#because you’ve been a shithead to me too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ayyy-pee · 9 days ago

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𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝟤 - 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝐻𝒶𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter

Pairing: Hotel Heir Satoru Gojo x Club Heiress Female Reader Genre: Fake Dating/Arranged Marriage AU/Rivals to Lovers

WC: 7.4k

Story Summary: One unforgettable night out leads to a lifetime tethered to the one man you absolutely can't fucking stand. The feeling's mutual, but now you both have to find a way to make it work in your favor.

You and Satoru's parents give you an ultimate that you both quite literally cannot afford to refuse.

Story Warning: Fake Dating, Arranged Marriage, Profantity DUH, Gojo and Reader being fucking bratty and annoying, Slow Burn, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior. Smut Maybe? (probably), No Y/N usage here, Gojo is such a shithead here fr LMAO

Art by: nameissiyo on X

A/N: I have been having so much fun writing this little shit LMAOOOO

You slowly enter your apartment in a daze, dragging your feet along before slipping your shoes off at the door. You’ve just had a bomb dropped on you, metaphorically blowing up your entire world and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to wrap your head around it. Your mind replays the conversation – well, the demand from your father. There was no actual conversation to be had. You were doing what was asked of you.

Point blank period.

------

“Daddy, please don’t do this to me,” you begged, knowing your pleas were falling on deaf ears. “I’ll clean up my act, I swear.”

“It’s far too late. I’ve given you multiple chances to get it together. I’ve let you do whatever you wanted for too long. This is the push you need to grow up, to take this seriously. Starting with you taking on a position within the company and learning the inner workings. And you will let Satoru court you, and you will marry him.”

Your head was spinning. “Daddy…you don’t understand. I can’t marry Satoru.” Even his name on your tongue tastes vile. But that may also be all your emotions working their way out of your gut.

“Why is that?” Your father asked.

‘I just don’t like him!’ It’s what you wanted to scream. Or even ‘He’s insufferable and fucking annoying!’, you already knew it wasn’t a valid enough reason for your father.

“I just…” you racked your brain for reasons that you think your father would accept. None come to mind, because to him, you didn’t need to like your partner to make things work.

Your father scoffed, shaking his head. “This marriage will go through,” he told you. “And so will this merger, because it is contingent on your marriage to Satoru.”

The trembling in your lips returned with a vigor and you plead once more. “But why? Why do we have to get married in order for the merger to go through? I’ll learn about the company, I’ll take on a formal position, I’ll party less and do more, that’s fine! But marrying Satoru? Why does that make a difference?!”

“They have their reasons,” your father states. “and honestly, I can’t say I disagree with them. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

You were back to begging for your father to take pity on you, to let you get away with just this one last thing and you swore you’d never fuck up again, never make the company look bad. But he didn’t budge. He didn’t even look in your direction. He simply turned away from you, ignored the fat tears and black mascara that ran down your cheeks and onto his pristine, white marble floors and went back to his desk. He sat down and went about his day like you weren’t standing to the side muttering that you didn’t want to do this, that you’d do anything else but this. He picked up his phone and dialed his secretary.

“Nitta, please patch me through to CEO Gojo. Thank you.” You stood, rooted to your spot as you listened to your father practically sell you off to the Gojo family in exchange for a chance to continue his quest to build his empire. You were simply a pawn here.

------

This is unbelievable, a nightmare! You even pinch yourself, hoping that this is all just a very bad dream and you’ll wake up in your bed, but you’re still standing in your living room and feeling the weight of the situation on you.

One night. One stupid night out after you let dumbass Utahime and Shoko convince you to do something that you’re now going to have to spend your entire life paying for.

Your father spent a good hour on the phone with CEO Gojo working out the details of this arrangement. You’re to meet with the Gojo family sometime within the next few weeks for dinner at their estate. You’ll hear from CEO Gojo’s secretary so they can pencil you in for some time with your future in-laws. The thought makes your stomach churn.

Why do you have to marry Satoru Gojo? He’s one of the most obnoxious and annoying men you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. The two of you have only ever had maybe a handful of interactions and each one was a disaster.

There was your first meeting as teenagers…

------

Your families and many others of the upper elite had gathered together to honor the late Chairman and CEO at the time, Satoru’s grandfather. While the elder Gojo had not been involved in company matters for some time, he hadn’t stepped down as Chairman and CEO officially until now. His son, the current Chairman and CEO had been acting as the interim for years before they finally announced it. Tonight, they were setting things in stone, making a statement to the public that the line will be continuing and Satoru will now be next to inherit the position as head of the company.

“Thank you all for joining us,” the elder Gojo says. “If you’ve been invited here, it’s because we hold you in close regard and want you to be here to witness this transition - me finally being able to pass the torch on to my son.”

At this, Satoru’s father stands from his seat on stage and comes forward to join his father. You didn’t miss the way his eyes seem to scan the room, likely searching for someone. The older Gojos drone on, and you tune out. You’ve always found these things to be boring. Of course, at sixteen years old, you would have loved to be anywhere else in the world than at some stuffy corporate party full of old people, but your father was out of town trying to close a deal and your mother went with him.

The invitation specifically requested the families of these companies, and so you were stuck acting as the company representative in your father’s stead.

“I hate these things,” a soft voice whispers from across the table, and your eyes rise from the intricate patterns on the fancy tablecloth you’ve been staring at the last several minutes to meet kind, violet orbs and a mischievous feline smile staring at you. “I’m Suguru…Geto.”

He tacks on his last name like he’s reluctant to say so, but mainly like it means something to you. You don’t really care who’s who here, but like you, it seems Suguru’s been practically trained since birth to network and make connections, to know every face you come across. You rack your brain for the last name Geto, and when nothing seems to come to mind, he fills in the blank for you.

“Geto Holdings.”

Right, the real estate conglomerate. If you remember correctly, Suguru is an only child, just like you, so he’s also meant to take over if his parents deem it so.

You give Suguru your name and watch his brows rise, impressed with the family you hail from.

“Well…” he sighs, leaning back in his chair and taking you in. “Pleasure to meet you. We should exchange info after this.”

You nod, the tiniest smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah…yeah, I’ll get your number after.”

You two leave it at that, turning your attention back to CEO Gojo. He talks on and on about how honored he is to be taking over the company. How he’s been raised to do this and it’s all he’s known, that he can’t wait to make his father proud. He also shares some of his plans for the company going forward, which means absolutely nothing to you. Gojo Hospitality exists in a whole different world than your father’s company. Whatever plans CEO Gojo had in store, you couldn’t care less about.

It’s when he’s about to wrap his boring speech up that a loud ruckus at the entrance of the ballroom grabs everyone’s attention. The new CEO Gojo’s jaw clenches, watching long legs carry a young man across the room.

“Sorry I’m late!” The intruder practically yells, buttoning his wrinkled dress shirt sloppily. His white hair is messy, almost like he just woke up from a nap. But you doubt it with the way he’s struggling to get through to the front of the ballroom.

You’ve been to enough rich kid teenage parties to know he’s wasted.

“Shit,” you hear Suguru hiss, standing from his seat and watching the boy make his way across the room.

The boy stumbles up the steps of the stage, joining the Gojo family, and you think he must be the son. Satoru, you believe his name is. He makes his way to the older Gojo who wears a tight smile on his lips, as he reaches for the boy once he’s closer. He leans away from the mic, wrapping his arms around the boy, lips beside his ear, whispering. And whatever he says to the young man works, the glassy look in his eyes vanishing and replaced by hardly concealed disdain.

It’s all awkward and suddenly tense in the room, the atmosphere thick as molasses. You hadn’t even noticed that Suguru had left his seat and went to grab the boy, hauling him back to your table where he plops him down in the seat right in front of you.

The party resumes, the new CEO Gojo continuing with his speech, not even bothering to address what just took place.

