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magicalbats · 1 month ago

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Kinktober Day 23: Boothill x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 4976

Warnings: Afab!reader, age difference, gunplay, a tiny bit of coercion on readers part, gun in mouth, dry humping

A/N: Okay, so I'm officially a day behind but! This one was a bit of a challenge for me, both because I've never really written any gunplay scenarios before but also because it was a bit of a brain twister trying to lock down his old west mannerisms with the silly potty word substitutes 🤭 Hopefully I didn't do too bad on either front!

⭐

The Galaxy Rangers were somewhat infamous for enjoying reckless games. The sort that more often than not ended in disastrous results, particularly when more than one of them had been taken out of commission by an unlucky Russian Roulette bullet. But like moths to the flame, those of you who lived by the creed of the Hunt were inexorably drawn to high adrenaline situations and the kind of fast paced excitement that made most others shy away for fear of life and limb.

You were no different in this regard, and neither was Boothill.

He’d mentored you for a very short while, back when you first took up Lan’s bow and set out into the vast cosmos to bring about some form of justice in a largely unjust universe. Treated you much like a daughter, in fact.

And that just made the current situation of having his revolver shoved in your face all the more thrilling.

“Fudging hell, girl! I almost blew your darned brains out! You can’t go around sneaking up on people like that. It’s not smart and it’s not safe!”

“Sorry.” You murmur, tipping your head just enough to peer around the barrel of his gun so you can pin him with a wholly innocent smile. “I just wanted to surprise you. It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.”

“Well, ya’ certainly surprised me.” Sighing out a terse, mildly bothered huff, Boothill fluidly relaxes out of his practiced shooting stance and gives his pistol a quick twirl before holstering it at his hip. The nervous people standing around the two of you who had backed up into a loose circle at the first sight of his pistol visibly relax but still quickly go about their business to avoid getting caught up in whatever trouble was brewing here on this particular street of Penacony’s Golden Hour.

He doesn’t even seem to notice though, perfectly calm and casual now as he looks you up and down with a considering glance. “Glad to see you’re still kicking, I suppose. You didn’t exactly fill me with an overwhelming sense of confidence when I first met ya’, you know?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, eagerly rocking up on your toes to lessen the height difference by a small margin. “Is that why you took me under your wing? To improve my chances of survival.”

He scoffs at that, metal hand coming up to brace along his equally metal hip. “I ain’t that fudging kindhearted so don’t get it twisted now. I just happened to see a little cowgirl who couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag if it was soaked through, and I couldn’t abide by that. Didn’t want you to go giving the Galaxy Rangers a bad name or nothing.”

A certain, naively hopeful part of you sinks at that. You knew how he’d treated you before, of course, but that was a few years in the past now … “Is that really all you see me as? A little girl?”

“And what pray tell am I supposed to see you as if not that?”

“I’m not a kid, for starters.”

“Tch. I can see that. That cute lil’ dress you got on isn’t gonna’ make me forget about the first time I ran into ya’ though. You weren’t no better than a fool headed little brat trying to shoot yer daddy’s gun out in that field.”

You warm slightly at that, completely ignoring everything else he’d said in favor of focusing on the important bit. “You really think my dress is cute?”

“Bah! Enough of this. I ain’t got time for it.”

Turning on his heel, Boothill decisively starts to make his way further down the road on a straight course for the looming facade of the hotel up ahead. And you just push into motion to trot right along after him, having to work your legs double time to keep pace with his long strides.

It takes him a prolonged beat to realize you’re following him and when he does, he snaps his head in your direction with a low growl of warning. “What do you think you’re doing, girl? I said I ain’t got time for it!”

“I just wanted to catch up, that’s all.”

“Catch up!” He echoes you loudly enough to make some of the passersby glance over with varying degrees of confused and indignant looks. “What is there even to catch up on, huh? I’ve just been putting bullet holes in bad guys for the last some odd years and I reckon you’ve been doing the same since you’re still standing here. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

The two of you reach the sloping stairs at that point and start to make your way up together. It does not escape your notice that he seems to be far too focused on chiding you to give his purposeful strides any further thought and he was likely just retracing the same path he’d taken before. It was probably best to keep him talking then.

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious about me? After all, you did take the time to teach me how to handle a gun. I’d think you’d be more interested to know how that’s panned out in the long run. I promise I’m a much better shot now.”

Boothill lifts a dark brow at the playful lilt in your voice, allowing a sharp toothed grin to tug at his mouth now. “Is that so? You must think you’re something real slick if you’re trying to brag. Think you’re big enough to beat me in a quick draw, little missy?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of taking you on in this lifetime.” You murmur, smiling to yourself when he beats you to one of the front entrance doors by a single step so he can yank it open to grant you entry. Evidently his gruff manner of a chivalrous gunslinger was so deeply ingrained in his subconscious that he doesn’t even give it a second thought now and you certainly weren’t going to question it.

Slipping into the hotel lobby, he comes in after you with a big, boisterous laugh, his boot spurs rattling with each step. “Well, at least you understand the pecking order. You’re still a few decades too early to go up against me and hope to win, but don’t let that discourage ya’. You must be good enough to have survived this long.”

“It’s really only thanks to you, Mr. Boothill. I had no idea what I was doing until you came along!”

“Aww, shucks. Stop it, darling. You’ll have this old dog blushing here in a minute if you keep that up.”

You wonder if cyborgs that are more machine than man could actually blush as you totter along next to him. Through the lobby, up an elevator, into one of many hotel lounge bars and then up another set of stairs until you find yourself wandering down a long corridor together. He still hasn’t quite figured out your angle while you keep layering compliments and feeding just enough of a line to keep him talking about something or another to distract him. It clearly works too, and Boothill doesn’t even hesitate to unlock his room's door nor does he seem to stop long enough to realize you’re slipping inside with him, right on his heels and just as unobtrusive as any shadow.

His gruff laughter dying off to a slow, drawling chuckle, the Galaxy Ranger turns towards the little coffee table just inside the spacious room and moves to unholster his pistol so he could set it down. But he freezes halfway through the motion as if suddenly realizing he hadn’t made the trip up here alone. For a harrowing stretch of moments he doesn’t move so much as a finger before all at once rounding on you with an aggressive bark

“You! What do you think you’re - -“

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Boothill.” You tell him sweetly, batting your lashes for extra effect. “You let me in here, remember?”

“Like hell I did! I never gave you an invitation to come sashaying in here, you little - -“

Quickly ducking under his reaching hand, you dance back to keep at least an arms length between you and him, giggling the whole time. “Hey, don’t be mean to me! I’m your precious junior, aren’t I?”

“Muddle-fudger!”

The next handful of seconds feel like they go by in a torturous, slow motion blur.

You’d underestimated the full scope of his reach and now that he knows you’re playing games with him, he doesn’t hold back.

His hand strikes out at you like a snapping serpent, full force and quicker than you can conceivably react. You were good, all things considered, but not quite as good as him.

Your neck is suddenly caught between the cool, pinching metal of his bionic fingers, his palm slamming into your throat hard enough to make you gag.

Winded and startled, Boothill drags you stumbling towards the table where he shoves you back against it, half picking you up by the neck to get you on top of the shuddering surface.

Then he’s slamming you down to lay flat out, the force of the impact dislodging a disgruntled sound from your aching chest.

And he finally leans over you, pinning you there with his hand locked against your throat so he can shove the barrel of his gun right in your face again.

It’s over in the time it takes you to blink, leaving you dazed and panting as you stare up along the dark iron muzzle to look into his face. You’re not the least bit surprised to find he isn’t even breathing any harder after all of that and you let out a threadbare, groaning laugh, unable to help yourself even when you were staring death right in the eyes.

“What is so funny, huh?” He dangerously snarls, nudging his pistol at you for emphasis. “Fork me, I don’t remember you being crazy but it looks like you knocked a few screws loose somewhere along the way. Are you looking for me to remedy that for you?”

His thumb curls up at that to pointedly flick the safety off with a click that sounds deafening from this close up.

You have to bite down on your bottom lip to stopper the moan that tries to rattle its way up your constricting throat, carefully shifting against him to feel the solid weight of his narrow hips between your legs. Although pissing him off hadn’t exactly been your goal when you’d first approached him, this was still very much turning out as you’d hoped it would.

“I’m afraid it’s not my head that needs fixing, Mr. Boothill.”

A genuinely perplexed look crosses his face at that. “Son of a nice — what the hell are you even saying, you little brat? You don’t make a lick of sense, you know that?”

Drawing a slow breath to steady yourself, you cautiously bring your hand up to grasp at the metal wrist pinning your neck down. That he allows it instead of pumping you full of lead right then and there seems as good a sign as any to keep going, so you do.

“Do you want the truth?”

“If you value your life, you’d better start talking quick.”

“It’s you, Mr. Boothill. You’re what’s wrong with me. And it’s not my head that’s the problem. It’s down here.” Stiffly, you roll your hips upward to deliberately grind your cunt against the front of him. It’s hard to say if he can feel anything at all with so much of his body being metal, but he sees the shuddering motion and trails his attention down to the spot where he’s standing between your legs.

His mouth drops open to reveal that razor sharp row of teeth again, gun hand wavering slightly in your face. “Huh?”

“Do you remember when you were teaching me how to track and take down bad guys? I thought you were so cool, Mr. Boothill … I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all this time either. I was hoping I’d run into you again someday even if the chances were slim to none, so when I saw you on the street it felt a little bit like fate.”

“Wha — fate? Girl, have you lost your gosh darned mind? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in possession of a flesh and blood body. What the fudge do you expect me to do with you?” Irritably clicking tongue, he angles his pistol skyward in a smooth, well practiced motion and eases back just enough to pin you with a hard look. “Maybe if you’d caught me before I had to sell my soul to the reaper then we could have talked, but I’ve got too much to do to be messing around with you like that. I ain’t got nothing for you I’m afraid.”

You see the grim resignation in his expression for what it is, understanding that he was going to pull away from you before he actually moves to do it. He only makes it so far as letting up on your neck though before you manage to rouse yourself enough to bring your legs up and wrap them around his deceptively dainty waist to lock him there.

Stiffening slightly, Boothill glances down at the lurid spread of your thighs, soft and form fitted to the sharp contours of his hips. Your dress had ridden up in all the excitement and now seemed dangerously close to flashing your lacy underwear at him but not quite yet. All it would take is a simple nudge of your hand though, and you hold the breath in your lungs as you watch him mentally process through that fact.

“You little hussy - -“

“Please, Mr. Boothill.” You beg, tightening your legs around him. “I know this probably isn't what you would have had in mind otherwise but … there is something you could give me. An extension of you that would make me just as happy as anything else would.”

He seems to go still for the stretch of a single heartbeat, and then another when he slowly brings his shuttered gaze up to look you in the face again. You’re not entirely sure what’s going through his head in that moment, but he seems less angry with you now and a bit more interested in what you had to say.

Finally, he almost thoughtfully tips his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

You send the pistol in his hand a pointed glance, making him suck in a stilted breath. Evidently he’d never thought about it or truly considered this as an option before, or maybe he simply hadn’t thought anyone would ever be fool enough to want that. But for better or worse, as a Galaxy Range or perhaps as a follower of Lan’s hunt, you weren’t scared of a little risk to go with the pleasure.

“You’re fudgin’ serious.” He murmurs, sounding equal parts impressed and appropriately cowed.

A brief laugh huffs out of him as he shakes his head, and you slowly reach one of your hands down to just pinch at the front of your dress so you can tug it up. “I’ve been thinking about this since the day we parted ways, Mr. Boothill. I always knew your body wasn’t whole anymore so I guess I just kind of naturally started thinking about potential substitutes.”

“And now here you are.”

You smile at that. “Yes, here I am. Offering myself to you, if you’ll have me.”

You feel the first cool waft of air against your silk and lace panties then, shuddering ever so softly as you inch the fabric higher still to give him a good look at you. Running into him like this had been the very definition of an unexpected encounter so you weren’t wearing anything overly sexy or revealing, but they were still cute. They also showed off the pudgy seam of your cunt where the material was lightly moulded to you, thanks to the damp slick starting to gather along the crease as much as from the nudge of his pelvis when he’d pinned you down.

He just stares at you for an uncertain beat though, looking at your pussy with a clear note of wanting reflected in his one visible eye but quickly concealed with a quiet scoff. Turning his head to focus on something else, he raises his gun to thumb the safety back on before somewhat warily bringing it down to waist level where he hesitates.

“I could really hurt you doing something like this, darling.”

“You won’t. I trust you.”

Your breath is coming a little quicker now, sped up by the onset of anticipation and quick mounting excitement. He was tempted, that much was obvious. Either because the lack of a working, fleshy cock made encounters like this unnecessary and redundant for him, an exceedingly rare indulgence he didn’t often have a chance to participate in anymore, or perhaps it was simply because he was just as much of a thrill seeker as you were. Maybe even some deadly combination of the two.

But you could tell in his confident, hot headed swagger as much as his face, the only part of his original body that was still left, that he was not actually the old dog he sometimes fashioned himself to be. He’d likely been approaching his mid twenties when he underwent the full transition to a bionic body and was in truth only a few years older than you. That he’d chosen this path over keeping his cock, something most men centered their whole identity around, spoke volumes of his true nature.

That is what had stuck with you all this time and what kept you awake on many a lonely night. There was something so uniquely charming about him in a rugged, old west kind of way that you couldn’t help but want him as you do.

So you slowly inch your legs further apart, letting them settle into a wide spread that leaves your pantied cunt vulnerable and plainly offered up to him. Boothill’s gaze wanders down to regard you at the shift, his yearning for the warmth of your body settling across his face in a pained grimace. There was very likely some part of him that missed his old skin and you were all too happy to give him the chance to feel even a small fraction of what it was like to be human again.

“Right here.” You prod, fingers slipping back down to just feel over the apex of your mound.

Listlessly rousing himself, Boothill lifts his gun to nudge it into the space between your thighs where he lightly runs the cool metal barrel over your underwear. It’s a featherlight and fleeting sensation, but so monumentally heavy in its implication that your chest hitches with a little gasp.

He seems to settle into the idea quickly enough at the threadbare whimper you let out and he presses the hard contour into you a bit more firmly to trace over the outline of your labia. You draw in a faintly shuddering breath in an attempt to steady yourself somewhat as your hips twitch up into the sensation, encouraging him on.

“If I would have known this was the kind of hairbrained stunt you were going to pull later on,” He drawls in a gruff voice. “I never would have gone out of my way to help you out back then. You’re nothing but fudging trouble, girl.”

“I only learned from the best.”

That earns you a quiet, scoffing laugh, but Boothill keeps the motion of his gun steady and light even when you roll your cunt against it in search of more of that gratifying pressure. It doesn’t take long for you to start feeling unbearably antsy like this when you've thought of and fantasized about this exact moment too many times to count, so you reach down a little further to catch the side of your panties with a finger.

