he clarifies slowly. “Or could you not just drop me a text to let me know you were okay?”

For the first time, Miso hesitates. “My phone… may have been taken away. It was brought to me this morning along with my breakfast, which is how I figured I was good to come in today.”

It occurs to Yoongi that he isn’t about to get any further details about her disappearance. From where he’s standing, it sounds as though she was locked in her room for four days with no means of communication until her villain of a father deemed it okay for her to be released. But Miso’s tone seems extremely incongruous to the situation, sounding almost unbothered, and it’s frustrating on multiple levels.

“You know…” He begins, then stops. This could backfire. “I hope you know that you can trust me,” he tries again. “You can tell me if… well, anything.” He waits.

She observes him for a moment. “Okay, I’ll say it,” she states abruptly. “No, I wasn’t hurt. My father doesn’t really have a taste for violence.”

Yoongi scoffs without meaning to; despite having no evidence to the contrary, he finds that hard to believe.

“I’m not saying he’s not capable of it,” she amends, “but it’s not his style.”

“Yeah? What is his style?”

“This,” she answers, surprising him. “Power. And control. Something that night made him feel like he wasn’t fully in control of the situation,” she says, and her pause indicates to Yoongi that they both know what that probably was. “So this was his way of making sure I know who’s really in charge. He’s done it before,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

What the fuck? “So…” Yoongi struggles to form a coherent sentence for a few seconds. “So what changed? What did he do in those four days that changed everything?”

“I don’t know!” Miso exclaims, half-chuckling. “Who the hell knows what goes in my father’s head? It’s pointless to try and figure it out after a point. But you shook him in a way that I haven’t seen in a while,” she admits after a moment.

He can’t deduce if this is meant to be a compliment. “I really thought I got you in trouble,” he murmurs. “I tried to keep my distance but I think I might have…” He trails off.

“Yoongi.” She shifts in her chair so she’s facing him completely. “This wasn’t your fault,” she tells him, as though it just occurred to her that this might be a possibility to him. 

“But you told me, even back at that restaurant opening, that your mother would get all crazy and even before the dinner, you said -”

“Yeah, but that’s not what happened here,” she interrupts him. “Yoongi, my father knows I’ve had relationships with men. I mean, I’m almost thirty - it’s not that shocking. That is not why I asked you to keep your distance. I mean, it is, but…” She shakes her head. “Not in the way that you think.”

Yoongi runs his hand down his face. He can’t imagine growing up like this, living, constantly, in a cold war with your parents.

“Look, somehow, all the guys I’ve ever been with - and there haven’t been that many of them - have always been related to my father in a way. They were either in the same social circle or their fathers worked for my father, or they worked for my father.”

“I don’t work for your father,” he says immediately.

She frowns. “Don’t you?”

The minute detail of Kang Jaesung being a Hybe stakeholder had slipped Yoongi’s mind, and the fact suddenly makes him want to vomit.

“The only guy that had nothing to do with my father was this guy I was seeing when I lived in Australia,” she continues. “The moment they got wind of the fact that it was getting slightly serious, I was made to return to Seoul.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Perhaps Miso realises why, for her tone is suddenly gentler.

“But you may be the first one of them to ever make him feel threatened. And I’m not just talking about the thing at the end,” she clarifies, a hint of a smile on her lips.

It takes him a moment, but he returns it. Her kiss had lingered for hours after the fact - days, even - and Yoongi had remembered it with guilt and longing in equal measure. He wishes this were easier.

“Why don’t you leave, Miso?” he asks, noting how she stiffens. “Haven’t you even thought about it?”

It’s clear from the way she turns away from him ever so slightly that this isn’t where she expected the conversation to go. 

“It’s not that easy,” she says flatly.

“Not at first, sure. But you’re twenty-nine - I mean, it’s pretty common to move out by this age,” he points out. “I’m sure you have savings. You can get an apartment - or I can help you out. But… why are you still here?”

She presses her tongue into her cheek. “It’s complicated.”

He’s about to argue, when something else stirs in his memory of that dinner. “By the way… can I ask you something?” He takes her begrudging raise of the eyebrows as a yes. “What did your father mean when he said… that you’re his heir?”

She’s silent for so long that he thinks she may not answer at all. “He meant exactly what you think he meant,” she says eventually.

“So you’re going to inherit… what? His whole company?”

“I’m a chaebol. You know what that means, right?”

He does, it’s true. Not only does he know it in theory, he knows she is one. He’s called her that, multiple times; in the early days of their tense dynamic, it felt harsher than nepo baby.

“What did you do about your collab?” she asks before he can continue on his train of thought.

“Oh -” Yoongi pauses. “Um - nothing. Yet. Still debating what to do next.”

“Still? Either this artist is epic or you’re just overthinking this, Min Suga.”

“Genius Dragon is unfortunately that good, but I’m not overthinking for no good reason. It’s -”

“Hold on - his name is Genius Dragon?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s a mouthful.”

“Not to mention original.” She rolls her eyes and winces. “God, I remember this guy. I think I attended a workshop he took a million years ago.”

“Yeah?” This is surprising. “What did you think of him?”

“Kind of full of himself,” she mutters. From this, Yoongi gathers that she agrees with his assessment about the rapper’s talent. “But if he’s that good… come on, don’t tell me this is still about something he said to you a decade ago.”