Suguru says your name, smooth and already familiar. “This Satoru Gojo. Satoru, this is ___.” Suguru takes a seat beside him, not even giving you a chance to truly introduce yourself because he instructs Satoru to “just shut the fuck up and they can leave after his dad’s speech.”

You’re just sitting there, thinking that you’ve just been casually introduced to the son and heir of one of - if not the largest - hospitality companies in the world. If your father were here, he would be thrilled. This is your chance to act like you give a little bit of a damn about the company and get to know Satoru.

But as you watch him, all scrunched brows and pouts, you feel a little bad for him.

He looks visibly deflated after receiving what you think was one hell of a scolding from his father, cheeks red and blue eyes downcast, staring into his lap. This is the first time you’ve seen this guy. Most large gatherings of the upper class that you had been to, he wasn’t present for. Or maybe you just hadn’t noticed him, which you think would be rather difficult given his unique appearance; striking azure eyes, snowy tresses and freakishly long legs. Yeah, he’d be hard to miss.

You don’t realize that you’ve spaced out yet again, staring at the boy who has just made quite a scene, and seems to be in the mood for another.

He’s grinning at you, all crooked and goofy looking. “Like what you see, Princess?” He teases, elbow on the table with his head resting in his palm, and it’s enough to snap you out of your trance. You sneer at his lack of manners.

“Pardon?”

Satoru chuckles, nudging Suguru with his elbow and his friend doesn’t seem to find anything amusing.

“Pardonnnn?” He mocks you in a sweet voice, followed by him snorting. “So cute when you all play dumb.”

Beside him, Suguru mutters quietly, “Satoru, that’s enough.”

You’re still in shock, can’t seem to wrap your head about this boy practically calling you stupid. How dare he? When he’s late, drunk at his own family’s party and has his elbows on the table!

If your mother were here, she’d have a conniption seeing this.

“Aww, come on, Suguru,” Satoru slurs, gaze piercing into you as he looks you up and down, assessing you. “I mean, she’s not really my type - new money and all,” he waves his hand in your general direction, laughing when he does so.

New money. That’s what those who want to insult your family say. It’s referring to the fact that your father only came into his wealth about 30 years ago, when he took a chance on some rundown shitty building in Shinjuku and opened the first Club Echo that ended up skyrocketing in popularity and launching your father into the same playing field as those who had been in possession of extreme wealth for far longer than him.

Whereas Satoru's grandfather's grandfather had started Gojo Hospitality from the ground up, slowly building it into the empire it is today. They’re the definition of old money, richer than rich. You’re not even on the same playing field.

It doesn’t seem like the boy in front of you wants to let you forget that.

“Stop it, Satoru,” Suguru chides, gripping onto his friend's arm who snatches it back.

“Why? You want her?” He asks, and your eyes widen which only makes Satoru laugh. “I mean you did see her first…but wow, she's got a cute face, so maybe I’ll make an exception and take her for myself.”

‘You’re here to represent your family, your father,’ you have to remind yourself. You are to be on your best behavior, or it won’t bode well for you when your father gets home. You’ve made it through a good majority of this snoozefest tonight and you only need Satoru’s father to hurry and finish his speech so that his son can get the hell away from you.

But with the way Satoru continues to grin at you teasingly, leaning his gross arms on the table, you feel your patience begin to wear thin. You try to ignore him, no longer giving him your attention like he wants and instead focusing on his father and the words coming from his mouth, hoping his speech ends soon, but it’s to no avail.

Especially when Satoru’s long legs stretch beneath the table and stomp right on the toe of your Manolo Blahnik’s and you feel any semblance of restraint snap.

Satoru peeks beneath the table, always so crude, it seems, and you snap your legs shut because you’re wearing a damn dress! Does he have no manners at all? Apparently not, because Satoru only offers a hum when he sits back up, shrugging. “My bad, Princess.”

Your dad will surely understand that you’ve killed the Gojo heir, right?

You close your eyes, inhaling sharply as you slip your foot out of your shoe. Reaching for the heel, you hold it in your hand to see the large scrape of Satoru’s big ass Louboutin oxfords sitting right on the tip. You’re trembling with rage, glaring at the man on the other side of your table as your fingers wrap around your shoe, purposely leaving the heel part exposed.

In the fifteen minutes since you’ve met Satoru, he’s continuously added into the reasons you’ve decided that you don’t like him. He’s insulted your intelligence, spoke about you like you were a piece of meat to be torn apart between him and Suguru, insulted your family and now, he’s committed the worst crime of all in your book - scuffed your brand new shoes that you bought just for this stupid event.

Wide eyed, Satoru chuckles nervously, forcing a smile to his face. “Come on, it’s not that big a deal. I’ll replace them!” He offers, no apology anywhere to be found.

Rude – another thing to add to the long list.

Fuming, your teeth grind together as you murmur, “They’re vintage.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, pretending to yawn. “They’re just shoes.”

Uncultured – another thing.

Satoru sighs, reaching into his pockets and pulling his wallet out, pulling his black card out and holding it out to you. “Vintage or not, I’ll replace them. If you can’t afford it, you can just say so.”

Fucking asshole – and it’s the last reason you need.

“I’m going to gouge your eyes out and wear them as earrings,” you promise him, and the bastard leans forward, amused again.

Satoru smirks up at you, fluttering his lashes. “They’re pretty, right?” He winks, head tilting when he asks, “Wanna wrestle for ‘em?”

You quickly rise to your feet, chair falling back and slamming onto the floor loudly as you reach across the table for Satoru, only managing to snatch a clump of hair from his scalp and he howls in pain. The sound is so satisfying, you can’t help the obnoxious laugh that escapes you.

“What the fuck?! Over some shoes?!” He screeches, hand pressed to the sore spot on his head.

You ignore the gasps and wide eyes that stare, the hard gaze of Satoru’s family on the back of your head as you try to get to their son. Satoru leans back in his seat, scowling briefly at you before it’s replaced with another smile, only fueling your anger.

Does he take anything seriously? There’s no apology, no remorse, just an asshole sitting in front of you probably thinking he can flash his pearly white teeth at you and you’ll fall to your knees even if he does insult you and your family.

You couldn’t be less interested in Satoru Gojo, and after meeting him, you’re absolutely certain that there’s zero chance you’ll ever care about him.

“Satoru…” Suguru chides. “You need to apologize.”

At this, Satoru scoffs. “No. She’s fucking insane! Trying to kill me over some ugly old shoes, and I should apologize?”

No, you’ll never give a single damn about Satoru Gojo. But you are interested in knocking his head off his shoulders.

“They’re vintage!” You shriek in response, lunging for Satoru again, but this time Suguru is there to intercept, grabbing a hold of your wrist and pulling you across the table into his arms.

You stare up at him, all anger melting away when you meet his violet eyes. He leans down, lips grazing your ear as he urges, “Stop. In about ten seconds, security is going to barge in here and drag you out and I don’t think your family would like that image plastered across the blogs.”

His words feel like ice cold water, dousing the flames raging inside you. He’s right. Your family would certainly not appreciate opening their phones and seeing pictures of you scalping the Gojo boy on front page news.

“If you walk out with me now, you can leave with your dignity still in tact. I’ll offer an apology to the Gojo’s on your behalf–”

You make a disgusted face, and Suguru shakes his head.

“Trust me, it’s in your best interest if I do.” He glances up, seeing the security team entering the room. The Gojo’s assistant points in your direction and Suguru holds a hand up, effectively stopping them for a moment. “Walk out with me, and let me handle everything else after.”

So you inhale deeply, let Suguru slink his arm around your shoulders and bow, apologizing to everyone for what just transpired. Of course, Satoru remains seated. His face is already checked out, scrolling on his phone instead of offering an apology to you in return, let alone to his own family. You’re tempted to snatch a few more strands from his head, but when Suguru brings you closer to his body in an attempt to calm you again (which works), you decide it’s better to just take your leave.