Slowly pulling it to the side for him, you carefully watch Boothill’s face to see the mild flash of surprise that crosses his expression. It’s gone in an instant though, replaced by a hungry, masculine edge as he peers down at the invitingly soft seam of your body, the vaguely damp curls that frame the tight, warm clutch where he would have happily buried himself in a past life. That’s not feasible now though, and he makes do with simply inching his pistol closer to just barely touch cold iron to your labia.

Your reaction is physical as much as it is mental, sharply pulling in a breath at the firm nudge against the most tender part of you. His gun is hard and unrelenting, something that registers in your mind as innately dangerous despite the exceedingly gentle way he touches you with it. Caressing over creases and folds with a fleshy drag to part the lips and expose more of your cunt to his voracious sights.

“Well I’ll be darned. You’re already getting wetter than a cucumber in a women’s prison, you little trollop.”

A rattling sound of confusion slips out of you at that but you’re a little too focused on what he’s doing to you to focus on his strange turns of phrase right now.

Shuddering faintly, you push up on your elbow so you can glance down and get a better view of the tarnished gold barrel prodding at you. The simple visual alone is so much better than you could have envisioned it would be, especially when he was standing over you like this in reality and not in your dreams. A quiet, needy mewl slips out of you then as you redirect the fingers between your legs inward to pull your labia open for him.

Boothill issues a low whistle into the static charged air, directing the pistol upward to tease over your clit which weakly clings to the iron muzzle. The resulting meaty jostle makes you seethe and eagerly jut your hips up in search of more, feeling very nearly delirious now with the potent rush of arousal. You already felt like you were going to cum but you didn’t want it to be over just yet.

“Please.” You rattle, starting to fidget on top of the table. “I want you, Mr. Boothill.”

“Well, you can want it all you want but that don’t mean I’m gonna’ give it to ya’.”

He starts to pull back then, pistol sliding away from your cunt, and you noise a frantic sound of confusion at him.

That’s about all you manage before he’s suddenly leaning over you with a decisive motion, his open hand bracing on the table next to you while his narrow waist slots into the squeeze of your inner thighs again. You full on tremble at the sudden proximity of him as much as the not so subtle push of his front against your pussy. He’s just as hard and unrelenting, and cool to the touch as his gun is, but that doesn’t deter you half as much as it excites you.

You feel wild and frenzied now, half crazed with the fast pumping sear of adrenaline working through your system as you tip your head back to look up at him. There’s a grumpy frown tugging at his mouth, grudging acceptance written across his face, and you shudder fiercely when he brings the pistol up to draw it across your lips to let you taste yourself on the barrel.

“Open up that pretty little mouth of yours, darling.”

Unhesitatingly, you do exactly that, tongue flicking out to trace a suggestive line over the muzzle. Your mouth is immediately overwhelmed with the taste of oil, bitter residue and such a blinding, overwhelming sense of danger that your eyes immediately start to roll back in your head. You felt like you were moments away from cumming completely untouched, so worked up and excited that your pussy involuntarily clenches tight around nothing.

It makes your head spin alarmingly fast and you don’t even think to fight it when he angles the gun to slip it past your open lips and just wedge the end of the barrel between your teeth. Groaning a delirious sound around the intrusion, you flex your mouth to find a comfortable position but it’s no use. It’s too wide and sharply edged for your jaw, and copious sheets of drool quickly begin to pool in the back of your throat while you choke on the cold, bitter taste.

Rumbling a low sound that is suspiciously reminiscent of a pleasured groan, Boothill tentatively rolls his metal hips into you, grinding himself against your cunt to make you spasm on top of the table. With your mouth mercilessly wedged open like this all you can do is plaintively mewl and groan increasingly strained noises while he finds a rhythm to settle into. And it just makes your pussy impotently throb, the pressure of his bionic waist pushing against you so exquisite it just serves to wind you up even tighter until you’re all but vibrating underneath him.

“Holy Wubbaboo.” He breathes out, awed and a little taken aback as he starts to work his hips faster. Harder. Driving the front of his body against you vigorously enough now that your tits begin to shift under your clothes. “Wasn’t thinking you’d actually like this so darned much. You really are out of your mind.”

Even though he says that he doesn’t stop fucking into you much the way he would have with a cock, the almost hypnotic pace coupled with the constant application of pressure on your cunt quickly making you slip into a dreamy haze. You were soaked and only getting wetter, and likely leaving sticky slick all over the front of his skin tight pants. But that doesn’t seem to deter him in the slightest, his breathy grunts of effort mingling with the tremor of your muffled groans.

And as the seconds bleed into minutes, the powerful flex of his hips driving into you soon starts up a tiny, sticky wet click where your drooling cunt was clinging to him. It’s just as if he was really fucking you and sound makes you positively writhe in place, so turned on and desperate to be touched that you bring your hands up to blindly fumble with the top of your dress. Your tits spill out with a fleshy bounce and Boothill mutters a particularly colorful curse under his breath when you latch onto them, needily tugging at your own nipples.

Your jaw hurts from having it wedged open for so long but you barely even notice it now, or the bubbling threads of spit that start to run down your cheeks as he shifts the gun to sedately nudge it towards the back of your throat. Even when you uncontrollably shake and judder there on the table, back bowing into a dramatic arch at the first, pulsing onset of your orgasm, he just follows you with his hand to keep your lips stretched uncomfortably wide around the barrel.

That’s how you finally cum, wailing an incomprehensibly shrill sound that’s almost entirely smothered by the pistol, fingers frantically pulling at your teats. Your pussy almost hurts from all the hard, unrelenting pressure of his metal frame but release still registers as a great relief somewhere in the back of your cotton stuffed head which bonelessly lolls back in a stupor while you pitifully twitch through the spasms.

It’s over much too fast, just as you’d known it would be when you realized how quickly you were climbing that peak, and a deeply frazzled sound slips out of you when he at last moves to ease the gun out of your mouth. Left raggedly panting and trying to swallow down the lingering bitter taste of iron, you simply lie there while he straightens up to stand over you. The fact he does not immediately move from his spot between your legs catches your attention only in so much as a dreamy, far away thought, but you don’t quite have the power to act on it or even speak about it.

And then his hand comes up to unexpectedly slip under your chin, forcing your face back around to make you look at him. For a long moment the two of you just stare at one another, you trying to steady your breathing while he just seems to thoughtfully study you with a little wrinkle of deliberation forming between his knitted brows.

Finally, Boothill clicks his tongue and readjusts his grip to hold along your jaw so he can keep you still when he leans down to hover just short of your nose. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself fudging killed yet if this is how you get your rocks off.”

“Only when it comes to you.” You murmur back, smiling a pleased, self satisfied grin up at him. There was no denying you felt incredibly good on a physical level, yes, but even more than that … the fact he’d neither sent you away or shot you dead for the insult makes your chest feel helium light. Oh, but you could have stayed here with him for a lifetime just like this.

“Well, darling. I’ll admit, you’ve managed to pique my interest. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep you alive, especially with the way you like to carry on, but it might still be fun for a while. Whaddya’ say? Want to tag along with me again for a while?”

As if you had to even think about your answer.

⭐

Crossposted: here

#honkai star rail #boothill #boothill x reader #self insert bullshit

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suuuupernovaaa · 2 years ago

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kurkung

kurkung [ˈkuɾ.kuŋ] n. asshole (vulgar)

Request from @darrarii: Could I request a Neteyam x reader where the reader's blunt and kind ofbitchy. The Sullys are arriving and meeting Aonung's best friend (the reader) and he hears her say some randomly blunt and out of pocket stuff under her breath. I live for kind and loving readers but imagine neteyam and reader just side eyeing people together.

Aonung nudges me, removing my focus from the task at hand, and I turn to admonish him. I have been working on this net all day, and I am nearly done. I have also asked him nearly ten times to quit bothering me while I work, but Aonung never listens to anyone who isn't Aonung.

"Look!" he says, and points. Above us fly five beasts, ikran, and it's a sight to behold. My anger melts away and I stand with Aonung and Roxto, who is never far off, our mouths agape. "Visitors."

Aonung charges forward, and Roxto scrambles to follow. I carefully set aside the net I've been working on, and have to jog to catch up.

The riders are dismounting as our clan gathers on the beach, gawking and whispering. They are strange people, a deeper blue than us, and I think they must be from the forest. Ikrans, dark blue, and as I get closer, I see their thin arms and tails.

What business do they have here, in the ocean?

They're a family, clearly. A mother, a father, and four children. The eldest look to be around our age, maybe 18 or 19, and the youngest cannot yet be ten. I must admit, she is very cute, but the features on the older boys make them look weak. They won't be able to swim, or hold their breath - but maybe they're just passing through.

Aonung and Roxto approach, and Aonung points out one of their tails.

"Is that supposed to be a tail?" Aonung asks, and Roxto laughs.

"It would be better to have no tail at all, than that useless little thing," I say to Aonung, who smiles at me. One of the boys turns his eyes to me, glaring, and I shrug.

I'm sure his tail is fine where he's from. Here, it will be little more than a nuisance to him.

Tsireya approaches, and slaps Roxto as he laughs, admonishing him and her brother, Aonung. She gives me a sideways glance, but again, I shrug.

"They do look strange, Tsireya," I say.

"As strange as we look to them," she replies. Where Aonung and I are harsh, Tsireya is soft and caring. I admire those characteristics about her, but don't see a use for them myself.

When I turn my attention back to the newcomers, the mother is telling our chief, Aonung's father, how her husband was Toruk Makto.

That grabs my attention - everyone knows the legend of Toruk Makto. I just imagined him to be... something different. I guess I pictured one of us, even though I knew he was a forest person.

"Toruk Makto is a Great War leader," Tonowari says, and I lean over to Aonung.

"I don't want a war here," I say to him, and he glances down at me, and nods once.

Again, one of the older boys looks to me, but he doesn't look annoyed this time - he looks sad.

"Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us," Tonowari says when I turn my attention back to him. Just a moment later, he's promising that Aonung and Tisreya will teach their children our ways.

I know what this means - I'll be roped into it too, as will Roxto. The three of us have always been somewhat of a package deal.

At least, I tell myself, this could be interesting.

I sigh and grab Neteyam's hands. "Bah, Neteyam!" I exclaim. "Are you watching me?"

He rolls hie eyes for the 100th time that day. "I am! You're going too fast. Slow down."

I have done the phrase what I think is slowly a dozen times, but he is still not picking it up. I am starting to think that these forest people are going to be hopelessly useless here, and I worry about them, just a little.

"Once more," I say, and move so slowly that it feels as if I am hardly moving at all. "Where... are... we.... going..."

Finally, when he repeats the gesture to me, it is correct.

"Yes!" I exclaim. "That's right, Neteyam!"

He smiles and laughs, and the sight of it... does something to me. I have seen Aonung smile a million times. He laughs with me every day. But never before has it made me feel this way.

There's a strange feeling, almost a fluttering in my stomach, and I snap my eyes away, trying to focus, but it isn't easy, not when he's still smiling.

Often, I find myself making excuses to be around Neteyam. I tell myself he must need help riding his ilu, learning how to slow his heart and hold his breath, or adding more finger speak to his lexicon.

Even as it becomes increasingly clear that he really doesn't need anyone's help anymore, I still find myself there, always there, offering a hand or a correction.

He never turns me away.

"Will the Sullys be stealing all of our women?" Aonung asks me as we ride our ilus together, the first time we have been alone since our arrival.

A pit settles in my stomach. I knew that Lo'ak and Tisreya had eyes on each other, but I hadn't known Neteyam had shown interested in anyone. I wonder who it could possibly be, and how have I not noticed?

Just the thought of him showing interest in another woman makes me sick, and I have to finally admit to myself that I care about the forest boy. Since the moment I saw him smile, he's nearly all that I think about. When we aren't together, I wonder what he's doing, wonder how he's adjusting to life here. I find excuses every day to talk to him, and I would even call us friends.

I'm hurt that he has found a woman, and I was unaware.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to keep the emotions off of my face and failing.

"First my sister, now my best friend," Aonung says, shaking his head.

"Me? And Neteyam? Bah, Aonung, no."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid. You like each other. I never thought you would stoop so low."

"Aonung!" I exclaim. "You are too harsh. They have been through a lot, and even you can't deny, they've adapted well here."

He rolls his eyes once more, and dives under and darts away from me. I want to be mad at him, but I'm too busy wondering if he's right - does Neteyam like me?

I have never been one to dance around what I want or how I'm feeling. Sometimes, I have been told, this comes off as being too harsh, a jerk, unfeeling and mean. I try to deliver the truth kindly, and only deliver it if it needs to be said, but I don't always know where the line is.

I don't worry about all of that now. When I return to shore, I head to where I know Neteyam and his family are staying, and hover in the doorway only a moment.

His mother and sisters are there, but not him.

"Do you know where Neteyam is?" I ask, and his mother's eyes snap up to mine.

"Fishing," the youngest replies. "Just left."

I nod and smile. "Thank you, Tuk."

It takes me a while to find Neteyam, who has swam far and found a little-used beach where the good fish rarely come. He couldn't have known that, so I hold my tongue on chiding him.

"Neteyam!" I yell as I step up onto the beach.

He turns, a spare in his hand, ready to launch, and smiles. "Y/N! How did you find me?"

"Well, I've been looking a long time. There aren't really good fish here, Neteyam. I can show you better spots."

He sighs and lowers his spear. "Damn. Okay."

"I want to ask you something," I say as I reach him, shaking the water from my hair. "Do you like me?"

He looks a little taken aback, with eyes wide, his tail swishing from side to side. "Like you? Yeah, I like you. You've been a good friend."

"No, no," I reply, stepping forward, shortening the gap between us. "Romantically, I mean. Aonung said he thought you did. And I like you. Romantically. So, I am asking."

When the confusion fades from his face, it is replaced with soft eyes and a wide, beautiful smile. "You are very straight-forward."

"I know. Most people don't like it, or like me. That's why I'm asking. I thought Aonung could be wrong."

"He's not," Neteyam replies. "I do like you. The first day on the beach, I did not," he tells me with a chuckle, "but I just thought you were... an asshole. I don't think so anymore. I think you just say what you are thinking, and it's kind of nice. I never have to wonder how you feel about something. And you've always been patient and kind to me, even when you didn't have to be."

Though Neteyam is right and I usually do speak my mind, my mind currently is a garbled up mess of joy and a little bit of fear. What will it mean, to fall in love with this forest boy? What will be permitted? Do we have a future together?

I'm not sure it makes sense to worry about that now. What I know is, nothing has ever made me as happy as Neteyam has. I wake up every morning, wondering what part of the day I will get to spend with him. To be assured that, going forward, I get to spend every single day with him... it is the greatest happiness I have ever known.

I am speechless. I wrap my arms around his waist and place my head on his chest, listening to his strong, loud heartbeat as he wraps his arms around my shoulders. I feel his chin resting on my head, and I take deep, slow breaths, enjoying this moment.

"I'm sorry I didn't make a good first impression. I'm glad you were able to look past it."

He reaches under my chin, tilting my head up to him, and places a soft, quick kiss on my lips.

Too soft. Too quick.

"You are lucky you are so beautiful, or I may not have given you another chance," he says with a wink and a teasing smile.