“It’s not about me,” he retorts, a little defensively. “This album is personal, and this particular song is even more so. Aside from the fact that he’s from Daegu also… he struggled, too. He gets it - and I think that’s why he was harder on Namjoon and the rest of the group, because he thought they made me soft. That’s also why he’s the best choice for this song, though,” he mutters, dropping his head against the back of the chair.

“Isn’t Namjoon an artist, too? Won’t he understand that?” she points out.

“He -” Yoongi sighs. “He might. He’ll never stop me from doing this, if that’s what I want. None of them will.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

It should be obvious, but Yoongi can’t bring himself to say anything other than, “It’s complicated.”

There’s a pause during which he looks up and sees her still looking away, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly, almost in satisfaction. Her words from a little while ago ring, and he concludes that she’s still miffed with his persistence.

“Hey.” Yoongi reaches forward towards her; hooking his hand under the seat of her chair, he pulls it towards him. It works; despite the fact that she turns to look at him like it’s a massive effort, there’s a softness that’s returned. The arms of their chairs are touching, and they’re closer than they’ve been all night.

“I shouldn’t have pried,” he admits. Miso nods before leaning forward and kissing him.

It’s the first time they’ve kissed without either of them being taken by surprise, or in secret with the fear of being found out. Yoongi hasn’t cut his hair since the last leg of his tour; a pleasant shiver runs down his spine when her fingers brush against the ends at the nape of his neck. 

The last thing he wants is to rush this. In the absence of anything else in their way, the kiss is slow and exploratory, with an air of relief that Yoongi knows is not one-sided. He squeezes her knee and she gets up off her chair; without breaking the kiss, slides onto his lap, straddling him with a comfortable weight.

Yoongi wraps an arm around her waist, holding her face to his as gently as he can as her shoulder-length locks brush against his cheek. She sighs into his mouth and his heart skips a beat, but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t imagine it. She smells of something that vaguely reminds him of jasmine but still feels expensive, and he pulls her even closer.

“Min Suga,” she murmurs against his lips, “is that your phone in your front pocket?”

Yoongi freezes, realising a second later that his phone is indeed vibrating in his front pocket. “Among other things,” he mutters, regretfully pulling away slightly and fishing it out of his pocket. His heart sinks when he sees Bang PD’s name flashing on the screen.

“You need to take that,” she tells him, reading the screen upside-down. She moves her torso back and shakes her hair out of her face and off her neck. “And I… I need to get home.”

His phone is still ringing. “Do you want me to drop you home?” he asks as she climbs off his lap.

She gives him a small smile. “Thanks. But Seungkwan is here, so he can…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

Fifth ring. Yoongi closes his eyes - he needs to take this call. He stands up and reaches the door, hesitating before opening it. There’s a lot that needs to be said and done, but nothing comes to mind. A moment later, Yoongi realises only one of them really matters.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, his hand on the door handle.

“Yes, you will,” she confirms, already starting to pack up the electronics. Her nonchalance is betrayed by the small smile widening a bit. “Now take that damn call, Min Suga.”

He chuckles and nods. “See you tomorrow, Kang Miso,” he says, before stepping out of the studio and answering his phone.

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[nisbanisba]

Hey does anyone want to give me prompts for Tarlos sickfic or other super fluffy hurt/comfort? I have a lot of spare time rn because I got laid off a few weeks back*, I have a few ideas but nothing that’s really calling to me. I prefer to hurt Carlos (BECAUSE IM LOVE HIM) and have Caretaker TK but I could hurt TK if Carlos also needs a lot of emotional support!! Regardless everyone will get SO MANY hugs and head rubs!! Submit to my asks if you have ideas?? I also love involving other members of the 126 fam!! Open to AUs too.

((Personal note :I’ve always written sick fics in my head, and written a few down when I was much younger, but I was in autistic burnout for years from my former career (left in 2020) and didn’t have enough spoons leftover for writing for fun until this year. And now the government will pay me to write fluffy huggy hurt/comfort fanfiction and I just feel like we all could use it?

*(but don’t feel bad! my unemployment payments are enough to live frugally on for a little bit so right now im only looking hard enough to maintain eligibility)

So far I’ve written:

I can’t tell one from another (did I find you or you find me) Carlos gets a bad case of the flu. TK cuddles him back to health. Nancy & Tommy make a cameo.

Make Us Be Brave

TK thinks Carlos is too sick to be working. Grace thinks so too, but she'll help him solve a murder anyway. Judd is there to keep TK's head from exploding. Charlie and Andrea stop by for hugs. (AU in which the network paid Sierra what she's worth and Grace didn't leave. otherwise canon compliant through 5x04)

Can you please reblog for reach? Tagging a few moots, I hope yall don’t mind, feel free to just ignore or shoot me in the face or whatever

@chicgeekgirl89 @carlos-in-glasses @eclectic-sassycoweyes @henrygrass @freneticfloetry @tevantarlos @literateowl @the-126-family @lemonlyman-dotcom @thisbuildinghasfeelings @emsprovisions @bonheur-cafe @sapphic--kiwi i @pimento-playing-hopscotch thank you so much, let's have some hurt comforty goodness.