------

That was your very first time meeting Satoru Gojo. And every run in after went just as well.

Satoru spilling a drink all over your new dress “on accident” that you just know will stain at an art gallery event that your parents had insisted you attend, and you digging your stiletto heel right into his foot, earning an echoing yowl. Suguru was kind enough to offer you his suit jacket. The gesture made Satoru roll his eyes, and the blogs couldn’t wait to fuel rumors of you and Suguru dating when a picture dropped from the event showing him giving you the clothing.

There was also the time Satoru reserved all the VIP tables at your families club, and you had to party amongst the commoners when he refused to give a table to you and your friends. “Sorry, got a super important thing happening here tonight. Need every seat,” he had told you with a mocking pout on his face, only for you to find out later that it was just him and about four other people the entire night! And you couldn’t do anything about it because of course, according to your father, the customer always comes first and there are plenty of other places for you to hang out.

And you’ll never forget running into Satoru while you were on a date and him telling the man that you “have quite the temper” and then proceeding to take a seat and tell him of all the negative interactions you two had had. All of it made your date look at you differently, the image of the sweet and kind girl he was getting to know now skewed thanks to Satoru’s words. He ended up ending your very short lived relationship only a few days later.

You hate Satoru Gojo. It’s not an exaggeration. You truly, absolutely hate him.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen him, and you like it better that way. You stay in your little bubble, and he stays in his, and any time your bubbles threaten to meet, you’re quick to change paths. Satoru obviously doesn’t like you either, and you weren’t too proud to say that you were happy the feeling was mutual.

It’s starting to sink in now. The fact that soon you’ll have to see Satoru again when you haven’t had to be in the same room in years. Worse, you’ll have to see Satoru everyday for the rest of your damn life. Your hold on your purse handle tightens until you’re shaking. And then your purse is flying across your living room, smacking against the wall and falling to the floor along with all the contents of your purse. A piercing shriek erupts from you as you finally let your rage out.

This is hell.

------

“You're what?!” Suguru practically shrieks on the other end of the phone.

“I'm getting married apparently,” Satoru repeats, boredly as he slips off his shoes in the foyer.

“...To ___?…The Heiress…of Club Echo…”

“Yeah, I said that already.”

Suguru clears his throat. “I just wanted to make sure I was hearing you right.”

Satoru’s brows rise in amusement. “You jealous? You guys used to hook up, didn’t you?”

There’s a brief beat of silence before Suguru mutters, “That’s what the tabloids say.” He sighs, and Satoru knows he’s doing that thing where he frantically runs his fingers through his hair. “And no. Not jealous. Just…shocked she agreed to this.”

Satoru frowns. “Why wouldn't she? She gets to marry into my family, which is like…the biggest sell here. Not to mention she gets to be with me. Other girls would kill to be in her position.”

“Yeah, sure. You're such a catch,” Suguru deadpans. “But ___ fucking hates you.”

Satoru snorts, shaking his head as he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt. He slips it off, only just noticing the smudged pink lipstick on the collar. He rolls his eyes and tosses it aside. “Nah, she’s had a crush on me for the longest. Trust me. That’s why she’s so mean to me. It’ll just suck for her I guess, since I don’t like her like…at all.”

At this, Suguru bursts into laughter, making Satoru’s frown deepen the longer this goes on. “You’re such a child,” he says. “No, Satoru. She actually fucking hates you. Like, if she hears you’re showing up somewhere she’s at, she will leave because she can’t stand to look at you.”

Satoru falls back onto his sofa, scowling. “You guys really were hooking up, weren’t you? I feel like that’s the only way you’d even know that.”

“You jealous?” Suguru teases him back. But Satoru shrugs off his friend’s words.

“No. I don’t need her to like me to marry me. It’s a business contract essentially. If this wedding goes through, my dad will get the hell off my back, at least for a while. She doesn’t need to love me, because it’s not like I’m gonna love her either.”

Suguru hums. “And if that changes?”

Satoru scoffs. There’s no way that’ll happen. You guys don’t really know each other, don’t care about each other in the least, truly can’t stand each other. It’s a marriage of convenience for your parents and their companies. Love has nothing to do with it. Satoru isn’t interested in loving you, or even learning to love you. And if Suguru is correct in saying that you really do hate him, then you probably feel the same way.

But Suguru’s question hangs in the air. What if it does change? What if you do fall in love with him? Or worse, he falls in love with you? Unlikely given your off putting personality and your vapid interests. Seriously, you almost killed him over a shoe at one point. Even still…

He can’t risk it.

“No chance of that happening. I’ll make sure of that.”

Suguru changes the subject, droning on and on about the multiple business trips he’s set to take this month. He’ll be leaving for Singapore in about four days, on Monday and from there he’ll head to Jeju Island, and then to America for a week. He takes his meetings seriously, works hard and actually makes his family proud.

In an ideal world, Suguru would have been born the heir of Gojo Hospitality. He actually enjoys the inner workings of the business world and was eager and ready to begin his apprenticeship with his parents and learn what it would take to run his family's company. Even as teenagers, Suguru was like this. He knew exactly what he wanted out of life. His family didn’t pressure him to take over, it was the path he chose for himself.

Satoru, on the other hand, never cared much to know about how business worked. He liked living life the way he saw fit and doing what he wanted. And his father and grandfather had let Satoru do whatever he felt up until now. Suddenly, he had no choice in the matter. But he supposes he never actually had a choice in the first place. It was all a dream they let him have until they were ready for him to wake up.

He was the only child, only son of his parents. He was always meant to take over the company. He just doesn’t understand why he has to marry someone – marry you – to do so.

“Did you hear me, Satoru?” Suguru calls for his friend.

“Huh?”

Suguru says your name, and Satoru rolls his eyes.

“What about her?”

“You should reach out. She’s probably not happy about this, either. It may help to meet up and see if you can at least be on the same page about this whole arrangement, at least get on good terms. Maybe apologize for being a dick every time you’ve seen her. I’m sure it’ll make things easier for the both of you.”

Again, Satoru rolls his eyes. Of course Suguru is worried about making things less of a headache for him. He’s a good friend, always has been. But it seems he’s always been a good friend to you as well, if the way he’s looking out for you is any indication. Satoru isn’t sure what to make of Suguru’s concern for you. But all of that can be handled later. Suguru is right. He needs to meet up with his fiancée.

It’s been a long time since Satoru has seen you, in person at least. Sure, he’s seen you on your mutual friends' social media posts (he’s blocked on your actual page), or when you make rare appearances for your family’s business and it gets posted online. He’s even seen you on the blogs in passing when he’s scrolling through to see what’s been written about himself. Though he’ll never admit that last part.

“Yeah, okay. Fine. Send me ___’s number – I know you have it – and I’ll text her.”

Shortly after ending his call with Suguru, Satoru reminisces on the day’s events.

------

Soft moans, and wet kisses can be heard through the door of room 601.

“Satoru, we shouldn’t…” a woman whines into his ear, though she kisses along his neck the way she knows he likes. “I could get fired…”

Satoru chuckles, nudging against the woman’s face so he can switch places with her, now nipping and sucking along her neck, surely leaving marks along the way. His hand skirts up her thigh, hiking her leg up and wrapping it around his waist. He rolls his hips forward, pressing the evidence of his arousal against her core, and pulling a whimper from the woman.

“I’ll never let them fire you,” Satoru swears against her skin, popping open her uniform blouse’s buttons until he can see the swell of her breasts. “You’re my favorite maid here. They can fire anyone else, but not you.”

The woman moans, hands tangling in Satoru’s hair as he leans down to plant kisses between her breasts. He groans at the feeling of her nails on his scalp and just as he’s about to dip a finger into the cup of her bra to expose her nipples, the irritating sound of beeping, followed by a door opening halts his movements.

With a sigh between the woman’s bosom, Satoru stands straight, his nimble fingers fixing her shirt as she hurriedly makes herself look presentable. When she’s set, she gets back to her tasks just in time for another woman to enter the space.