I want to shove him away for the comment, but I can't bear to tear myself away from him. Plus, he certainly owes me one.

I'll get him back tomorrow.

#neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam fic #avatar twow #avatar 2

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curiositydooropened · 25 days ago

Text

Halloween • A Ranged Special

A woman dies of mysterious circumstances and you and your partner are called to a tiny Midwest town on Halloween.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 3759

Warnings: This is a special based on this fic.*This blurb contains canon typical violence, including violence toward both main characters, mentions of suicide, all characters in peril, jump scares, zombies, etc. Please read at your own discretion.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Episode 00: Prologue

A paper Dracula hung in the doorway, spinning on fishing line that was paper clipped into ceiling tiles. Crepe streamers dangled from its cape.

A friendly little bell chimed your entrance, and although you’d managed to duck beneath the streamers, Steve walked directly into it like a moonlit spider’s web, and with a grunt, he batted it from the ceiling and into the ficus pot nearby.

“Steve,” you scolded, trying to muffle your laughter between your molars at the look of disdain etched in his brow.

“I hate Halloween,” he punched the vampire’s face into the soil for good measure before following you through the vestibule and to the open lobby of the little 24-hour diner.

Cakes and pies with glistening tops rotated in a spinner to the left of the till. Bats and ghosts were hung from a coat rack and more ceiling tiles.

You waited near a hostess stand for a young woman to arrive, watching with baited breath as she gave your partner the ole up-down and lash-bat before ushering you off to your table.

He ordered two coffees and handed you an oversized vinyl menu, flicking a bat-shaped sequin from the tabletop.

“You’re such a Scrooge.” You chided, peering over stock-images of pancake stacks and sausage links.

“That’s Christmas and bah-humbug,” he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

You glanced at him over your menu, hair perfectly coifed, bruise from last week’s scuffle yellowing at his jaw. “You not eating?”

He shrugged and glanced around the room.

You followed his gaze to a couple of truck drivers hunched over cups of coffee. Three old men shared a table in the back corner, laughing heartily with food in their beards. A mother was cutting up her pancakes for a little girl in face paint and cat ears. Your shoulders relaxed when Steve’s did. Safe.

The waitress returned with two steaming cups of coffee, staring directly into Steve’s eyes as she took your order, dark curls flowing from a hair tie at the back of her neck. “Are you really a secret agent, or is this a costume?”

Steve leaned forward in his chair, reaching into the inner pocket of his trench coat. “Wanna see my badge?”

You slid the menu between their line of sight, and Steve cocked a brow your direction, the slightest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“The sheriff is supposed to be here any minute,” you informed him when she walked away, peeling the lid from a creamer container to stir into your cup. Anything to distract from the heat in your face and neck.

“Henderson says hi, by the way,” Steve said, coffee mug in both hands, pink lips bowing to blow the steam from the surface.

“Huh?” You began to shuffle off your trench coat.

“Dustin Henderson, the friend of mine you met a few months ago. I was with him when Owens called about this case. He wanted me to tell you hi.” Steve explained, taking soft sips of his coffee.

You smiled, remembering the young man with the curly hair and delightful penchant for spy-craft. “Tell him ‘hi’ back.”

“Boo!” A man appeared from around the corner, nearly startled the coffee from Steve’s mouth. You recognized the Sheriff’s uniform, but did find yourself a little unnerved by the hyper-realistic zombie makeup and gashes the man had tacky glued to his face. “Or should I say ‘braaaaains’?”

Steve’s hand went to the handle of his weapon under his jacket, and you pushed your chair back to stand and greet you brunch guest.

“You must be Sheriff Bouchart,” you introduced yourself and Steve with an extended hand.

“Oh please, call me Tim,” he cackled and ushered you back to your seat while he pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat in it the wrong-way-around. “I just love Halloween. Don’t you just love Halloween?”

You bit back a smile as you watched Steve squirm in his seat and hummed your agreement. You’d helped Sadie decorate their front porch the night before, fresh carved jack-o-lanterns and corn stalks. Jeff was going to dress as a scarecrow and sit limply on a bench with a bowl of candy in his lap, waiting to scare passersby. You ached a little at the thought.

“So, what can I do you for, Agents?”

You looked from the Sheriff to Steve and back. “We’re here about the… murder.”

“Murder?” The Sheriff frowned.

You nodded and pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket. “Cheryl Leahy?”

Tim shook his head, the bright smile falling from his bloodied face. “Oh that, tragic thing, really, but coroner agrees it was a suicide.”

“She made an emergency phone call about a monster with rows and rows of teeth,” Steve said, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“She did,” Tim nodded.

“And you found her with several puncture wounds the size of small bite marks?” You tried to confirm.

Tim nodded. “So we thought, but upon further selection, we noticed it was glass. Poor woman threw herself out the front window of her home.”

Steve shot you a perturbed look, fingernails tapping the ceramic mug in front of him.

“Any sign of a break-in? Maybe she could have been pushed?” You asked.

“Nope. Doors were unlocked, but this is the Midwest, no one locks their doors. They weren’t any signs of a struggle either, other than the broken window,” Tim clarified, thanking the waitress with a hand on her arm as she dropped off another cup of coffee and your pancake stack. Then he reached across the table to pull out four sugar packets and unload them into his drink.

Steve looked like he might be sick.

“Listen, kids,” Tim picked up the spoon from your napkin and began to stir his drink. “Cheryl Leahy, God rest her soul, was a troubled woman. She’d gone a bit off the deep end in the last couple of months, and this wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Steve pulled his coffee from the table, as though the sweetener might jump into his own cup.

“I mean, she left her husband, quit her job, became a hermit.”

“Does anyone know why?” You asked, taking a bite of delicious, buttery pancake.

Tim shrugged, leaned in to offer the next bit of information just above a whisper. “Rumor has it she was seeing a woman.”

“Have you looked into this woman?” Steve asked.

Tim shook his head. “We couldn’t find any proof of an affair or even of another woman. You know how the rumor mills work in these small towns. I think the ladies at the credit union just needed something to talk about at the water cooler.” He turned to offer you a wink.

You faked a smile.

Steve’s fist clenched on the tabletop. “Well, we’re going to need access to the crime scene.”

Tim sipped his coffee and smacked his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No can do, buddy. Crime scene’s cleared. New window’s being installed today. Like I said, it’s been ruled as a suicide. Nothing to see there.”

“We understand,” you said, mouthful of sticky sweet pancake to cut Steve off before he said anything rash. You swallowed. “Unfortunately, we have to report something to our boss. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure, sure,” Tim nodded. “You’re more than welcome to canvas her neighbors. See if maybe they saw something? Other than the poor lady’s body in her driveway.”

—

Mist crawled from the lake’s surface and swirled at your feet. Lamplight cast you both in long silhouettes as you walked, heads disappearing into the fog.

You stifled a yawn with your hand.

“Knew I should’ve stopped you from eating those pancakes,” Steve tutted, kicking dead leaves from the toes of his shoes.

You’d spent the day canvasing. You left Steve at the stoop and walked door-to-door after the first homeowner nearly got decked in the face for wearing a Freddy Krueger mask and holding a candy bucket. Nobody knew anything about Cheryl Leahy, nor had they seen or heard anything unusual the night of her death.

“Why did Owens send us here?” You groaned, pawing at tired eyes. Your shoulders and feet felt heavy, each step a slog.

A blood-curdling scream was better than a cup of coffee.

Steve took off first, the clack of his soles against pavement before he was up a lawn, reaching into his trench coat. You were hot on his tail, heart pumping.

Your partner stopped short, and you nearly barreled into his broad back until you peered around him to see a bunch of kids cackling, pretending to stab one another with a plastic knife. They were dressed as various cartoon characters and carried empty pillow cases and pumpkin-shaped-buckets.

With a snort, you grabbed Steve’s shoulder and led him back down the hill and to the paved path.

“I hate Halloween,” he repeated his sentiment from earlier through gritted teeth.

“Why?” You smiled, kicking at the fog as you stepped.

“Because,” Steve said, that frown burrowing itself between his brows, “there are real monsters in this world they should be afraid of.”

“Have you ever had fun?” You asked behind a yawn, laughing when his eyes snapped to yours. “Even once in your life?”

“I have fun,” he argued.

“Shooting monsters in the face doesn’t count,” you countered.

“Believe me, that is not fun,” he sighed.

You tried not to let the sadness sink in, choosing instead to barrel forward, back around the cul-de-sac where you’d parked your rental. “Alright then, what do you and Dustin do when you hang out?”

“That isn’t fun either,” he rolled his eyes.

“Okay, your… other friends then,” you ventured, hating the way your stomach sank at the thought of him having other company. You thought of Michelle from that party months ago, and wondered if he’d ever reached out.

Sadie hadn’t mentioned anything. She just kept pestering you about whether or not you’d tied him down: figuratively and literally.

Steve’s face fell in a way you hadn’t anticipated but recognized as a shut down of your line of questioning. He shook his head and looked far up the path into the mist. Robin.

You swallowed. You knew better than to push further, but you ached to slip your hand into his and tell him it was okay, that he was safe with you.

You felt his elbow bump into yours. “We should get you something to eat.”

You smiled up at him. “Don’t think I didn’t hear your stomach two houses ago, Harrington.”

You swatted at him to push him away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you in tighter, his trench coat and chest all-encompassing as a stampede of children skipped past you both, chanting.

“Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

His chest radiated warmth, and when you looked up, his throat and cheeks were pinched pink. You watched his mouth as his chest rose and fall beneath your palm, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow.

You felt his stomach growl before you heard it, and you bit back a smile as you patted his middle. “Let’s get you something good to eat.”

—

The same Dracula was restrung in the doorway, and the hostess’s sign had been flipped to have you seat yourself at the same table as that morning. Vinyl menus now displayed mashed potatoes and chicken club sandwiches. A car drove by, casting Steve in the headlights for a moment across the table, engrossed in his dinner selections.

You tried not to think of Sadie’s pesterings, or wonder what Steve would look like all face-painted up like a scarecrow, hair stuffed into a straw hat.

The same waitress from earlier approached with a tongue pressed to her top row of teeth. “You’re back.”

Steve flashed you a daring smile and leaned back in his seat. “You didn’t get Halloween off?”

“Jehovah’s Witness,” she explained, tapping her pen cap to the pad in her hand. “I’m off at midnight, though.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” you cleared your throat, folding your menu over Steve’s. “Fries and a coke.”

“That sounds great. I’ll have the same,” Steve flashed her a thousand-watt smile, handing over the menus.

You hated the green monster that clawed at your insides.

“So what brings you to town, G-man?” The woman asked, idling with a nylon-covered knee a little too close to Steve’s.

“Did you ever spend anytime with Cheryl Leahy? Serve her here, maybe?” You asked, leaning across the table to catch her gaze.

Recognition flashed across the woman’s face, and she pursed her lips. “You mean the crazy lesbian lady from the credit union? Thought she killed herself.”

“She did,” Steve shot you a look. “Her family just wanted us to tick all the boxes.”

“Right,” the girl nodded slowly, glancing between the two of you before the smile slid back onto her lips. She tapped her pen cap twice to Steve’s knee and promised to be right back.

“They wouldn’t send us on a false lead, would they?” You asked when the waitress’s hips swung out of earshot.

Steve’s eyes widened, and he glanced around the empty diner before leaning into you. “Say that again.”

You swallowed, the ominous feeling you felt around house six settling back between your shoulders. “Well, it did sound like our thing, but it’s looking like maybe it’s not our thing, and I’m just wondering if this is,” you lowered your voice, “some sort of distraction.”

“Distraction from what?”

You shrugged, played with the sticky wrapper holding your silverware inside your napkin. “Les Joplin, George Humbolt, the Garcias.”

When you looked up, Steve’s face was inches from yours, eyes carefully watching every change in your expression. You hoped you could convey your worry, that you’d been thinking about this for the last few months, through every small town and every patch of rotting Earth.

“Two cokes,” your waitress interrupted, placing sticky sweet soda between you. The bubbles fizzed against their straw.

You thanked her and ignored the ripple of butterflies at the smile Steve gave her.

“The last three people we saved are still alive,” he said through his teeth, glancing back up at the waitress as she sauntered away.

You swallowed and nodded, stirring your drink before taking a sip. The bubbles tickled at your nostrils and it went down ice-cold.

“Think they’re onto us being onto them?”

You shrugged. “Could be.”

“Do you think I put Henderson in danger?”

You watched the panic fill his eyes. “Steve.”

The bell chimed and a gust of wind rolled in, sweeping leaves into the lobby. Pies and cakes continued to spin in your periphery.

Your shoulders felt heavy with burden, with the weight of the world, and your eyelids too. You reached a hand across to Steve, and he spoke your name like sound waves through a soupy atmosphere.

“Who sent you?” The waitress appeared, large bottle in her hand, although even she was sideways, off-kilter. “Was it Brenner?”

You fell from your seat, heavier than gravity would allow, and you watched as the bats and Draculas began to spin, crepe paper circles blurring your vision until everything went black.

—

Your brain felt fuzzy inside your skull, your mouth was bone dry, and the light was too bright behind your eyelids. You scrambled to remember your whereabouts, squinting against the harsh glow, and as you slipped back into consciousness, you became painfully aware of the rope around your wrists and ankles.

You strained against them and pulled yourself from laying to seated to find yourself in the auditorium of an old theater. Paint peeled from decorative lighting around the expanse and down from this balcony to the lower level.

On the stage, a huge white projector screen showed the mist of a classic monster movie.

You called out for Steve, but your mouth had been tied too, cloth between your teeth in a gag.

You tugged on your restraints for just a moment of more panic before remembering your training. Deep breaths in and out.

You observed your surroundings, looked for exits, on either side of the floor level, and then one across the mezzanine from where you sat. You laid back down to peer under the seats for any sign of your partner.

A few chairs creaked near the exit, almost imperceptible, and you froze, closing your eyes, stilling your breathing like you might pass for being asleep. Then footsteps, the clack of soles against the steps.

You risked a peak to find Steve, who crouched across the aisle from you, finger to his lips.

You nodded and waited with bated breath until a familiar voice startled you. “Oh good. You’re awake. You think now you’re willing to talk?”

You stared at Steve, and he maintained his posture, reassuring you he had it covered if you just played along.

You looked back up at the waitress and nodded fervently.

The waitress barked a cold laugh and approached from the row behind Steve, uniform discarded for something less conspicuous. Her long curls had been released and now fell at her shoulders. “Or maybe I ought to play with you a little bit more.”

She snapped her fingers and Steve stood from his crouch.

You cursed under your breath. Of course she was enhanced.

Feeling the ground around you for a loose screw, you used your thumbnail to loosen it from its hold to use to begin to cut the ropes at your wrist.

Steve wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close, bending to press his lips against hers. She moaned, tangling her fingers in his thick hair.

You tried your damndest to focus on the screw until they began to move, slowly backing him to the balcony’s edge.

You cried out for him, but it was too late.