The other woman sighs, eyes roaming the scene – Satoru leaning seemingly innocently against the wall while the maid pretends she’s been cleaning the entire time. But for Satoru, this is normal, so she clears her throat and proceeds.

“Your father would like to see you,” she states simply. His father sent his assistant after him, it seems.

“Why?” Satoru moves from the wall, not sparing a glance back as he moves past his father’s assistant and out the door. “And don’t lie, Manami.”

Manami shakes her head, hurrying to catch up to Satoru. “I honestly don’t know. He just asked me to find you.”

“And let me guess…” Satoru taps the elevator button to go down, maybe a little harder than he means to, but the idea of meeting with his father is already an unwelcome one. “He had every hotel management team on the lookout for me so they could report back to him where I was.”

The doors to the elevator open and Manami follows Satoru inside. She wraps her arms around the tablet that seems to be practically glued to her arms these days and taps the screen a few times before turning the screen to him. There’s a map pulled up, a little blue dot blinking on the screen. “You shared your location with me when I first started and you tried to get in my pants.”

Manami hits Satoru with a sly grin, giggling to herself while Satoru stares down at her with wide eyes. “Don’t you remember? You told me, so you can find me when you get off, and I'll show you a good time.”

She imitates Satoru’s voice, making him cringe. That was so long ago. He couldn’t imagine hitting on Manami now, viewing her more as an annoying older sister than anyone he’d want to be intimate with.

“Is that how dad always knows where I am?”

Manami hums. “Makes my life so much easier,” she brags. She turns to Satoru, holding up a finger with an angry face behind it. “Don’t unshare it.”

When they reach the lobby, Satoru’s security team is already waiting for him. They escort him to his car where he climbs into the backseat with Manami, who manages to dodge every question Satoru has regarding what this meeting his father wants is about.

When he realizes he’ll get nowhere with his interrogation, Satoru finally settles for silence, scrolling through his timeline and absentmindedly liking his friends posts.

They arrive at headquarters, the elevator ride a straight shot up to the corporate department. Outside of his father’s office, Manami wishes Satoru good luck, and he knows this isn’t going to be good. He enters his father’s office, taking a seat in front of his desk as he waits to be acknowledged, which unsurprisingly, takes forever. His father doesn’t even bother to look up from his computer as he speaks.

“We’re going to be merging with Club Echo,” he declares.

“...okay? You called me here for that?”

His father glances up just briefly, then resumes his tasks. “This merger is very important, Satoru.”

“We’ve merged with companies before. What’s this one gotta do with me?”

His father’s fingers still on the keyboard, eyes as blue as Satoru’s meeting his gaze. “This merger is arguably the most important we’ve ever had. We need it to go through at all costs.”

Satoru thinks he gets it now. His father needs him to go shmooze up some old bag of bones to make sure they’re happy with the direction this merger is headed. He supposes it’s his way of trusting Satoru, giving him a chance to prove that he’s capable of doing something useful for the company. It wouldn’t be the first time. When Satoru wants to, he’s able to talk up whoever he wants, get his way and close deals. It’s just that most of the time…he doesn’t want to. But this is a big opportunity for him, so he supposes he’ll do it.

It’s almost like a transaction. Satoru does something right, his dad leaves him alone for awhile until he needs him again.

“Okay? So what? You need me to travel somewhere? There’s what? Like thirty Club Echo locations? Which branch am I meeting with? What location are we merging with?”

“All of them.”

“Oh…the entire company?”

Even for a company as large as Gojo Hospitality, this is a big move. Satoru knows this.

“Alright…what do you need from me?”

Satoru’s father leans forward, folding his hands together as he stares his son down. And there’s this sudden dread that washes over Satoru. He has a feeling this isn’t going to go the way he expected. The confirmation comes a second later, when his father speaks.

“I need you to get married.”

------

There was a lot of yelling, and admittedly throwing of items, mainly from Satoru, reminding his father that you’d once tried to kill him over a shoe and threatened to poke his eyes out and use them for jewelry. But it didn’t matter to his father, who just typed away on his computer as Satoru went ballistic.

“That was a long time ago,” was all he offered to Satoru’s concerns. “Move on.”

And when all was said and done, Satoru still finds himself where he is now – on his sofa, staring at your number that he’s now saved in his phone under ????💍 after Suguru sent your contact information to him.

He knows he should follow Suguru’s advice and just call you, ask if you’d like to grab dinner later this week and iron out the details of this arrangement. It would make sense really since this is an arrangement set up by your parents, not one that either of you opted for. Because, let's be real, if given the option, neither of you would have chosen each other to get married to.

Hell, even Satoru’s father admittedly would have chosen someone else for him. But Club Echo was growing and only getting bigger, and the idea of merging the companies and building clubs within hotel locations to create a powerhouse unit among hospitality and nightlife was just way too good of an opportunity for his father to pass up, his son’s happiness be damned. But when had he ever given a shit about that?

Now, he’s here, struggling to decide on whether or not to text his future wife who he doesn’t really care for, and who absolutely despises him.

Suguru’s earlier question rings through Satoru’s mind, asking what he’ll do if the fact that you don’t love each other changes. And Satoru realizes that he has to do everything in his power to make sure that doesn’t happen. He enjoys his freedom, likes being able to do what he wants whenever he wants and with whomever he wants. Having a wife will surely ruin that. But from what he’s seen of you in the blogs, you seem to live a similar lifestyle. He doubts you want to be weighed down by a wedding ring either. It gives him an idea. Perhaps you’ll be more willing to meet up if he has something worth meeting for.

So Satoru hits the text button, writing out a message – because honestly, he doesn’t have the courage to dial your number and hear the hatred out in your voice just yet – and he quickly hits send…multiple times.

SATORU: hey wifey ;) it’s satoru

SATORU: DONT BLOCK ME PLS

SATORU: SAVE MY NUMBER

SATORU: wanna grab dinner next Monday?

SATORU: u kno…talk marriage and stuff

He waits for a response. And waits. And waits.

About forty minutes pass before his phone vibrates, and he doesn’t notice the tiny smirk curling on his lips when he sees your response.

????💍: Could you possibly send more texts?

‘Still snarky as ever,’ Satoru thinks, and more little dots pop up at the bottom of the screen.

????💍: I’m traveling next week. We can have dinner the Monday after to talk over everything. Might as well figure out how we’re going to make this work. 6pm. Don’t be late. See you in two weeks.

Your text is final, not leaving an opening for a response from him. He’s tempted to message you again, just to annoy you, but decides against it. The point of meeting up is to ease the tension before the marriage, not cause more. He’ll just send you a text on Monday of where to meet.

So he puts his phone away, mind going a million miles a second as he thinks of all the ways he could possibly make a marriage work between two people who can’t stand each other.

------

The next two weeks go by much faster than Satoru anticipated, and now he finds himself sitting alone in a rooftop lounge - of your choice, of course - as he waits for you. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling this strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, the idea of seeing you in person after so many years making him feel like he should run. Aside from what’s online, he doesn’t know much about you.

You like shopping, which he could have guessed back when you were sixteen. Given how you reacted when he accidentally stepped on your shoe, he’d say you’re quite passionate about your little hobby. You’re also quite the party girl from what he’s seen online, with rumors always swirling about who you’re dating.

One of them being his best friend. Multiple times, he’s noticed. No matter, though. Suguru was quick to deny the rumors, so there’s nothing to worry about there. Though, Suguru does seem to be pretty aware of your hatred of Satoru. He wonders just how close you two really are. But only for a moment, because it won’t matter in the long run.

Another thing Satoru has noticed about you is that much like him, it doesn’t seem like you’ve ever been interested in the family business. Yes, you occasionally show up to represent your family at certain events, but you have no actual position within the company from what he’s been able to gather. At least Satoru is listed as the Chief Marketing Officer, though he doesn’t do shit. It’s all for show until he hopefully comes to his senses and decides he wants to do something for the company. That’s not happening if he has any say in it, which his father has seemed to pick up on, so it looks like he’s using his son to further his business and keep Satoru tethered to it as well. A bullshit play, but he’s spent the weekend going over what could be done about it.

But you? Your father doesn’t seem to care that you don’t want to be involved, hence all the partying and freedom, so he wonders what it was that got you roped into this mess. It’s something he can try to pry out of you when you get here.

For a second, he lets himself ponder what you’re like in person now. You have somehow managed to avoid any and all events that would have you two in the same room over the last couple of years, so this being the first time you’ve been together and without anyone running interference?…well, Satoru is worried he may be leaving here with yet another bald spot. The one you left him with a decade ago still hasn’t grown back quite the same.

He checks his watch, the clock hitting 6pm exactly, and he glances up to see you strolling towards the table right on time.

Of course, you’re decked out in all the finest that money can buy. He spots the designer heels, expensive gems that cover your ears, neck and wrist. The little dress you sport (which you fill out quite nicely, he lets himself think) looks like something straight off of a runway, and Satoru wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

His eyes take in your features. Your face has changed a bit as well, more mature and he can’t deny, very pretty. But as you meet his curious gaze, he sees those even prettier lips of yours twist in disgust and he remembers then that aside from being rich, the only thing you two have in common is the fact that your parents are basically forcing you to get married.

You stand beside your seat, glaring down at Satoru and he leans back, not daring to look away. Your eyes narrow, darting to your seat and back to him quickly. But you don’t say anything, don’t simply speak up and say what you’re wanting, so Satoru says nothing as well.

It’s a standoff between you two, and he’s not backing down. He could sit here for days, staring up at you with the same smirk that he’s sure gets on your nerves the same way your uppity attitude irks him. He’s not sure what it is about you that makes him want to get under your skin so badly. You’re an annoying heiress just like most of the women Satoru surrounds himself with that just wants to drink and have fun, the same way he does. He doesn’t typically care about any of them, but he’s always found this weird satisfaction in annoying you.

You finally break eye contact, Satoru cheering internally when you figure out he’s not standing up to pull your seat out for you like a true gentleman would. You politely wave the waiter over, ordering a glass of wine for yourself, a brow raising when Satoru doesn’t order anything for himself.

“I don’t drink anymore. Haven’t in years,” he answers the question you don’t ask.

You’re staring at him again, but with less ferocity than when you first arrived. You inhale deeply before you ask, “So…why did you want to meet?”

At this, Satoru points to the stack of papers he has sitting in front of him. “To do business.”

“Business?”

Satoru nods. “I want to propose…” He pauses, having to hold back the laugh bubbling in his chest when your eyes nearly pop out of your head at his words. “...a deal,” he finishes, and you scowl. He doesn’t miss the sigh of relief that leaves you before you slip your businesswoman mask on, a look he’s never seen before.

“What did you have in mind?”

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bruh-changbin · 1 year ago

Text

patience is a virtue

part 3 to invasion of privacy series

pairing: roommate!heeseung x afab reader

genre: smut, angst, minimal fluff (minors dni)

warnings: unprotected sex (be safe), use of the pull out method (do not do this), piv, tit sucking, nipple play, mutual masturbation, some indecent public acts, mentions of vomit, alcolohol consumption, heeseung is so bad at communicating it is actually physically painful, jake is still annoying and hoon is a film bro oh god

word count: 8.6k

a/n: pls don't gut me ik this took forever but i hope its worth it at least lawl enjoy yourselves (but not too much......) also someone needs to take ellipses away from me. also not proofread

read part 1 and part 2 first or else this won't make a ton of sense

[shithead]: you guys wanna come to the cave to play smash? i got some more of that indica and jay finally cleaned his bong 🙄

[grandfather]: come on dude it wasn’t even that dirty

[cullen tease]:..... no comment

[cullen tease]: but yea i’m down

[grandfather]: what about heeseung?

[shithead]: idk… it’s just been radio silence from him for like 3 days

[cullen tease]: yea what happened to him?

[grandfather]: well the last time we talked to him was right before he hung out with y/n sooo

[shithead]: no way

[shithead]: do you think she fucked him so hard he passed out for three whole days?

[cullen tease]: shut the fuck up jaeyun

[shithead]: i’m just saying!!! if i had a hot roommate like that i would gladly let her destroy me

[cullen tease]: that’s because you’re a man whore

[grandfather]: come on guys cut it out, you know how heeseung tends to get

[grandfather]: emotional

[cullen tease]: that’s the understatement of the year

[shithead]: wait what if…….

[shithead]: she killed him

[grandfather]: you’re an idiot

[shithead]: it’s a possibility! what if it’s like a jennifer’s body type situation

[cullen tease]: hold up, you’ve seen jennifer’s body?

[shithead]: duh… it has megan fox in it

[grandfather]: okay let's not stray from the situation at hand

[shithead]: wait hoon why is it so surprising that i’ve seen jennifer’s body?

[cullen tease]: i just didn’t peg you as the type of guy to enjoy films like that

[shithead]: what the fuck does that mean

[grandfather]: guys

[cullen tease]: dude come on, your favourite movie is grown ups 2

[shithead]: what’s wrong with grown ups 2?

[cullen tease]: what’s wrong with it is that it’s trash

[shithead]: are you fr? it is a cinematic masterpiece and i don’t appreciate you acting all high and mighty because you’re a fucking film major who likes boring and sad movies like the godfather or whatever

[grandfather]: can you two shut the fuck up? we need to figure out what’s going on with hee

[adult virgin]: i’m not dead

[cullen tease]: heeseung!

[grandfather]: heeseung!

[shithead]: heeseung! you’re alive!!!

[grandfather]: how you doin’ buddy?

[shithead]: yea what went down with you and sexy roomie at the drive-in? i just know the two of you got up to some freaky shit

[grandfather]: jaeyun i swear to god

[adult virgin]: i don’t wanna talk about it

[cullen tease]: uh oh

[shithead]: oh shit

[grandfather]: oh jeez

[shithead]: jay you question why we call you grandfather when you say shit like ‘oh jeez’

[grandfather]: now’s not the time jake

[cullen tease]: come on heeseung, i’m sure it wasn’t that bad

[adult virgin]: i’m never going on a date again

[shithead]: wait i thought you said it wasn’t a date???

[grandfather]: jake you are one text away from getting kicked out of this group chat

[cullen tease]: i say we kick him out now

[adult virgin]: can you guys please stop blowing up my phone?

[shithead]: no can do my friend

[shithead]: it’s time for an intervention

[adult virgin]: i’m good

[adult virgin]: the last thing i need right now is you guys screaming at me while i’m trying to cope

[shithead]: too late, jay’s already got the car running. i’m bringing weed!

[cullen tease]: i’ll bring the funyuns

[shithead]: see you soon hee!

[adult virgin]: guys fr i just wanna be alone

[adult virgin]: guys?

bang bang bang!!!

heeseung recoils when he hears his friends banging on his front door a mere 11 minutes after they said they were coming; a mere 11 minutes after he explicitly told them not to. he recoils even more when he hears you open the door for them.

“oh, hey y/n…” jay does nothing to try to hide his discontent when he sees you open the door and not his heartbroken friend.

jake, who’s lowkey wanted to bang you since heeseung first moved in with you, pays no mind to his friend's wariness and envelops you in a rib-crushing hug whilst shouting “i haven’t seen you in forever!!!!!”

“hey guys!” you say with a soft smile before patting jake on the shoulder in an attempt to let him know that he’s stealing all of your oxygen, “come in, can i get you anything?”

jay just scoffs, “no thanks y/n, we don’t need anything from you.”

a somewhat puzzled look makes its way onto your face, “ok… well heeseungs in his room if that’s what you’re here for.” you nonchalantly motion down the hall before returning to the kitchen, leaving the three boys alone in the foyer.