With one powerful shove, you watched your partner plummet to the auditorium floor. Scrambling to your knees to peer over the side, you saw his mangled remains, blood seeping down the incline toward the orchestra pit.

You screamed and ripped your wrists from their restraints.

Standing, you managed to swing your arms at her with the intention to push her over the side with him. Only, she wasn’t there, not really. You wafted through the air until you lost your balance, and you felt gravity cascading you up and over to meet your partner’s fate.

With a sharp tug, your arm was ripped from it’s socket.

“I’ve got you,” Steve said, gripping your wrist, teeth grit.

You glanced to the floor to find it empty, nothing but air beneath your dangling feet.

On the giant screen behind you, a monster’s silhouette was framed in shadow, tens of feet high.

“Give me your hand,” Steve yelled.

With a cry of agony, you swung your other hand to grasp his and allow him to hoist you upward.

Safely back on the mezzanine, Steve made to quickly untie your bonds, large hand replacing the gag on your cheek. “Are you alright?”

His voice was hoarse, blood caked the side of his temple.

You swallowed, nodded. “Are you?”

He shrugged and looked around for any sign of her. “I think she’s enhanced.”

“She can make you see things,” you confirmed.

“Great,” he sighed, hand brushing your hair from your cheek, warm and comforting. You knew she couldn’t manufacture this, not the care or the devotion. “Can you walk?”

“My legs are fine,” you stated, gritting your teeth through the sting in your shoulder.

Steve shook his head. “I’ll put it back in the car. Stay close to me.” He grabbed your hand to assist you in standing, and didn’t release it as you made your way up the balcony aisle and through the exit doors.

—

Flashes illuminating the mist and trees surrounding the little theater. Blood that spilled from her wounds. She coughed and sputtered, face covered in shards of glass.

Tim Bouchart handed you the handcuffs from his belt, and you clipped them around her wrists to restrain her to the gurney, flesh and blood and bone.

“You sure you’re okay there, Agent?” Tim asked, face quite mundane without the zombie makeup.

“I’m fine,” you breathed through the ache. The emergency response team insisted on a hospital visit, but you’d rather not spend your Halloween night watching droves of other people in skeleton costumes puke up their dinner.

Steve finished giving the ambulance drivers their specific directions and shook Tim’s hand. “Sheriff, thank you for all your help. We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Tim managed an exhausted smile before stumbling back into his cruiser. “Happy Halloween.”

You stifled a yawn behind your hand.

Steve scoffed beside you, cut on his head covered with a butterfly bandage.

You nodded. “I think I hate Halloween.”

—

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Owens smiled, blue eyes sparkling. He clapped his hands together and held his office door open for you and Steve to exit.

In silence, you exited through his receptionist’s office and into the hallway, glancing both directions before making your way into the elevator. Steve whistled as he pressed the button for the lobby.

“Have any fun weekend plans?” He asked, ceasing his whistle.

You frowned back at him, small-talk so not his forte. “Going to Sadie’s to help with Thanksgiving plans,” you said. “You’re invited, by the way.”

He bristled at that, didn’t respond.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a large group of people waiting. The two of you shuffled around them and to the revolving glass door.

Crisp autumn air hit your face, and you sighed, watching leaves tumble down the sidewalk.

“So listen,” Steve stopped you with a hand to your forearm. “Henderson’s coming over tonight to watch movies. He wanted me to invite you.”

You pushed down anything that kicked in your stomach, tilted your face to catch the sunlight just over his head. “Do you want me there?”

He pursed his lips to avoid the smirk toying at the corner of them. “Not really. I know it’ll just be the two of you talking over the whole thing.”

You hummed. “Is that what you like to do for fun? Watch movies?”

He eyed you for a moment longer, weighing whether or not to tell you the truth, before he nodded.

This time it was you disguising your smirk. “What movies are you watching tonight?”

“Halloween,” he said. This time, his lips split into a knee-weakening grin.

---

[A/N: In my mind, this entire chapter is in B&W. Like my two favorite episodes of Supernatural and X-Files. I missed you guys. Happy Halloween! xoxo]

#ranged fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington

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hel-phoenyx · 1 year ago

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Waif

I love her

And never was sadder to only have 9 Charisma

Agathe, my character for an upcoming ttrpg, a blind angel using her music as her weapon (as well as her violin-bow)

Her gameplay will be a lot of fun, and I can't wait to use it, as she's very different from my latest characters

#i was rizzlord at the last campaign (18 CHA) so I changed a bit #but REGRETS /lh #bah I'll just gay panic not so quietly

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nymphien · 23 days ago

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CNC Slasher

pt: cnc slasher

reminder beings will almost definitely not turn out exactly as described, and these can be edited and changed as needed.

Disclaimer: images are made with the use of AI. This blog does not condone or promote putting AI over real artist. This post is using it as a way to middle finger those who try to claim AI creations as actual pieces of art. I am not making prompts for the images.

dividers: one | two

Name: Cain , Brutus , Myers , Bates , Blake , Mars , Wayne , Maeve

Age: 35 yo

Pronouns: He/Him , It/Its , Hy/Hym , Dae/Daer , Vae/Vaer , Kill/Kills , Killer/Killers , Murder/Murders , Slasher/Slashers , Ix/Ixs , Iz/Izs , Blood/Bloods , Bleed/Bleeds , 🔪/🔪s

Gender: Man , Sanguonien , Bloodsplattic , Gendergored

Orientation: Bisexual , Aromantic

Other IDs: Non-Monogamous , Blood Rankesque ,

Kinks: CnC , Biting , Clawing , Blood Play , Restraint , Body Writing , Collaring , Somnophilia , Corruption , Degradation , Pred/Prey

Species: Human

Role(s): Kink Holder , Sexual Holder , Obsession Holder , Urge Holder

System IDs:

Aesthetics: Horror , Gorecore , Devilcore

Extra Info: a slasher living in the city, hunting for his next victum in the shadows of alley ways. (consensually/rp)

#build a headmate #build an alter #bahtive #bah after dark #bah 18+#bah #anti rq bah #anti rq #18+ bah #✦ member

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

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Dirty Work 17

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: It's friday again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Once Leslie leaves, you lock yourself away again. Your father's taken to the cold shoulder over his previous aggression. You don't mind, it assures you of a tenuous peace. So long as you don't draw his attention, you're okay.

Your anxiety remains piqued. Not only by your father's stewing ire but the thought of what looms both behind and ahead of you. With all that happened at work, you have little hope of tomorrow being better. There is also the question of Mr. Laufeyson's surprise... you can't even begin to guess what he has in mind.

Another test, no doubt. Like today. You're certain you failed that one too. You took his kindness and showed yourself to be ungrateful. You questioned him when you should have just accepted it with a smile on your face.

It is not your place to worry about his intentions, as he has made it clear, you are not on the same level. He is your boss and you do what he says. So you will do that and nothing more.

Is that his voice in your head?

You sneak out for a shower but it doesn't do much to calms your nerves. You spend another night tossing and turn, kept awake by the television set a top volume and the dissonance of your anxiety. Even with the extra hours granted, you find yourself painfully awake at the same splitting hour.

You get up to make your tea. Your father's snoring on the couch at the TV continues to blare. You don't disturb either as you put on the kettle and ready a mug. You rub your eyes and yawn. Leslie will be here soon. You should wake him and get breakfast going. It will lighten her load.

When you have your cup steaming, you stay at the counter and sip tentatively, weighing your next steps. You leave your father as he is and return to your room, dressing and cleaning up before you descend again. You have your phone in hand, almost hoping a notification will pop up. Maybe Mr. Laufeyson will change his mind and you can be off before you have to face your dad. The phone remains lifeless.

You sigh and shut off the television, hoping the sudden silence might rouse him. He continues to snort loudly. You bite down on your cheeks as your skin buzzes and itches. He's not a morning person.

The memories of him exploding to consciousness in a furor of hollers and kicks keep you from shaking him. You back away as the doorbell rings and does the job for you, your father grumbling as you go to answer it.

Leslie enters with her usual blustering brightness. She greets your father and stops short, hands on her hips as she tuts.

"Now what is the meaning of this?" She huffs, "Charles, you can't sleep down here."

"I'm not," he sits up and hacks into his hand before sliding the oxygen tube back into place. "You woke me up."

"What's gotten into you?" She accuses, "I told you yesterday I'm not here for your attitude. You're not some teenager, you're a grown man."

"Bah, I need coffee," he snarls.

"You need a cold shower," she retorts as she goes around the couch and snatches up the pack of smoke on the cushion beside him, "and a swat on the snout. What're you doing with these things?" She pauses and looks at you, "he can't be having these in the house."

"I don't... know where they came from," your murmur.

"Don't matter, if you see them, you toss them," she reproaches, "this is a team effort, alright? Now yesterday, this place was a right mess. I'm here to help, not play maid."

"I'm sorry, I..." you snap your mouth shut. You did clean up, as best you could before work, but you'll have to do better.

"Not her fault she's useless," your father quips.

"Charles," Leslie warns as she points at him.

"Sorry, hon," he puts his hands up, "was only a joke."

"Not a very nice one," he rebukes.

"I know, I know," he chortles.

"So don't apologise to me," she flicks her finger towards you.

Your father stops his laughing and quiets. He crosses his arms and slumps his shoulders as you stare at the back of his head. You wait as Leslie tilts her head dangerous and cross her arms.

"Charles," she girds.

"Don't worry about it," you croak, "it's fine. I'll... I'm going in late so I'll get breakfast started."

"Oh yeah, she don't gotta go polish that man's silver early," your dad growls.

"Charles," Leslie snips again, "I mean it, be nice."

"I am nice, hon, I'm being funny."

"You are not," she insists.

"Come on, Les," he lowers his voice as you pad towards the kitchen, "I'll be good, alright? Don't give me that look."

She sighs but you don't look back, "alright, no more smokes."

"I'm tellin' ya, honey," he speaks so softly you barely recognise his voice, "I didn't touch 'em. Found them in the couch but I didn't smoke any. Don't be mad at me."

You shake your head and try to roll the tension out of your shoulders. She's been here just over a week and he talks like he's known her forever. He's actually nice to her. He cares about what she thinks, what she feels. But you, his own daughter, you get the blame for it all. You're the reason he hates himself and his life. Maybe if you'd never come along, he'd still have the woman he loved.

🧹

You set off just after eleven, the bus due not long after. As you come down the overgrown walk with its cracked pavement and uneven tilt, your eyes are drawn up by the snap of a car door. Footfalls scuff on the pavement as you look over the curb to the shiny car parked there. It's an unusual sight in the rundown neighbourhood.

Mr. Laufeyson proudly steps up as the window on the passenger's side rolls down. A pair of similarly green eyes peer out as she takes in the sight of the yellow duplex. You want to run and hide. You can't imagine either of them ever had to dirty themselves in a place like this.

"Mr. Laufeyson," you rush towards him, "I--- you said noon."

You pull the phone out and check the time. He puts his hand on the roof of the car calmly as you stop a few feet away. He chuckles, amused by your panic.

"It's so quaint," Frigga remarks as she remains firmly in the front seat, "dear, how are you?"

"Um, I'm well, Frigga," you answer with a tight gulp.

"Good, good, you look well," she praises, "a bit tired. Tell me he's not overworking you."

"Mother," Laufeyson shoots a glance in her direction.

"Er, it's fine," you clutch the strap of your bag, "I... did I do something?"

"No, no," Frigga waves off your suspicion, "I simply insisted my son bring me to see you while I'm in town."

"Oh, I was just on my way..." you look at Laufeyson confused as he gives an expression you can't quite read. He's expecting something but you're not sure what.

"We have lots to do so no sense in waiting around," she trills.

"Oh?" Your lips part. "Did something-- is the house okay?"

"The house is just fine. That old place only needs a little light, but see if my own son hears me," he rambles, "Loki, don't be rude, get the door."

He flinches and drags his hand away from the top of the car, "yes, mother."

He moves to open the back door, gallantly opening it for you. You feel like you've been dropped into an alternate universe. This can't be happening.

"Get in," he says.

You blink at him and he tilts his head, gesturing to the back seat. You obey with some reluctance and sit the large leather bag beside you. You slowly pull the seat belt down and click it into place. Laufeyson strides around the bumper as you peek in the mirror at Frigga's silvering curls.

"Right, then," Laufeyson opens the driver's door and lowers himself into the seat, "there we are."

"How are you feeling, darling?" Frigga's eyes meet yours in the rearview before you quickly look away, "are you very hungry or can you wait a bit longer for lunch?"

"I... Lunch? I'm okay," you assure. You can't figure this out. "Thank you."

The car whirs and rolls into motion. You're uneasy as you watch the street pass by. If he takes a left, he can get back to the main roads and-- no, he's going right?

"Mm, alright, the boutique first then," she orders her son, "I'm wondering if perhaps they could squeeze us in at the spa. It has been a while since I had some clay done. Oh, and my nails are ragged."

You try to connect the dots as your brows stitch together. Is this his surprise? His mother? Why are you there? You should be figuring out what's going on with the squeaky hinge on the closet.

"I can't wait to see the new season's colours," Frigga carries on as you tune her out, lost in the riddle of her presence and your own.

Surely, you're being brought along as some sort of valet. Of course, Laufeyson would offer you to carry her bags as she splurges on her pretty dresses. And she is always dressed so nicely whenever you see her. And make up, her lips are a pleasant shade of rose. She would likely spend even more on shoes, don't forget the silver sparkling at her throat and the gemstone dangling there...

Right, you see. Another lesson. He wants you to remember what you don't have. After your slip-up yesterday, he has to remind you of where you belong; squashed under his sole.

"Oh, is Eliana still at the salon, I should stop in and say hello," Frigga's voice once more punctures your distraction. "She was always so sweet."

"Mother, I... don't know about that. Maybe a different salon."

"You are such a pessimist, what are the odds we run into her?"

"Don't even tempt fate," he warns.

"No one said you were invited, hm? You said you had business down at Heimdall's."

"You are stubborn, mother," Laufeyson tisks.

"It's where you got it from, dear," she taunts, "so, darling," she peeks in the mirror again and you shy away, "how about it, you and I? It will be so nice. I haven't gotten a day out in so long."

"Oh, you haven't? Should I ask father about that?"

"Let's not mention your father," she rebuffs him smoothly and his shoulders slump.

"Um, well, that's nice, but..." you protest meekly

"It's my treat," she insists, "please. You're doing me a favour."

"I really don't know--"

"I don't mind," Laufeyson interjects, "and it won't affect your hours."

"I did soften him up a bit," she purrs.

"Mother," he hisses again.

"Oh you are so serious," she chides, "she needs this more than I do, I'm sure, with a stickler like you."

He twitches but says nothing. You sense he wants to say it again, 'mother', in the tone of please be quiet. It would be laughable if you weren't so perplexed by it all. Maybe it is a dream. Maybe you didn't wake up and you're oversleeping your alarm, having stress dreams about what will happen when you wake to reality.

"He's a good little chauffeur," she pats his arm playfully, "so he will drop us at the salon, won't you, dearest son?"

He grips the wheel tight and you see his knuckles turn almost translucent, "yes, mother, whatever you wish."