“damn jay, you could’ve been a little nicer. we still don’t know what even went down between them, remember?” sunghoon murmurs while leading the way to heeseungs bedroom.

“i guess we’re about to find out,” jay holds his breath before tentatively knocking on heeseungs door before opening it and stepping inside.

when heeseung sees his friends open his door and step into his room, he rolls over so his back is facing them. he thought he was very clear that he is not in the mood to talk. nevertheless, the three of them stride into his room like a boy band and close the door behind them. heeseung hopes they pay no mind to the piles and piles of bunched up kleenex littering his room that are all shrivelled up from his tears.

“heeeyyy buddy!” jay croons to his dishevelled friend as if he’s talking to a puppy or small child.

“damnnnn hee, that must’ve been some good pussy if it’s got you acting like this!!!” jake exclaims, which earns him an elbow in the ribs.

“didn’t i tell you guys not to come? i’m trying to latibulate in peace,” heeseung groans, his voice so monotonous and strained it sounds almost robotic.

“come on, you didn’t seriously think we were gonna listen to you, right?” sunghoon says matter-of-factly, his ebony bangs covering his eyes and making him look eerily mysterious.

heeseung just sighs. he feels his mattress shift underneath him and looks over to see that jay has taken a seat on the edge of his bed, his eyes full of what appears to be mostly concern, some disgust as he swipes a couple of dirty tissues onto the floor (he tries to cover this up with a crooked smile).

“sooo what happened?” jake breaks the silence and asks the question that’s sitting on the tip of everyone’s tongue. heeseung, now in a seated position, places his head between his knees and does his best to swallow his shame before retelling the event that took place a few days prior.

“well, we went to the drive-in…” he starts, voice muffled due to his head hanging low, “and at first it was fine, but then… an… intimate scene came on.”

sunghoon hangs his head at this, seemingly knowing where the story is going.

heeseung can’t bare to look at his friends faces as he proceeds, his cheeks ablaze with embarrassment as he recounts his unintentional virginity reveal, the two of you freaking it whilst surrounded by other movie goers, and the painful, painful silence that enveloped him for the rest of the night.

“and then she just… didn’t say anything. why the fuck didn’t she say anything???!!!!” he whines, his tone a complete 180 from what it was when he first spoke to his friends a short 3 minutes ago.

seemingly at a loss for words, jay just rests his hand on his friends shoulder, offering a gentle pat while sunghoon mumbles a quiet but heart-felt ‘beats me’ from where he’s leaning against heeseungs wall.

“females are so difficult to understand.”

“don’t say females jake, it makes you sound like an incel,” sunghoon suspires, the frayed ends of his hair fluttering in the process, “maybe she just thought you wanted to get it over with? or that you wanted something casual?”

“i don’t do casual.”

“okay, and how the fuck is she supposed to know that?” sunghoon retorts, defending you since you’re unable to defend yourself - jake subtly nods in agreeance.

“i don’t know! she’s way more emotionally intelligent than all of us combined so i thought that maybe she’d… pick up on it or something.” heeseung feels his energy depleting and he longs to simply curl up under his duvet and sleep the rest of the day away - or maybe the whole week actually.

“heeseung,” jay sympathizes, “we know you like y/n… but maybe it's just not gonna work out.”

jake interjects, “yea, and if she can’t see what an absolute package you are right now then maybe she never will! it’s her loss really,” he nods enthusiastically while looking at jay and sunghoon, prompting them to do the same - they do.

heeseung, with swollen cheeks and a bruised heart, can only offer a quiet “thanks guys” while wishing for the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes to go away. he knows that moving on from you, whilst being extremely difficult, is the best thing to do.

after heeseungs feeble thanks, the room falls silent. so silent only that the hum of the a/c is the only detectable sound - that, and the steady inhales and exhales of the 4 boys trapped in heeseungs stuffy bedroom. someone exhales before the shuffling of feet and the creaking of floorboards can be heard. heeseung hardly has any time to react before something (or someone?) is flying through the air and is on track to land directly on top of him.

“DOG PILE ON HEESEUNG!!!” jake shouts while full-on launching himself onto heeseungs body, effectively squashing him into his mattress. the weight of his friend knocks the wind out of him and heeseung barely manages to croak “jaeyun what the fuc-” before the weight is doubled, then tripled as sunghoon and jay follow suit.

it’s hard to tell whose limbs belong to who as heeseungs friends tussle his hair and squeeze his cheeks (and crush his rib cage, but that’s besides the point) in an attempt to get their glum, heartbroken friend to cheer up. and, for the first time in days, a smile appears on heeseungs face.

order confirmed. you will be updated when your food is en route for delivery.

as if on cue, heeseung’s stomach lets out a cavernous growl. he pats it comfortingly as if to say ‘it’s ok, soon you’ll be filled to the brim with an ice cold baja blast and 2 crunch wrap supremes. just hold on a little longer.’

nothing quite like eating away all of your sorrows.

it’s easy to forget how pivotal a kitchen is in one’s everyday life until it’s stripped away from you like a baby from its mother. ok, maybe not stripped away. more like consciously avoiding it to make sure that you don’t have an awkward run in with your roommate who performed oral sex on you several days ago and is now sending you mixed signals. the thought of having to hold an actual conversation with you makes heeseungs skin crawl.

he’s been successfully avoiding you for 4 days now, ensuring that he only leaves his room when absolutely necessary - and only doing so when he’s positive that you’re in your room or out of the house. before exiting his bedroom he spends minutes with his ear pressed up to his flimsy bedroom door, making sure the coast is clear before making a break for it.

one may think he’s being extra. just talk to her for crying out loud! but heeseung has managed to convince himself that you think he’s bottom of the barrel scum; the last piece of bread that always gets tossed; the mosquito on your wall that you whack with a rolled up newspaper as soon as you see it.

trash!

and so, he spends his days rotting away in his bedroom, his mattress now donning a permanent indent of the shape of his body; his trash can overflowing with wrappers from taco bell and mcdonalds; his laptop struggling to keep up with all of the mind-numbing streaming of shitty television he’s been doing.

one time he gave into his hopeless romantic side and watched the notebook but it made him cry so hard he woke up with a migraine. another time he got an ad for top gun: maverick and he wanted to die. stupid top gun. stupid tom cruise. stupid miles teller with his stupid moustache. now, he sticks to scrolling through tik tok and watching reruns of below deck sailing yacht and survivor.

he can feel his eyes starting to get heavy when a vibration from his phone jolts him back to reality, scrambling to find the device that he so mindlessly tossed underneath his comforter. his fingers finally come in contact with it, and he peers at the lit-up screen.

your food has been delivered. receipt/tip available.

yes! it feels as if his stomach has been quite literally eating itself for the past half hour, so heeseung leaps up at the prospect of soon having food in his belly. in fact he’s so excited at the idea of his taco bell order waiting for him that the thought of doing his ritualistic check to make sure he won’t have a run-in with you completely slips his mind.

so, when he swings open his door and bolts down the hallway, head filled with nothing but thoughts of chowing down on a tortilla filled with meat, lettuce and cheese, his heart practically falls to his stomach when instead he almost literally runs into you. you, holding a glass of water with your eyes wide like a fawn, taking in heeseungs dishevelled appearance after not seeing him for over half a week.

shit.

shitshitshitshitshitshit.

this was not supposed to happen.

“heeseung!” you say with enthusiasm (and a bit of concern).

it is in this very moment that heeseung fully understands what a deer must feel like when falling in front of the headlights of an oncoming vehicle - frozen.