🧹

Mr, Laufeyson drives through the downtown area. You don't come there much, or at all. You passed through on your way to the hospital and on occasion to sort out a billing issue with the bank, but there wasn't much for you there. Along the west side, the nicer shops reside and several buildings with businesses you could never figure out.

Laufeyson pulls up into a marked spot beside a meter. As you stare out, still puzzled by it all. Everything's going so fast and you just want it to slow down. You look at your boss and feel a pang in your chest; how many times had he mentioned your clothes? This isn't a favour, this is him saying you're not good enough.

"Come, come," Frigga gets out and opens your door for you, "let's not drag our feet."

You undo the seat belt and go to grab your large leather bag. As you get out, Frigga catches you by the shoulders. "You won't need this," she takes the bag and reaches past you to put it back in the car, "only your pretty self."

"Oh, uh, sure, okay," you look again at Laufeyson but you're not sure why. He isn't going to help you. He's plunged you into this situation. He only arches a brow in response.

"Just going to give you a nice refresh," Frigga pulls on your elbow and shuts the door, tugging you onto the pavement. "You would do wonderful with some highlights."

You stumble along beside her, overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. She directs you to the shining transparent windows of a salon, a sign overhead with a curled iron bar across the top. You peek over your shoulder again as Mr. Laufeyson lingers another moment before steering out into traffic.

The door chirps as it opens and you're ushered inside to the sound of jazzy pop covers. You can't choose where to focus as the sleek shelves of colourful bottle behind the pure white counter refracts the lights of a spindly chandelier. Velvet chairs are arranged around a table in the little waiting area as stylists gab with clients in chairs.

"Frigga," a woman with platinum locks flutters over with the clacking of heels, "oh, it's been so long."

"Eliana! It has, look at you," they embrace and part, Frigga playing with the tall woman's pin-straight tresses, "what happened to the black?"

"Got a few grays and a divorce," the woman, Eliana you presume, cackles, "and who's this?"

They look at you as you're ready to fade into the black and white stripes on the wall.

"Oh, a friend, she's lovely," Frigga comes back and takes your hand, drawing you forward, "she just needs a little touch-up."

"Oh, she's a natural, she won't need much at all," the stylist approaches you, "I know just the woman; Luciana," she claps and looks back, "I have someone to fill in that cancellation.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

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foptbw · 2 months ago

Note

how do your human parents feel about....all of this? about you moving out and your memory issues? you mentioned that they just left you with Vicky, witch is horrid. where there other things they did that made you want to leave and never look back?

Also, its odd that Galax doesn't have any fairy research given that they study monsters and ghosts. why do fairies seem farfetched?

Timmy: My human parents? They are the ones who wanted me out. The second I turned 18 they kicked me out. Delighted to finally be able to get rid of me and my issues. What didn't they do? Oh yea care. They didn't care. All they cared was their plans for their big money making lawyer son went down the drain replaced by this useless childish idiot. Pfffh I think at this point Gary is more of a son to them than me. They didn't care when the doctors let me go home saying that they shouldn't leave me alone They didn't care when I told them there was no food in the kitchen when I left. All they told me was "You always managed before" For a full week I barely saw them even when I was having lots and lots more bad days than I do now. The only food was the food Chloe brought over. She ended up spending a lot of time with me during that week. She says thats what step siblings do. When I ask why she called us step siblings. I member it but I can't remember why anymore. Chloe said it was just a inside joke thing we had since shortly after we became friends. Even she didn't remember why anymore. My human parents only cared when Crocker caused a scene. Going on about how it mustah been my fault and how they thought I was old enough to be left alone even though the doctors said I shouldn't be alone anyway. So they rehired Vicky so they could still not care bout me. Even when they could have hired Chloe! She was a babysitter too and my friend! Buuuuut they said they KNEWWWWW Vicky better. They didn't care when I tried to show 'em the the injuries she gave me. And just said I was clumsy. When I told them bout Tootie being touchy, and making me uncomfy, they said I was lucky dat she still was interested in me after... They'd complain bout how I was useless now and how I couldn't become a lawyer now. When Mr. Blue Man brought Gary and explained he was mah cousin and bah bah bah. They basically happily took him in as a better son. They even call his kids their grandkids cuz its clear no one is gonna wanna hab kids with me. Anyway I didn't leave and never look back. THEY kicked ME out at 18 glad to finally be able to get rid of dah burden. THEY didn't wanna deal with me anymore. AJ was there for me, and helped me. He moved me across the whole country and got me ah place and job. They are the ones who said they didn't want contact not me. ANYWAYYYYYY YES YES YES It is odd that there is nooooo fairy research departments in Galax! We met aliens before. Like Mark! He's ah nice alien even if his planets weird. He's dah first alien AJ met. Earth and his planet has ah peace treaty or whatever! Hes really nice to me. When he learned bout my memory lost he was very nice bout it. he calls me greatest warrior and and and that I'm even more powerful now. Cuz I love cutesy things and his species doesn't like cutesy things. They knoooow aliens are real and Chloe helps help hurt monsters. So I duh get why there is no fairy department. Chester said if there wassss a Fairy Research Department I'd be head researcher!

#fairly oddparents #fop a new wish #timmy turner #fop timmy #fop timmy turner #FOP The Big Wish #fop new wish #fopanw #fop a new wish au #fairly oddparents au #fop au #agere #fandom agere #FOP The Big Wish Asks #fop chloe #chloe carmichael

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itsbeeble · 1 year ago

Text

Down? Astronomically.

Summary: Sangyeon doesn't like sweets. That doesn't stop him from visiting you and your bakery every single thing and leaving with the one thing he hates.

Genre: smut, fluff, mild angst

Pairing: idol!Sangyeon x bakery owner!afab!reader

Fic Warnings: Sickeningly sweet (bah dum tsss) fluff, strangers to simps to lovers, mild mild angst, mentions of food, Sangyeon's cringey as hell actually (like he's down BAD down bad)

WC: ~6.4k (oops)

18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI

SMUT WARNINGS BELOW THE CUT

Smut Warnings: y/n definitely has an oral fixation, soft dom!Sangyeon, pussy drunk!Sangyeon, y/n drunk!Sangyeon (he’s down astronomically bad your honor), he’s like obsessed with everything about her, public sex (they fuckin in the bakery 💪 but it’s closed and the lights are (mostly) off lmfao), standing by big dick!Sangyeon until the day I die, hair pulling, tummy bulge bc why not, lowkey size kink hdjgfsj, uhhhh p in v sex (protected. yall better wrap that shit); i think that's it but lmk if i missed anything.

A/N: 5 months and 6.4k words later and this sangyeon rec is done. anon i'm so sorry for the wait i'm so horrible. Also thank you to pookie (Fawn) for beta reading half of this but she had to bail and I told yall 3:30 so.... yuh. Also this is the first time I've written smut since Doll so please don't be harsh on me i'm sorry if it's bad

Sangyeon doesn’t exactly know when he started coming to your bakery. He doesn’t even like sweets, so why does he keep showing up in the dead of night and leaving with several boxes filled with sweets and a piece of cake stuffed into his mouth?

You.

Gorgeous, kind, brilliant, sweet, you. Coincidence? He thinks not.

At first, he’d started going because Eric had recommended the coffee. And then he met you, stumbling out of the kitchen with a smear of pink frosting on your cheek, a dye-stained apron, and strands of hair slipping out of your tight bun and clinging to your forehead. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but seeing you in that near-disastrous state, yelling at the poor cashier? God, maybe he should start believing.

Down bad, Sunwoo had called him a while ago when Sangyeon had dragged him along on his nightly coffee trip. Down horrendous, actually. Sangyeon had forced him to carry all four boxes of treats you’d sent home with him, ignoring how the younger member of the group had whined about how sore his arms were going to be. No, he didn’t pay any attention as he sent the boy along. All of his attention was on you, watching you wipe down the counter and talk about how busy your day had been.

In the end, he’d only left because Jacob kept calling, begging him to come back to the company to get the boys back in order.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite regular!” You’re beaming at him when he walks in the door, your hand placed on the shoulder of Hyejin, a younger and newer employee. You shooed her away, ignoring her questioning of who this mysterious man with a hat and mask on was. When the door to the kitchen shuts and you’re sure she isn’t coming back out, you circle the counter to stand in front of Sangyeon. “I’m assuming you want your normal order?”

Sangyeon ignores the buzzing in his body when you call him your favorite.

Sangyeon quirks an eyebrow, and though his face is hidden for the most part, you can see his hat shift with the tensing of the muscles in his forehead.

“You have my order memorized?” His tone is teasing, and you feel your cheeks warm.

“Well, I mean- you just- you’re here every day, and- and I just-” you stumble over your words, a low laugh from the man in front of you causing your cheeks to go from pink to red in an instant.

“I’m kidding,” Sangyeon promises, nudging your side with his elbow while he moves to the register. “I think I would be offended if you didn’t know my order by now.” You hum, a delicate and angelic sound that has Sangyeon feeling fuzzy. He forces the feeling away, tapping his card on the screen in front of him. It lags for a moment, and you awkwardly tap the screen to get it to move faster. Sangyeon smiles, watching you repeatedly try to tuck nonexistent hairs behind your ear.

He leans forward, placing his elbows on the counter and peering up at you. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Do I make you nervous, Y/N?” You shake your head, and he clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insist, now slapping the screen, “this stupid thing is just- it’s just slow and I feel bad about taking up your time. I know you’re really busy-”

Sangyeon cuts you off again. “I’m never too busy for you, cupcake.” You freeze, and the machine dings. Sangyeon’s eyes squeeze shut. Why the fuck would you say that? What moron says that?

“I-” you pause, drumming your fingers on the counter. “Your order will be out in a few minutes. Hyejin will bring everything to you.”

He inhales, ready to apologize, but you’re gone by the time he can form words. The swinging kitchen door is his only indicator of where you’ve gone, and he mentally kicks himself.

Across the counter, Hyejin clears her throat.

“Iced latte for…Yeonnie?” Her voice lifts at the end, almost disturbed at the name on the cup. Sangyeon walks over, hesitantly grabbing the drink. “I’ll be right out with your boxes.”

“Not necessary,” he shakes his head. “I don’t need them-”

“Too bad,” the young girl purses her lips. “Y/N won’t let me leave until they’re gone so…”

“Oh…”

“Plus, I’m pretty sure she makes so much extra because you love her baked goods.” Hyejin stares him down, and he shuffles his feet.

“Yep…that’s…that’s true,” an awkward laugh, “the one who really loves baked goods…”

Sunwoo was right. He’s down astronomically bad.

“You’re such a fucking loser, you know that right?” Hyejin scrubs a baking tin furiously, grumbling about how these stupid drops of batter are gonna be the death of her. “Running away and giggling like someone my age because he called you cupcake.” You glare at her. She continues to scrub at the pan. “Do you even know anything about him?”

“Who even asked you?” His birthday is November 4th. I remember because he knew his friends were planning a surprise party for him.

“Nobody. I’m just the unfortunate soul who has to sit here and witness your gag-worthy flirting with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome.” You throw down your rag.

“I’m not flirting with him! He’s a paying customer!”

“Mhm. A paying customer who you wanna fuck sooooo bad.” She smirks at you, and whether mocking or not you know she’s right. Would you ever admit that to her face? Absolutely not.

“You know what-” You pick up your rag and jab a finger in her direction. “If you keep this shit up I’m cutting your hours down.”

“Do that and I’m telling Yeonnie that you want him inside of you. Call it a taste tester or whatever.”

“You know what,” your face is burning up again and your grip on the rag tightens. “Get out.”

“Nope.” Hyejin sets down her sponge and smiles at you. “I’m not leaving until I’m scheduled to leave. Unless we finish early, that is. So you better make a plan to jump this guy’s bones before I help him instead.”

Your rag hits the ground, a groan rises from your throat. And yet…you can’t help the smile that pulls across your lips. You can’t help the warm feeling in your chest that blooms with every thought of this masked customer who only ever goes by Yeonnie, even if you don’t know what he looks like under that mask and hat of his.

“You called her what?” Kevin reels back, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. Sangyeon cringes.

“Yeah…”

“Why would you say that? That’s like…textbook ‘do not call a woman this unless she’s your wife!’”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sangyeon flings himself back on the studio floor, a loud thump echoing around him. The other boys had left a few minutes ago, and, oddly enough, Kevin was the only one he trusted enough to tell this to. “God, I’m such a moron.”

“No,” Kevin coos. Sangyeon frowns, rolling his head on the ground to look at him. “You’re just a dumbass who-” Sangyeon flings his foot out reaching to kick Kevin. “Whoa, hey, let me finish!”

“You’re just gonna make fun of me!” Sangyeon whines.

Kevin purses his lips.

“For a 26-year-old man, you sure are childish.”

“Are you gonna help me fix this or not, Kevin?”

Kevin hums.

“Operation Sangyeon-does-get-bitches is a go!”

“Call it that again and I’m getting you kicked out of the group.”

“So,” Hyejin leans against the counter while you mix up the batter for a cake. “Has Yeonnie come in yet?”

You purse your lips, carefully pouring part of the dry ingredients into the stand mixer.

“He doesn’t come in until later usually.”

“You must be so disappointed.” You don’t respond.

Truthfully, it is disappointing. Sure, you know he’ll be coming in later on. You know that he’s likely going to be your last customer and for that, you’re relieved. However, the wait has you picking at the skin around your nails. Anxiety builds inside of you. Cupcake is what he had called you. Just a small amount of affection, and for that you had shut down. What if running away had sent the wrong message? What if he thought you hated him and were just being nice? “You shouldn’t stress so much,” Hyejin stops the stand mixer, taking the empty bowl of dry ingredients from your hand. “You’ll overmix the batter and then the cake will be gross.”

“A professional, are we?” A lighthearted smile passes over your lips. Hyejin shrugs.

“I’m here to learn, aren’t I? I’m not gonna get through culinary school by working at a gas station.”

“That’s true.”

“Anyway,” she huffs and grabs a tray of macarons, “just remember the plan and he’ll fall right back in love with you. Guaranteed.”

“How do you know?” You pour the cake batter into a few baking tins, ensuring that all are evenly layered.

“Have you seen how he looks at you?” She scoffs. “That man clearly couldn’t care less about the sweets you give him. He’s here for you and the coffee. Not the cakes or the cookies or the brownies. He’s here for you. No one comes in that often for some baked goods.”

Have you seen the way he looks at you? Yes. You had. Just briefly, though, when his hat had lifted enough for the light to pass over his eyes. The corners were crinkled, clearly smiling under the mask. You’d thought he looked so pretty, even if you couldn’t truly see his face.

You knew him as Yeonnie. That’s the name he had requested the first few times he came into the bakery. He didn’t give you a full name, and you joked that what he gave you sounded like something you’d name your dog. He’d laughed, and when he did it had been like the air was punched out of you. It was such a beautiful sound, and somewhere deep in your mind, you had vowed to make him laugh every time you saw him.