“uh…. heeey y/n.” his throat feels like it’s about to close. is he having an allergic reaction to you?

seeing as plan a (get his food and go back to his room while avoiding you all together) has fallen through, he attempts to resort to plan b: grab taco bell bag and run like hell back to the safety of his bedroom.

unfortunately plan b also falls through, for once he worms himself to the front door and grabs the slightly warm paper bag and drink left on his porch he whips around only to see you standing in front of him, blocking his path to the safe haven that is his musty bedroom, (he’s reminded of admiral ackbar in episode vi of star wars - ‘it’s a trap!!!’).

“wait, can we talk?” your face is one of disquietude, “i feel like you’ve been… avoiding me.”

upon hearing your concerns, heeseung does what he’s best at - playing dumb.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

your face quickly changes, brows furrowed and eyes slightly squinted as if to say ‘are you shitting me?’. in a split second it seems as if you’re able to read heeseung like an open book, much to his dismay, before you open your mouth to speak again.

“did… did what i do at the drive-in make you uncomfortable?”

“no…” more like what you didn’t do - profess your undying love and devotion to him with tears in your eyes while he reassures you that he feels the same way and the two of you ride off into the sunset on a horse and start a new life in venice or kyoto or somewhere romantic and secluded.

“okay, so then why are you acting so weird?”

“i’m… stressed. sooo stressed. classes are killing me and i have a huge paper due soon.” liar. he’s excelling in all of his classes and doesn’t have anything due for another 5 days.

“oh, well what’s it about? maybe i can help you!” you offer while taking a step towards him. usually his heart would be leaping at the prospect of the two of you having some one on one time even if it is for a class, but right now that’s the last thing he needs.

“it’s about….. shakespeare.”

“shakespeare? i thought you were an engineering major-”

“it’s an elective. i’m very interested in classical literature.” no he’s not.

“oh, nice. hey why are you talking so weirdly? you sound like siri when i ask her a question.”

that’s it. he needs to get out of this conversation before he raises any more suspicion.

“i’m way deep into the academic headspace. speaking of,” he motions towards his bedroom door with his index finger, “i need to get back to work.” more like he needs to wallow in his own self-pity.

“wait, can we talk more? i still feel like you’re not telling me something,” you say while looking like a kicked puppy, and heeseung tries to not fall into your glassy, pleading gaze.

“it’s fine y/n, i get it.” he thinks you’re the light of his life and you think of him as your loser roommate who was all whiny about being a virgin so you did what you needed to do to shut him up. case closed.

“get… what?”

heeseung doesn’t respond, doesn’t give you the time of day. he simply exits the kitchen and closes his bedroom door behind him. he spares no final glance behind him because he knows the sight of you standing there with a hurt and perplexed look on your face will have him crawling back to you on his hands and knees.

instead, he shuffles into bed and tries to focus on whatever he was watching on his laptop prior to the most painful conversation he’s ever had in his entire life, his now tepid crunch wrap sitting in his limp grasp.

salty crocodile tears start rolling down his cheeks for the nth time this week.

“i am gonna get sooo many bitches tonight.”

“you shouldn’t call women bitches jake, that’s rude.”

pre-gaming in the cave before going out is a must. the four guys play a couple rounds of pong and flip cup while jay and jake chug putrid pilsner’s and pabst blue ribbons while sunghoon and heeseung opt for a much more tame rum and coke.

tonight he’s being dragged to a place he seldom ventures: a club.

heeseung doesn’t really like clubs.

he prefers bars where he can sit and drink and talk to his friends instead of clubs where he has to (attempt to) dance and drink and shout over the blasting music to communicate with anyone. alas, jake was adamant on going to this one particular place downtown where apparently he got with 3 different girls in one night (everyone knows that’s definitely not true, but they continue to humour him).

furthermore, his friends have decided that the financial blow of cover fees and shots at a club is worth getting heeseung up and out of his frowsty bedroom that has somewhat turned into something you would see on an episode of hoarders, so tonight’s outing will be free (for him at least).

“okay hee,” jake grabs his friend by the shoulders and shakes him aggressively, as if they’re two football players about to head onto the field, “gimme the game plan for tonight broski.”

“i’m gonna forget about y/n, and i’m gonna find a pretty girl,” heeseung says in the most sportsmanlike manner he can conjure up, “and i’m gonna fu…… i’m gonna make love to her.”

jake simply shakes his head in dismay, “no heeseung, you’re gonna fuck her. got it? go ahead, say it.”

“i’m gonna…” his neck feels like it’s flaring up, “i can’t say it, it feels rude and misogynistic.”

“dude, girls like to get fucked. they think it’s hot!!! now say ‘fuck’,” jake attests before staring at heeseung expectantly.

“okay………………. fuck.”

“hell yea bro! fuck!” jay joins in while clapping heeseung on the back in support.

“yea, fuck!!!”

“FUCK!!!!!!” sunghoon joins as well.

“FUUUUUUCK!!!” heeseung screams. the liquor in his bloodstream, while not copious, is making him feel fuzzy.

and finally, jake closes it out with, “LETS GO FUCK SHIT UP BROS!!!!!!” before storming out of the door with sunghoon following suit.

jay swings a beefy arm around heeseungs blocky shoulders and drags him along, the two of them soon catching up to hoon and jake who are whooping and hollering about god knows what. in the back of heeseungs mind he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

immediately upon arrival heeseung is reminded once again of his detestment for clubs. they’re too loud and ho, and impersonal.

the floors and walls are shaking with some throwback early 2000’s pop song and after about 10 seconds the soles of his shoes are already covered in sticky syrup from spilled drinks. he follows his friends into the sea of people trying to get drunk or trying to get laid or both.

in the midst of the crowd he brushes shoulders with a guy he swears he’s seen before, a tall brute guy with blonde hair tied into a man bun and a red flannel hugging his shoulders (who wears a flannel to a club?), but he can’t quite remember when and where they’ve crossed paths before.

as sunghoon shoulders his way to the bar to order a round of tequila shots, heeseung stays planted to his spot on the floor, his eyes scanning his surroundings and taking everything in to the best of his abilities considering that purple and blue LED lights are painting everyone and everything within the establishment.

his eyes make their way from the bar to the dance floor to a section of stand-up tables, where he finds a pretty girl in leather pants and a cheetah print corset top staring right back at him. when their gaze’s connect she flashes him a small smile, which he returns.

“jake,” heeseung smacks his friend’s shoulder, “that girl won’t stop staring at me.”

“see hee! we told you you’d pull someone.”

he smirks, then panics, “what should i do?”

“what’s going on?” sunghoon turns around with four shooters balanced between his spindly ple fingers, each one filled with a menacing clear liquor that will ultimately decide his fate this evening. you’re not you when you’re sober but you’re you when you’re drunk!

jake grabs a shot greedily, like a leprechaun stumbling upon a pot of gold, “some chick is ogling at hee.”

sunghoon’s lip curls upwards, “lets go dawg!” he cheers while passing heeseung a shot as if it's a reward for receiving attention from a woman.

heeseung stares at the tequila in the glass he’s holding with his thumb and index finger; it stares back at him. in one swift move he downs it, then does the same with jake’s, jay’s, and finally sunghoon’s, who all stare at him in disbelief. he tries his best to not make a sour face, but he can’t hold back the deep cough that leaps out of him as the tequila burns his throat on its way down his esophagus and into his stomach.

“wow, okay.” jay says in astonishment, which prompts him to start laughing; everyone else begins to laugh as well, including heeseung.

“go talk to her shithead!” jake exclaims while shoving heeseung towards the mystery girl and her friends with much more force than necessary, making him stumble over his own feet much like bambi attempting to walk for the first time.

when he’s close enough he flashes her a toothy grin, his eyes trained on hers; her pupils look like deep pools of ink in the scarcity of good lighting. she just looks at him, a pretty smile painted on her face that pushes the apples of her cheeks to the sky.

“hey.”

“hi~”

“i’m heeseung.”

“okay heeseung, wanna dance?”