Then he was showing up every day, asking about what didn’t sell very much that day. Every day he would buy them all. And every day, you cracked a joke that had you hearing that gorgeous laugh of his.

Never, however, had he called you anything but your name. Maybe you cared a bit too much about what he thought of you. Maybe you cared a little bit too much about the smudges of frosting on your face, the sweat-slicked strands of hair that clung to your hair after being in the kitchen all morning and afternoon, preparing for the next day’s pastries.

Never had you hidden from a man you loved, even if he didn’t quite know it yet.

“So,” Sangyeon leans against the counter, watching you get his drink ready. “Anything exciting happen today?” His hands are shaking, but he hides it by drumming his fingers against the counter. You’d been quieter than usual, ducking your head whenever he looked at you.

Now he was worried that he made you uncomfortable.

“Not really,” you shrug, cupping your hand around the rim of the go-cup to prevent too much splashing as you add a bit more ice. “It was kinda busy, but it was bearable.”

“That’s good,” Sangyeon nods, tugging his mask further up his face. He peers around you, squinting as he searches for Hyejin through the window on the kitchen door. “Where’s Hyejin today?” You shrug.

“I sent her home early. We slowed down a lot about an hour ago and I had already gotten a lot of things done so I told her to head home.”

“So you’re here alone?” Sangyeon frowns. “That can’t be safe.”

“I mean…” you run your tongue over your lips, “I dunno. I do it all the time.”

“You shouldn’t.” Sangyeon frowns, “This is a big city, what if something happened to you?”

“You saying you’re worried about me, Yeonnie?” You lean toward him, your lips twitching up.

“Sangyeon.” He blurts his name out before he can stop it. You blink, your eyebrows knitting together.

“What?”

“My…my name.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s Sangyeon. Not Yeonnie.”

You nod, frowning.

“Why didn’t you just tell me your name in the first place?” He inhales, shaking his head.

“It isn’t that simple, cupcake.”

“Why not?” You drum your fingers on the marble countertop. “It seems pretty simple to me. I ask for the name of the order, and you say ‘Sangyeon.’ Easy peasy.”

Sangyeon can’t help but laugh. He can’t help the disbelief at how calm you are. Sure, the reveal of his actual name isn’t that big of a deal. Maybe you thought he was just uncomfortable around people. A bit socially awkward.

The smile returns to your lips.

“Can I ask something?” He nods, leaning on the counter to look you in the eye. The hat casts a shadow over his face, but you can see that little crinkle that you’d been longing to see up close since the first day you met him. “Why do you wear this…” you wave your hand at him. “This little get-up?”

He falls quiet, and for a moment you think you’ve made him uncomfortable.

“I…I’m sorry, Sangyeon. I don’t- I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t apologize.” He cuts you off, and your mouth shuts. “I just…I didn’t want your opinion of me to…to change. If you saw my face, that is.”

“If I saw your face,” you echo. “What, are you famous or something? Oooh, are you an idol?”

Boom, right on the money.

You can see the emotions in his eyes. The fear, the shock, the confusion, the nerves. You can see his hands clenching around his coffee. A pit forms in your stomach, growing larger and larger as he shuffles back. Toward the door.

Away from you.

“Sangyeon…” you speak slowly when you circle the counter. “Are you…”

“I have to go,” he spits out. “I’m s- I just…I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m just-” his breathing is shaking, and he back into the wall. Sangyeon stumbles, whipping around and shoving through the door before you can say another word.

And after all that…you couldn’t even give him the cake you’d planned on giving him for his birthday.

Sangyeon is pacing. His footsteps are quiet, muffled by the carpet beneath his feet. His hair is in disarray from hours of tugging at the strands.

Kevin is sitting on his leader’s bed, eyes drooping and his head resting on one of his hands.

“Dude,” Kevin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You do know that she probably thinks she messed up somehow, right?”

“God, I just keep making things worse.” Sangyeon groans loudly, kicking away one of the shirts lying on the floor.

“I love that I get to sit back and watch you ruin your love life before it begins.” Kevin stretches his arms above his head, his eyes squeezing shut and a yawn fighting to leave his mouth.

“Gee, thanks Kev.” Sangyeon scowls, throwing his body face-down onto the mattress. Kevin shifts to the side, patting the older man’s shoulder.

“I’m just speaking the truth. You shouldn’t have reacted like you did. What happened to being in love with her? Did you really think she would expose you for being an idol?”

A tough question. Sangyeon would like to say that the answer to that question is yes. He would love to trust you with his whole being, with every fiber in his body, but he’s been burned before. He’s been burned, and he doesn’t want it to happen again.

“I just…I got scared, I think.” Sangyeon’s hands fold under his cheek, his voice slightly muffled. “I just got so scared because I care about her so much, but what if…what if she isn’t…” his voice trails off.

“She isn’t like Nabi.” Kevin frowns. “Is that what you were worried about? That she was like Nabi?”

“I…I think so.”

Another pregnant pause between the two of them.

“Here’s what you’re going to do. And this time you are going to listen to me and you are going to follow every bit of my instructions no matter what happens. You are going to do this tomorrow. You aren’t going to let this simmer. You are going to go there tomorrow night, you’re going to apologize, you’re going to confess, and you’re gonna have amazing sex, badabing badaboom, we get our free pastries.”

“There’s no way you’re just helping me because you want free baked goods.” Sangyeon clicks his tongue, rolling onto his back. Kevin scoffs.

“Who do you think I am, Juyeon? No, I’m helping you because we need you to get laid and fucking relax.”

“Somehow that’s even worse.”

“Yeah, well you’ve been up our asses with this next comeback on the rise. Now are you gonna listen to me or are you gonna fuck up again and make us all miserable with your moping?”

Sangyeon bites his tongue, fighting back a retort. “I’ll listen.”

“What are you doing here?”

Sangyeon practically cowers under the weight of Hyejin’s gaze. Her eyes are narrowed, her lips drawn into a thin line. He’s abandoned the mask and the hat. The only thing shielding him now is the hood of his sweatshirt.

“I need to talk to Y/N.”

Hyejin snorts. “You think she wants to talk to you after what you did?”

Regret boils inside of him, and he digs the nail of his thumb into his pointer finger.

“Please, Hyejin. I just- I just need to talk to her.” He watches the college student think. Watches her consider her options.

“Wait here. I’ll go see if she wants to talk to you.”

“Thank you, Hyejin. God, thank you-”

“Don’t thank me,” she snaps. “I’m not doing this for you, so don’t thank me.”

You’re in the back, listening to the conversation just outside the door. Your hands tug at the edge of your apron, your eyebrows knitting together.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Hyejin is careful to speak only when the door has stopped swinging, her voice hushed and her hand resting on your arm. “I won’t force you to go out there, and I can stay longer if you don’t want to be alone.”

You smile, placing your hand over hers. For the shit you two give each other, she’s one of the few people you can rely on.

“It’s fine, Hyejin. You can go home.”

“You sure?”

No. “Positive.”

It’s dark in the bakery. The blinds have been drawn shut, the door locked and most of the lights turned off. Sangyeon stares at the box you place on the table in front of him. Your eyes are trained on the ground, your teeth digging into the plush flesh of your lip.

“What- what did you make tonight?” His voice cracks, and he grimaces while clearing his throat. What a great start, dumbass.

“A cake.” The statement is cold, and he gnaws on his lip. “For you.”

“For me?” He echoes, tugging it closer to his side of the table. You place your hand on top of the box, pulling it back toward you. He drops his hands back to his sides.

“Not right now. Not until you explain what the hell happened last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. You flinch, your body curling in on itself. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Why did you run off?” Your voice is quieter than he’d ever heard it, and he has to strain to pick up the words you’ve said. “Why…why did you leave?”

“I don’t- I swear it isn’t your fault, cupcake.” Another flinch, and he snaps his mouth shut.

“Then why did you run?” You lift your eyes, and he can see the tears waiting to fall. He can see you fighting to keep them at bay, to keep calm.

“I…” Sangyeon sighs. “It’s a long story. One that…that I didn’t really want to have to tell you. Not yet, at least. Not like this.”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Your voice shakes, and Sangyeon shakes his head, one of his hands reaching forward to touch your own. He hesitates, his hand partway across the table before he decides against touching you. “It’s okay if you don’t. I get it. Fans are…they’re crazy these days, I know.” You try to laugh, but you break off into sniffles.

“I trust you, Y/N,” Sangyeon protests. “I really trust you. I ran off because…because I didn’t want this to end like the last time I trusted someone.” He drags a hand down his face, laughing in disbelief. “My last relationship was rough. I thought I could trust her, and she…she betrayed me. So because of that, I was scared.”

“Of what?” You press. “Letting go of the past? Loving me?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, erupting from his seat and running his hands through his hair. “Fuck, Y/N, I love you so much that it hurts. All I ever want to do is hold you, and kiss you, and- and-” he shakes his head, and you rise from your seat. “It drives me crazy because you make me so happy to see you excited to give me things that I don’t even like but I take anyway because I just love you so fucking much. And- and I’ve wanted to tell you everything for so long but I just- I couldn’t-”

His lips are soft, you think when you kiss him. They’re soft, although slightly chapped. He’s frozen in place, his hands hanging in mid-air on either side of your body. He remains like that and you pull back, afraid that you misinterpreted everything.

He doesn’t let you get very far, his arms wrapping around your midsection and yanking you back into him.

It’s so soft, the way he kisses you. Sangyeon doesn’t move too fast, cautious and hyperaware of everything around the two of you. His hands have untied the apron around your waist, tossing it somewhere amongst the tables and he’s placed you up on the counter. His hands are all over you: moving up and down your back, caressing your cheeks, squeezing at your hips, running over the tops of your thighs and through the strands of hair that he’s tugged out of the claw clip.

His tongue is in your mouth, but he’s not using any force. Sangyeon lets you take the reins, set the pace. Whatever you want, he’ll give you. He’s yours. He lets your tongue prod at his own, lets you suckle at the wet muscle to your content. Your body is shaking against his own, and a smile crosses over his lips.

Sangyeon pulls his mouth from yours, his smile widening when you whine and chase his lips. His hands are on your waist, holding you in place. “You’re shaking, cupcake.”

“Want you so bad, Yeonnie.” You reach for him again, your lips just grazing his before he pulls back.

“What do you want?” One of his hands drags along your leg, running higher, and higher, and-

“Want you to eat me out.”

Sangyeon’s eyes go wide. So maybe he’d just been teasing you, but he hadn’t expected his sweet little baker to be so bold.

Your hand pushes against his chest, and he stumbles backward a few steps. There’s a dazed look in his eyes as he watches you unbutton your blouse. The delicate fabric slides down your shoulders, and Sangyeon swears that he’s drooling over you. The shape of your breasts in the orange glow of the fairy lights, the steady rise and fall of your chest while you breathe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and your cheeks grow warm. He reaches for you, but hesitates and puts his hand down again. You watch as he drops to his knees, practically crawling to you, and you can feel your panties dampening from the action. There’s a warm feeling in your gut, one you haven’t felt in a long time. His hands are quick to undo the button of your jeans, and he watches you as he tugs the zipper down. You’re leaning back on the counter, eyes struggling to stay open and on him. One of your lips is tucked between your teeth, red and puffy from you chewing on it.

Sangyeon drags your jeans and panties down in on harsh tug, and he helps you lift your legs to step out of them. Your legs are soft, he notes to himself. He leans forward, his lips touching the soft skin gently. You flinch, and he pulls away.

“Why-” your voice trembles. “Why’d you stop?”

“You flinched,” he shrugs. “I will only do what you want me to, cupcake. The second you show discomfort, I stop until you tell me to continue or to leave. I’m yours. Whatever you want is what I want. But right now, I really want to drown in this sweet pussy of yours.” He doesn’t move though, his cheek resting against the inside of your knee and his eyes are lidded with lust. “I’m not doing anything until you say so, cupcake.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and a nod of your head has Sangyeon practically moaning as he pulls himself closer to your core.

“Fuck, cupcake, you’re dripping f’ me.” He coos, gauging your reactions as he prods at your entrance with the tips of his calloused fingers. You whine, trying to squeeze your legs shut, but his broad shoulders keep them open while he plays with your sopping pussy. His thumbs spread you open, and he watches you clench around nothing.

“Hurry up, Sangyeon,” he grins at the desperation in your voice.

“So needy,” he hums. You click your tongue and one of your hands laces in the soft strands of his hair. Your grip tightens, and he whines when you yank him closer to you.’

“Well,” you hide the way your voice shakes when you feel his breath right up against you. “I need a bit of a taste tester, you know? Need to know if she’s sweet enough- oh fuck-”

His mouth against you before you can finish your statement. His mouth is wide open, his tongue swiping along your folds, dipping inside of you and just grazing your clit, knowing full well that’s where you need him the most. Your hand is still in his hair, but your grip has gone slack. Your jaw hangs open, your head tipped back, and Sangyeon can feel him growing harder just at the taste of you in his mouth.

His eyes drift shut, his hands grabbing your thighs and pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. His neck has tipped back at an awkward angle, one that he knows is going to hurt later, but right now? With your pussy dripping against his face and the pretty little moans and whines you release? Sangyeon couldn’t care less. He's enraptured by you. He's obsessed with your taste, and he knows that even if he doesn't like sweets, he'd make an exception just for you.

“Sangyeon,” you’re breathless, pitch raising as he sucks at your clit, laving over it with his tongue. “Sangyeon, please.”

“Please what, cupcake?” His voice is muffled, not even bothering to pull away from you, and the vibrations of his voice have your back arching. “What do you need?”

“Need you inside of me,” you whine. “Please, please I need you so bad. Been waiting for so long. Haven’t you been waiting for me?”

You’re a seductress, Sangyeon decides. A succubus. Sent here to torment him. To get him drunk on you, so much so that he’ll never want to leave. So much so that he’d sell his soul just to get a taste of your nectar one more time.

“Have to make you cum, cupcake,” he denies your pretty little begs. “Wanna make you cum, just once before I fuck you. Please? Please let me make you cum?” His eyes are glowing in the light of the bakery, and you let out a high-pitched whine. He doesn’t wait for your response this time. He drowns himself in your pussy, tongue reaching inside of you for as much of your arousal as he can get. He sucks harshly on your clit, teeth grazing it and drawing loud cries from your lips.

Your legs tremble. A knot is growing in the pit of your stomach. Your body jerks.

“Oh, fuck, Sangyeon-” Your cry trails off into a loud whine, your orgasm washing over you like a wildfire. Sangyeon drinks you up like he’s been in a desert for a week without water, moaning just as loud as you. Getting drunk on the feeling of your thighs shaking around his head, overstimulating you as you come down from your high.

He doesn’t pull away until you physically kick him away from you. His face is drenched in your juices, his eyes glazed with need, and you have a sneaking suspicion that if you asked, he would crawl over and drag another orgasm out of you in no time at all.

But you don’t ask. You need him inside of you so desperately that now you’re the one crawling to him. He’s still fully dressed as you perch your body over his, your core pressed right up against the bulge in his pants. His hands are tight on your hips, and he watches as you tug his sweatshirt up his body.

“Did you plan for this to happen?” You smirk when you find bare skin under the soft hoodie. Bare, golden, skin, with toned abs like no other. Fuck maybe you were gonna get drunk on him.

He grins at you. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What are you gonna do about it?” You click your tongue and slide off of him to sit on the counter. He sits up, eyebrows knit together as you swing your legs and smile at him.

“Planned or not,” you hum, “you should probably fuck me before I change my mind and eat that birthday cake on my own.” Sangyeon scoffs, but he’s pulling his pants down his legs and walking over to you without another word.

You, on the other hand, are taken completely aback. He’s big. Like…big in both length and girth. You wonder if you’d be able to wrap your hand around it, but you don’t get the time to think about it before Sangyeon is in front of you, tearing open a foil packet and rolling the condom onto his cock.

“Is it gonna fit, do you think?” You reach your hand forward, wrapping your hand around it. You were right.

Sangyeon hisses at the contact of your hand wrapping around his sensitive cock. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

You smile, your legs wrapping around his waist and tugging him closer to you. Your hand is still on him, guiding him to your entrance. You both hiss at the initial push into you. It stings, the stretch more than you’ve had in quite a while.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Sangyeon grips your thighs tightly, his fingers holding you so tightly that you swear there will be bruises after this. You whine, your arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders.

His arms slide up, holding you close to him as he continues to press inside of you. Sangyeon whispers words of comfort into your ear. He pauses whenever you whine in discomfort, hushing you as he continues to push into you. He bites his tongue every time your pussy clenches around him, muffling the groans that threaten to escape.

You, on the other hand, are moaning shamelessly despite the discomfort. You can feel him everywhere, touching every inch of you and just kissing that sweet spot inside of you. Every time he pushes further into you, once the sting passes, the pleasure is quick to replace it. It overpowers every other emotion inside of you. Your legs wrap tighter around him, forcing those last few inches into you until his hips are pressed tightly against your own and his breathing grows shaky again. You clench around him, and his body jerks.

“Little tease,” he practically growls. “Clenching around me like you want me to cum too fast.” You laugh, but it cuts into a moan when he pulls out a few inches and shoves himself back in. Your nails dig into the back of his neck, your fingers lacing into his hair and pulling lightly. "Feels so good, Yeonnie.”

“Weren’t you the one that said that was a dog's name?” He moves slowly against you, and at first, you don’t respond, your lips attached to his shoulder and sucking dark marks into the skin. “Cupcake, careful with the marks.” Sangyeon pinches the skin of your thigh and you whine.

“Stop complaining and just fuck me already,” you plead. Sangyeon smiles.

“Whatever you say, cupcake.” You can’t get another word out. Sangyeon pushes you onto your back, barely giving you time to adjust to how he feels in this new position before he’s thrusting harshly inside of you.

He’s harsh with his pace, each thrust punching the air out of your lungs, forcing out moans and cries and begs for him to go faster, harder, right there oh god right there Sangyeon. He lowers his mouth to your shoulder, giving you the same treatment he’d just scolded you for, listening to everything you say and every sound you make as he does. The sound of his hips slapping against yours is so loud and he can feel your arousal dripping down your pretty cunt and allowing him to go faster, to fuck you harder.

Then he sees it. It’s faint, but when he looks down at you he can see the outline of his cock pressing against your stomach. His pace stutters, and you whine when he slows down.

“Cupcake, look at you.” He coos, grabbing the hand that’s in his hair and bringing it down to your stomach. You raise your head, eyes fluttering when he thrusts again but you can feel the bulge against your stomach. You force your eyes to stay open the next time he thrusts into you, whining when you see it. “So fucking pretty, baby. So fucking pretty, and so small that my cock is pressing against your tummy, wanting to get out, hm?” You whine again, raising your hips to meet every thrust.

He’s getting close. He can feel it. Every thrust, every clench, every whine. It’s all drawing him closer and closer to the edge, and he knows you can feel his cock twitching inside of you. He knows that you’re getting close again, he can feel the way your walls are fluttering around him rather than persistently clenching.

“Are you close baby?” His hand comes up to rest next to your head, and you whine.

“So close, Yeonnie. Please I’m so close-” Your hips stutter against him, and the knot in your stomach goes tight.

Sangyeon swears he goes blind for a moment with how hard his eyes roll back. His body shakes against yours, his cum filling the condom to the brim. Your back arches, your chests brushing together and he wraps one hand around your back, pressing against your shoulder blades to hold you close to him while the two of you ride out your highs. Both of you are panting, your bodies slick with sweat, and you can only imagine what anyone walking outside is thinking-

“Oh my god, we just fucked in my bakery.” You sit upright, your head knocking against Sangyeon’s in the process. He snorts, rubbing where you just hit him.

“You’re realizing this now?” You smack his arm, and he laughs, pulling away from you. The two of you are quiet for a few minutes, quietly cleaning up and getting dressed. Well…Sangyeon gets dressed. You’re stuck on the counter, your legs proving to be useless now. Sangyeon smiles at this, grabbing your clothes for you and helping you tug your jeans on.

“We’re not fucking in here again.” He quirks an eyebrow.

“So what you’re saying is my car is next?” You punch his arm again, but he just laughs. “I’m kidding.”

“Are you though?”

“...”

“Lee Sangyeon!” He laughs again, taking you by the hand to keep you steady on your feet. The two of you stand there for a few minutes, in the middle of your bakery with the orange glow of the fairy lights.

“Did you mean what you said?” You ask, letting him lead you back to the table you’d left the cake on.

“About what?” Sangyeon peers at you, his head tilted.

“About not liking sweets.” Your cheeks are warm. It’s a silly question, but it had bugged you. Sangyeon smiles, ducking his head.

“Yeah… I was really just here for the coffee.”

“Then…Why did you take what I gave you?” You pout. “If I had known you didn’t like that stuff, I would’ve given you something else!”

“Because I like how happy you sounded when I told you the recipes you were trying tasted fantastic.” He says simply. “I would hate if I said or did anything that made you upset.”

“But you…” you purse your lips. “Then why did you run away? I know that you said someone had…betrayed you before…but did you really think I would do that to you?”

Sangyeon sighs.

“I didn’t know. Obviously, I trusted you- I trust you. But…somewhere inside of me I just couldn’t help but be a bit too cautious. I couldn’t stop myself from being afraid that this would turn out just like that relationship did, you know?” You nod, drumming your fingers on the table. “Can I see the cake you made me now?”

“After all that, you wanna see the cake now?” You scoff and he grins at you, tugging the box toward him. “Whatever. It’s nothing special anyway.”

“Anything you make me is special.” He argues, flipping open the lid of the box. He gasps.

“Do you like it?” Sangyeon doesn’t respond. You get nervous. “Yeonnie?”

“Oh, you want me sooooo bad.”

TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn

#itsbeeble #itsbeeble fics #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop angst #kpop fluff #kpop smut #the boyz #the boyz imagines #the boyz fluff #the boyz angst #the boyz smut #lee sangyeon #lee sangyeon imagines #lee sangyeon smut #lee sangyeon fluff #lee sangyeon angst #the boyz x reader #sangyeon x reader

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blog-name-idk · 2 years ago

Text

The Plot Twist | 01

Summary: Once upon a time you would have jumped at the chance to live the idol girlfriend life. The cameras, the action, the whirlwind romance. But what was once a dream has now become your worst nightmare, and you fully intend to fight the universe as it repeatedly conspires to set you up with your seven perfectly good soulmates from Bangtan Sonyeondan.

In which we punt Y/N into all the fanfiction tropes and you do your feral best to subvert the love story.

Because nani the fuck, you are The Plot Twist.

Pairing: OT7 X Fem!Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU, crack, humor, idol!AU, light angst, slow burn, romantic comedy, just a fun silly old time

Rating: 18+

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AN: Hello all!

This is a fic that is being co-written by @blog-name-idk and @eserethriddle (who also has their own crack/soulmate subversion AU which is INCREDIBLE and HILARIOUS go read it). The inspiration for this fic was that one meme about the anime protagonist avoiding their fate, and then it became a monster. We are having a great time writing this and we hope you enjoy it as well!

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Chapter 1: "What are soulmates, even?"

A prevailing belief amongst the aging population of overbearing parents is that an unattached woman, of average birth and social standing, professionally situated in one of the high-rise buildings in modern-day Seoul, must be in natural want of three things the very morning she turns twenty-five: an envelope of birthday money, a spa coupon, and a blind date prospect. Society’s elders allege that the advent of the twenty-fifth age prompts the rightful transition of the child-minded miss into a full woman, the barest hints of her girlish whims to be cast aside for her foray into the next, imperative stage of life.

Ha! Whatever the hell that next stage is, you have absolutely no care, no inclination to find out. Altruistic as they pretend to be, those very same elders are possibly bored, amateur matchmakers, or worse: aspiring grandparents.

You have your own priorities. You're living the good, simple life of binge-eating all the snacks you can now afford, buying questionable decorations for your single-bedroom loft, and, with undeniable consistency, sleeping in and gaming at ambiguous hours. Half-baked attempts at health fads and investments in miracle under-eye creams notwithstanding, you're barely halfway through your twenties but already living the dream!

Whatever that happens to you after this point? Unimportant. You have all the time in the world and your inner child to appease.

Heavy footfalls thump across the wooden floor of your bedroom, abruptly pulling you from the safehaven of your subconscious. The shrill, scraping noise of your floor-to-ceiling curtains being pulled open flag your internal alarm, but the matronly scolding that greets your senses, voiced in a too-familiar hometown dialect, subdues it just as quickly as it comes.

Burying your face into your pillow with a weak groan, you resign yourself to the loss of another wonderful morning spent in bed.

You should have known this would happen. As long as this woman breathes you will never know true peace.

“Eomma.” You scowl, throwing your blanket to the side as you sit upright on the bed. “This is exactly why I moved out.”

“Bah! Look at you!” your mother scoffs as she takes in your bedraggled appearance. “I booked you an appointment at The Deluxe and instead you want to waste it?” Busying herself all over the room, bending over and picking up litter – the remains of your night's valiant efforts – she crows, “And all these junk food wrappers on the floor! You pigged out, playing those games all night again!”

Well… yes, there was no denying that. It had taken you until early hours of the dawn (and three much needed, middle-of-the-night, rage-reducing convenience store trips) to reach your current savepoint in-game. Although it seems highly unlikely that your mother would be impressed by your latest feat at Super Mario – Kaizo, because somewhere inside you rests an unlovable, masochistic monster – you still cannot find it in yourself to want to change the way you had spent the previous night given half the chance.

Your mother, bless her old-fashioned heart, is simply predisposed to worry about your dubious gamer-slash-working-girl lifestyle, which, not only being within her rights, is also completely understandable! So as long as you kept up visible effort at maintaining the “beauty sleep and charm regimen” she swore by, she usually fell somewhere between unbothered and complacent.

But no. Not today.

"What did you threaten the landlord with to get the key this time?" you query under your breath, too quiet for her to hear. Sleep-addled as you are, you still have some sense of self-preservation.

It just… doesn’t help that your whole face looks as puffy as it feels. Judging by the tight set of your mother’s mouth also reflected by your bedside mirror, her slanted eyes pinned on you, you're sure she’s set to try and advertise the benefits of gua sha within the next minute.

Clearly, getting your own apartment had afforded you more freedom, but not the complete detachment you had been hoping for. And that was fine – every so often you do have the solo-living blues and miss her grapevine chitchat – it just isn’t apparent to you now in your half-comatose state, berated even before you have a chance to obtain caffeine.

Sighing in defeat, you move up and lean against the headboard. Your swollen eyes try to peek past the door frame, to no success. There’s an undeniably hopeful lilt to your voice when you ask, “So appa’s here, too?”

“Ha! That man drank himself silly, crying all night long!” At the mention of your father, your mother’s tone transitions from frenzied to fond, soft mirth dancing in the brown of her eyes. “‘Starting tomorrow she won’t be my girl no more,’ he’d said! It was a right mess! Your uncles had to help me carry him home…” she prattles.

Rounding the bed as she makes her way to you, she pulls you close to her chest, surrounding you with the comforting, familiar scent of her – and your – favorite laundry detergent and the faint smell of the kimchi she had for breakfast. She places a doting kiss on the top of your head then assures you in a rather soft murmur, “Sorry, sweetheart. He’s not here. He was so down he couldn’t even get out of bed, but he’ll call you later when he feels better, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” you concede, melting into her embrace and choosing to let her love bloom in your chest instead. Sometimes you complain about her lightning-fast mood changes from holy terror to loving mother, but after twenty-five years of being your appa’s girl, you figure you can give her this one morning. You snuggle into her. “Thanks for coming over, eomma. I can already smell the seaweed soup.”

“Of course, dear. I heated it up. Happy birthday.” She angles your face upward and pinches your cheeks.

You groan and paw at her to fight her off, but the playful moment is broken when she holds your face hostage and threatens very seriously, “If you don’t make it to the appointment, I’ll drive you to that speed-dating event in Hannam myself. I know for a fact they’re taking walk-ins tonight.”

“But eomma…” you whine, feeling like a fool for letting her motherly love lull you into a false sense of security, “I’m the birthday girl! Shouldn’t I get to decide my itinera–”

A familiar gleam flashes in her eyes and you immediately pinch your lips shut.

You may have gotten your father’s dimpled smile, but the stubborn fire in your spirit, the fierce glow of your gaze… These are the attributes that make you a famed corporate demon and Nintendo speedrunner.

These traits are also definitely, absolutely, undeniably from your mother. And alas, she has had more years and recognition in perfecting her technique.

With the Hyundai car keys twirling around her index finger, you just know she’ll make good on her threat. Your mother, dramatic as she can be, is bull-headed enough to follow through on every ridiculous warning she makes.

Another quality you yourself have inherited.

Glancing at the clock, you scramble off your mess of sheets and pillows and hastily set your feet onto the hardwood floor. Chuckling nervously as you avoid the course of consoles and controllers strewn about the room, you wonder aloud, for no reason at all, “The appointment has a fifteen-minute grace period… right?”

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You don’t know what happened after stepping into The Deluxe, not exactly. Scrambling past the morning rush on foot, desperate to avoid all kinds of traffic in your anxious, sleep-deprived state, you barely even recall getting to the spa’s reception area in time.

Upon confirming your appointment, a chic lady handed you a satin robe and ushered you into a private room, pointing you to your assigned spa bed with a gentle, amicable smile. Hypnotizing oils and calming tones sang to your senses, beckoning you to slumber with the promise of warmth and safety. The moment the lights dimmed and the massage therapist placed her hands on you, kneading your stiff shoulders, total exhaustion had taken over and you’d blacked out. An instant, indisputable K.O.

When you woke up it felt like you had re-spawned. Misplaced and mistakenly rearranged, put back together in a whole different body. You weren’t even sure if a body spa was all that had happened… You wonder for a moment if you might have been secretly brainwashed and implanted with a trigger command to kill an unsuspecting prime minister somewhere down the line, but you figure the gods have something else planned for a plain shut-in like you. Surely something less cinematic?

Seeing your reflection in the mirror, your split ends gone and your hair somehow now highlighting your best features, your face made up… Well, now it's clear that a lot more had happened to you. Your skin feels creamy to the touch and smells like rich patchouli, your nails are trimmed and painted ballet pink. You doubt their in-house aestheticians had taken one look at you – dehydrated and soulless to the brim – and voluntarily offered their services… Perhaps your mother did splurge and book you the full blowout package.

In that case, considering the luxurious upkeep of The Deluxe, you send your mother a heartfelt message of thanks followed by a cheerful selfie before finally stepping out to stroll through the nearby streets of Yongsan.

Unlike your usual self, you actually feel good. Very, very good. Beautiful, and rested.

Who wouldn’t love turning twenty-five if this was all it entailed?

As you make your way across the uptown plaza, the phone in your tote bag vibrates suddenly, chiming its innocent, dulcet tones. You stop, retrieve the gadget, and stare at the institution-registered number on the display screen of your phone before clicking to accept the call.

“Hello?” you answer tentatively, hoping you're not about to get called for jury duty.

“Good day. Is this L/N F/N?”

“Yes, but who…?”

“I am Junior Liaison Officer Choi Mijin from the Ministry of Korean Domestic Affairs. I understand you turned twenty-five today, L/N F/N-ssi. In accordance with Republic Act 134340 promulgated January of this year, this is your mandatory communication from the Soulmate Registry Department. May I proceed with the orientation, or is this a bad time?”

“Huh?”

Did she just say soulmate…?

You blink once. Just ten meters from where you stood, a squealing toddler startles and chases away a flock of unsuspecting pigeons perched on the brickstone plaza, wings fluttering against air and cobble. The cacophony washes over you in a raucous echo.

You blink again, stupefied. “Sorry, what?”

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“I understand this must be confusing for you. Although our record here indicates that your parents are soulmates, L/N F/N-ssi?”

“M-My parents?” you stammer. There was that word again!

Despite your obvious bewilderment, Junior Liaison Officer Choi Mijin remains unfazed. Not missing a beat, she draws in a quick breath and launches into a clearly scripted monologue: “Historically speaking, the Soulmate Phenomenon was first observed to affect a significant percentage of the adult human population by sociological groups and academic societies. Throughout the years, in tandem with the discoveries of international research institutes and medical community programs based locally, the national government has authorized a domestic agency to advise the public on matters that directly concern their health, relationships, and cosmological well-being. The current research consensus theorizes this phenomenon to be amplified by genetics, meaning that those with parents who are soulmates are highly likely to experience the phenomenon themselves. On these grounds, to offer you a better civilian life, we at the Soulmate Registry Department would like to confirm if you, L/N F/N-ssi, have been experiencing symptoms relating to this phenomenon…?”

You don't reply, locked in a cage of dumbfounded silence. Junior Liaison Officer Choi Mijin simply continues as response, “If so, I am pleased to report that cosmic interference will now rise to thirty-eight percent, with a ten percent margin of error per day, per soulmate–”

“Cosmic interference?” you interrupt, still quite lost in disbelief. "Per soulmate? What?”

"It's possible to have more than one soulmate," replies the desk worker, matter-of-fact. In rehearsed evenness, she elaborates, "It is the department's official advice for soulmates to initiate friendship at first introduction. Otherwise, aggravated cosmic interference can be expected, and may even escalate to public duress."

“Aggravated…? Duress? Uh, give me a second.” You pinch the flesh of your arm. “Ow.”

Eventually, after getting some of your thoughts in order, you manage to ask, "But what if I answered that I wasn't experiencing any of the symptoms? That I don't have a… soul-mate?" The word slides weird and heavy off your tongue.

"Ah. In such cases, please do not be alarmed. The natural implication is that you may continue to live life as usual," the girl's tinny voice reassures. "If you do not have a soulmate then you will not be subjected to visual, somatic, auditory, kinesthetic, olfactory, or gustatory anomalies. This kind of life is plain, but also advantageous, in its own way."

…Too much. This is just too much.

“But what if I do? What if I do have a soulmate, but I don't want to acknowledge it? What if I want to keep my life as it is?"

Choi Mijin pauses, not having a prepared response for the first time.

"Hm? Let me look that up." After audible typing noises and the near-infinite scrolling of her computer mouse carrying over, she finally speaks again. "Hmm. Nah. Nope. Not in our F.A.Q.’s. I wouldn’t not advise against that, no.”

Those were so many negatives you don’t even know what had been implied in the first place.

“I could forward the call to my supervisor," Mijin suggests, trying to be helpful. “The average standby time is one hour and forty minutes. Do you want me to?”

Massaging your temple with your free hand, you attempt to ignore the blooming headache ruining your prior good mood. "I… guess not? I’m not experiencing anything, Choi Mijin-ssi. That just means I don’t have… a soulmate… right?”

Mijin makes a grunt of assent. "Correct. If you did have a soulmate, you’d have to submit forms DR-2a and FS-3c to our main office in Hongdae. There are housing subsidies, minimal tax deductions, and life insurance programs that can be applied for.”

You do not know what else to say. Of course bureaucracy would somehow be involved in the systematization of the soulmate phenomena. You clear your throat and settle for, “Ah.”

“For now, L/N F/N-ssi, your status with us is PR - Pending Registry. Please confirm your status with us in person within the year, else the aforementioned benefits are considered irredeemable. Late registration is prohibited by the Ministry of Korean Domestic Affairs. This is only to ensure civilian and public safety, you understand?”

“Um.”

You look down, stare at your sandaled feet.

You can feel your toes, yes. You're alive, yes. You look at your hands and see all five fingers.

This is real life, yes.

“Yeah, okay. I understand… I think. Hmm. Yes.”

“Great. And, ah, happy birthday. I guess. Twenty-five sure is… something.” Ever since the beginning of the conversation, it is only at this moment that the liaison officer’s tone betrays her professional disposition. Despite your inner turmoil, you do feel for the girl on telephone duty as she sighs and says, “I’m really not paid enough for this.”

The line goes dead, and you’re left to pretend your world has not just shot off its axis.

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Kim Namjoon loves the chaos that is his fucking life.

It’s just. He constantly struggles to be the pillar of peace in the middle of it all.

"What are soulmates, even," whines Namjoon. "People who share the same taste in music? People who finish each other's–"

"–sandwiches?" Jeon Jungkook suggests, throwing a hopeful look at the snack in Namjoon’s hand.

Namjoon sighs in defeat and tosses the gremlin his sandwich. It’s gone in seconds.

No, really. Namjoon loves his life. Despite the near-chronic muscle ache and subtle paranoia that comes with baring his artistic, musical persona at a global scale on the daily, Namjoon still truly believes his life is wonderful. It’s meaningful, it’s spontaneous, and he never feels stuck. In fact, he gets to wake up assured that the world has something new planned for him. He gets to navigate life with a profound sense of purpose each day because he gets to rise from bed, head to the bathroom, take a look in the mirror and complain, “Which one of you did this bullshit?!” in countless, exasperated variations.

Because he is truly, utterly blessed.

Namjoon collapses against the plush armchair and rests his legs on the coffee table (yes, like a neanderthal), reinvestigating the faint bruising he’d found this morning on his limbs. Reaching over, he presses on his blemished skin and feels nothing.

“Taehyung’s been practicing cartwheels again,” he realizes.

The entirety of it had overwhelmed Namjoon, at first. Despite his height, he’d acted like a giddy kid about it, because nobody else in his family had – or even seriously regarded the concept of – soulmates. The library books he’d consulted said he was unlikely to experience the phenomena for himself, and so he’d thought what was happening to him was some type of ghost experience, shamanistic punishment, or hallucination that accompanied the grievances of becoming older. That his mind had finally reached its breaking point. Since he was, after all, for the past ten years, what people would refer to as, overworked.

Mm-hmm. Indeed.

From Ilsan to Seoul, desperate only to chase his dream and share his love for the written cadence, he’d found six of the most precious, talented, hardworking, beautiful people he would be happy to maim and kill each godforsaken already-late-for-our-schedule morning instead. It had been a running joke amongst the staff that the group only survived their initial years in the industry through their unmatched chemistry, but once the youngest of them all – Jungkook – turned twenty-five? Everything clicked.

The team wasn’t just a team.

Namjoon still thinks about it a lot. The evolutionary metaphysical logistics of it all. How, upon turning twenty-five, the human “cosmologically matures,” and with the prefrontal cortex of the human brain fully developed, its high cognitive reflex for recognizing patterns in daily life is traded for identifying patterns in the amalgamation of the universal consciousness instead.

It’s some high-level, fucked-up, oddly wholesome matrix shit.

Along with its regulations, the national registry for soulmates had only been established earlier this year. And though Namjoon would have appreciated any primer on the shared experiences he’d soldiered through with the boys, it was nothing short of a miracle that they had all met, grown, and gotten this far together since the beginning. In place of scars they had anecdotes of each other, kept and cherished all the same. Mountains of memories, good times and bad…

A decade. Ten years since they had shared their first greetings at a rundown garage, bright-eyed with the single aspiration of producing heartfelt, healing music.

Ten whole years.

The matter at hand is what happens now. With their original ten-year contract fulfilled, all the shows and radio stations only seem capable of talking about (read: dissing on) Bangtan Sonyeondan. So-called “experts” and industry seniors hinging on their disbandment. Like the seven of them had made it to the top, and now was high-time to let the accolades go and freefall.

Namjoon wants to scream and curse and tell them all off and yet…

All seven of them are at a standstill. One wrong move could push all seven of them off the ledge, off the pedestal of their own making. Their contracts are hybridized now, solo and group opportunities taken into serious consideration. Clauses had been inserted for mixed agency projects, brand endorsements, business ventures, and, most importantly, well-earned rest.

The immense physical and emotional battery of being in an idol boyband, the relentless media scrutiny, the hardship of being isolated and away from home – none of them wanted another ten-year repeat. The legal discussion of it had been fruitful, but in the aftermath the grueling effort had sucked the – bear with him on this – soul out of them.

And it wasn’t just Namjoon. At the latest dinner everyone had admitted to feeling… off. Petty bickering had been frequent lately, uneasy afternoons as well as uncharacteristic detachment. Moodiness. Namjoon’s afraid to put a name on it, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

Could depression be shared through their soulmate bond? God, Namjoon hopes not. So many things could happen, and this time, no amount of planning makes it seem possible to control. It feels like something else. Something familiar but new and oddly foreboding.

Well. Whatever the hell it is, Namjoon doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one bit.

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Instead of attending the blind date event for dinner, you find yourself standing at the porch of your parents’ diner instead.

Your father hurriedly shuffles to the doorway to usher you in, struggling to hide his excitement with the bogus scowl he plasters on his face.

“Young lady, why are you here?” he admonishes. Deciding to act preoccupied, he starts wiping down the tabletops, grumbling all the while, “Shouldn’t you be at that event in Hannam? Your mother said you wouldn’t have the time…”

You want to march over and hug your appa. You know what he’s really asking, why he’s glancing nervously past your shoulder. You’re here? Does that mean you’ve met the one who will replace me as your most important person? The government people nagged us about registering and they said in the future you might find yourself in this soulmate business too and you’re my little girl but… are you still?

You playfully nudge him by the shoulders with a bump of your own. “Naw, but don’t tell eomma I skipped it.”

Your father's lips twitch but then settle into a secretive smile. You both know that The Madame would drag you back by the scruff of your neck if she knew. And possibly send your father to the doghouse.

For some reason you can’t fathom, it frightens your mother to see you living the bachelorette life so well. Despite their being soulmates, her opinion is at complete odds with your father's, who basks in the joy of being the most important man in your life. And while you can kind of understand where your mother is coming from, chasing after boys… filling your heart with sweet nothings and butterflies… You’re not thirteen anymore. You're past that phase now. You know better than to put all of your romantic hopes and dreams into something that will inevitably let you down.

“Maybe that kind of thing isn’t for me, appa.” you admit. “You and eomma found each other, that’s good enough for me.”

Your father glances at you as he flips the store sign from open to closed, and says, solemnly, “Wildflower, you never know what the universe has planned.”

You take a deep breath, shoulders pinched. “But…”

“But what? But you don’t want love?”

“Appa…”

Your mother walks in through the backdoor. When she sees you next to your appa, her eyes shine with happiness.

They’re your eyes, too.

Your father hums. “Look at you. The best of both of us.”

Because It’s fine. You’re fine. You don’t need a soulmate. Your happiness couldn’t possibly be dictated by a cosmic phenomenon. Your life is beautiful, and simple, and enough. The things that you have, the love around you – they’re already more than what you deserve.

You pluck off a spare apron and help out with the rest of closing. Your father brings out his special blend of makgeolli and leaves you in-charge of hotpot prep for dinner. Drunk in just two bottles of soju, your parents compete about who had cooked the better seaweed soup, crooning absurd versions of the happy birthday song until you yield and promise to stay the night.

Chatting with them, laughing yourself to tears, you completely miss the double-decker bus that passes out front.

Unlike most city buses, this one has its exterior gorgeously laminated in purple, black, and gold. The vehicle is sleekly rendered with congratulatory greetings for the tenth anniversary of an all-male idol group, along with well-wishes of their fans upon the announcement of their individual pursuits as artists.

Your mother squints quizzically at the fan-made bus as it passes, an arm lifting to point it out to you. In her drunken haze though, she barely manages a garbled whine before her head bows and drops onto the table with a soft thunk.

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In the backseat of his custom-interior Palisade, Park Jimin groans, letting his face fall into his palms.

How is it even possible to get stood up at a speed-dating event? When he’d gotten there, everyone had already been paired up, and sure, work had held him up and made him late, but weren’t people supposed to turn up no matter what? Damn. Maybe the organizers were right. Maybe he is at the age and status nobody wants to be matched with anymore.

God, Taehyung is going to make so much fun of him for this.

The only silver lining is that this means Namjoon and Sejin can't chew him out for being "irresponsible" and "putting himself in danger." But come on, no one would believe that a member of BTS would have to resort to a speed-dating event. When he's bare-faced the worst that could happen would be for someone to say he kind of resembles Park Jimin. Probably.

Yes, he has six great soulmates he loves with all his heart. But he loves five of them like brothers. He does want something more, and it's gotten to the point where seeing an old man pushing his wife's wheelchair brought him to tears. Or as Jungkook would say – he wants a soulmate that makes his privates happy, not just his heart.

Is it that so much to ask for? He knows he’s already lucky. So lucky, far luckier than most of the world. He's blessed to have one soulmate, let alone six. The success of BTS wouldn't have been possible without everyone's hard work, but there are many groups that work just as hard and never see the light of day.

Maybe he just needs space. Maybe he should get his own apartment, spend some time outside of the house he shares with his six partners in crime. Somewhere he can just be Park Jimin, a boy looking for love, and not Jimin of BTS.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he grabs his phone and starts looking at listings.

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#bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts ot7 x reader #ot7 x reader #bts soulmate au #soulmate au #eserethriddle #reveri #fruit party 🥭🍒

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