“uh sure!” he exclaims, albeit maybe a little too much excitement in his inflection.

the cheetah girl doesn’t say anything, just grabs his hand by the wrist (and thank god his wrist because his palms are embarrassingly sweaty) and drags him in the general direction of the dance floor. before he becomes completely swallowed by the mass of swaying bodies, he catches sunghoon and jay giving him a thumbs up from across the room - jake is too busy making out with someone to do the same.

heeseung feels the fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest and lower back as he gets mixed up with the plethora of other sweaty bodies, trying to move in a sensual yet confident way that hopefully impresses the pretty girl he’s praying he’ll go home with. with his nose tucked into the crook of her neck he rocks his body against hers to the beat of the music, his pelvis bumping against her ass methodically.

“you’re so cute!” she squeals at his awkward attempt to grind up on her.

dear god. when oh when will he ever the patronizing, dehumanizing, emasculating label of ‘cute’? cute is what you say when you see a nest of baby bunnies, or an elderly couple on a date. heeseung is a grown man, he should be called handsome, statuesque, sexy even!!!

nevertheless, heeseung attempts to not let cheetah girl’s comment sour his mood. she’ll see how manly he really is, he’ll show her. in fact he’ll show her right now!

in this very moment he discovers why alcohol has been gifted the name of liquid courage since before he can even process what he’s doing he’s pulling cheetah girl out of the stuffy crowd of inebriated club goers, dragging her to an empty bathroom stall, and placing his tequila coated lips on hers.

she immediately reciprocates, because why else would she be giving him bedroom eyes across a crowded club if she didn’t want something along this vein to occur? despite being a virgin (? does getting your dick suck count as a loss of virginity?), he has made out with multiple girls on multiple different occasions prior to this one, so he lets his mouth and tongue and hands act on their own accord.

it feels as if his brain is swimming inside of his skull, making all of his senses blurred and fuzzy like tv static. he feels a pair of teeth sinking into his bottom teeth and he groans, his eyes squeezing shut impossibly tighter and his fingers digging into cheetah girl’s hips. she emits and airy moan in response, allowing heeseung to slot his tongue against hers - he tastes the vodka mixed with cranberry juice she was drinking when he approached her on the inside of her mouth.

the tip of his nose continuously bumps against hers as he sloppy sucks on her tongue and her teeth, his lips soon detaching to make their way across her jaw and down her neck. there he sinks his canines into her skin, causing her to hiss in both pleasure and pain before exhaling blissfully, her hot breath fanning across heeseung face as he reverts to kissing her on the mouth once again.

from the dj booth he hears the intro of a song that has his eyes shooting open - baby one more time by britney spears. the song that you alway play when you’re getting ready to go out, the song he chose to play during the car ride to the drive-in. he feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about the way you touched him that night, the way you wrapped your hand and lips around his cock without a second thought. his jaw slacks and his hands fall to his sides as his brain starts to move at a million miles per hour.

a mouth that’s not yours is pressed against his while a tongue that’s not yours slips inside and traces his teeth. heeseung can hear his pulse in his ears beating faster than the bass that vibrates the floors and the walls and the ceiling of the club that he now so desperately wishes he wasn’t in. a hand that isn’t yours pops the button of his jeans and slips past the waistband of his underwear. all he can think is how this feels so not… right. none of this is right!

without properly thinking he somewhat shoves the pretty but unknown girl off of him, prompting her to shout “what the fuck asshole??!!?” before storming out of the stall and off to find her friends to undoubtedly complain about what a selfish prick he is. but honestly, he doesn’t care. all he can think about is you and your touch and everything you encompass.

with a considerable amount of shoving heeseung makes his way outside, paying no mind to the select people that shoot him dirty looks after getting elbowed in the side. too inebriated to consider ordering an uber or calling a cab, he begins the 20 minute trek back to his apartment where he’s praying that you’re still residing, likely settled in your bed reading a book or watching season 2 of the bear. the cool night air stings his lungs as he trips and stumbles on the concrete with every other step he takes on his way back home, his way back to you.

being outside does absolutely nothing to sober heeseung up (especially considering that he downed 4 tequila shots not so long ago), and when the familiar front door of your shared rental house comes into view he practically runs to it, swinging it open and letting it bang against the wall before calling your name and jogging down the hallway. his shoes clomp against the hardwood floors as he approaches your door, the soft yellow glow emanating from underneath it the only source of light in the dark hallway.

“y/n?” heeseung barges into your bedroom, almost ripping your door off of its hinges in the process. once inside he sees you perched on your bed, your sheets pulled over your bent knees and a book with a splotchy blue cover in your grasp.

“what are you doing?” he questions you breathlessly.

your glance shifts from heeseung to the open book in your hands then back to heeseung, “reading?”

“oh, duh,” he pretends to facepalm while chuckling, your eyes still trained on his with a glint of scepticism. the gravity of his situation starts to dawn on him and he braces himself against your doorframe in an attempt to get the floor to stop spinning.

you furrow your brows and stare at heeseung pointedly, “are you drunk?”

“a little,” he hiccups, “actually a lot, but that’s besides the point.” finally he feels the courage he had 20 minutes ago at the club surge through him once more and he stumbles into your room, stopping at the corner of your bed and gazing down on you like you’re an ant.

“i have to tell you something.”

“okay.”

silence.

“...what do you wanna tell me?”

“oh, right.” come on heeseung, it’s now or never. he decides to take a seat on the edge of your bed so he’s looking directly at you, and he picks at the holes in his jeans as he ponders how to start.

“uhh… i really like the way you fold the dish towels in the kitchen.”

a look of shock makes its way onto your face - you definitely weren’t expecting him to say that of all things. before you can utter a word, a sound even, heeseung starts to ramble.

“and you smell really nice. like, really nice. and i think you’re really pretty, e-even when you’re angry, like when i wake you up to ask for a ride to campus when i’ve missed the bus. and i like how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re focused, and how you ruffle my hair when i say something stupid… which is a lot.”

he pauses briefly to catch his breath, then continues on, “and i don’t let anyone eat my lucky charms except for you, n-not even my friends when they spend the night, because i know they remind you of being a kid and that you like to pick out the clover shaped marshmallows. and i like the way you draw smiley faces in the condensation on the mirror in the bathroom after you shower, and the way you exclusively listen to stevie nicks when you’re cleaning, an-”

“heeseung,” you interject, causing him to draw in a shaky inhale, “what are you trying to say?”

“what i’m trying to say is that i lo-” nope!!!!!! waaay too soon. luckily even drunk heeseung can recognize the damage an actual profession of love would cause. thank god he caught himself.

“i really really like you, ok? and i feel like you just see me as a-” here come the waterworks, “as a looooserrrrrrrr,” try as he might, heeseung can’t stop the pathetic, drunken sobs that escape his trembling lips.

“oh god, heeseung-” your feeble voice does little to drown out the wails emanating from the drunken boy perched on the corner of your bed, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed pink; you’re unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the crying.

half a week of pent up confusion and sadness and heartbreak escapes him in the form of reverberating howls, his shoulders shaking even after you place a comforting hand on his back in an attempt to calm him down.

“and when you did… that at the drive-in, i thought that maybe meant that you liked me too.” he sniffles before wiping his nose with his sleeve; you reach over to your night stand and hand him a tissue.

“oh jesus, i’m so sorry hee i didn’t mean to confuse you i just-” you take a second to collect your thoughts, your thumb still caressing heeseungs backs through his shirt, “the way you were talking just made it seem like you just wanted to get it over with,” your hand doesn’t leave his back, “like, no strings attached, you know?”

“no… not no strings attached. i want strings attached. i want exclusivity. i want you.” his tears roll down to his mouth and he can taste the salt on his tongue.

“heeseung…” you all but whisper, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

he wants to say more, only when he tries to formulate his thoughts into words, he finds himself yaking all over your floor before passing out.

pain.

the first thing heeseung feels when he wakes up is pain.

not mental pain, which is what he’s felt for the past 5 days, but physical pain. an aching headache that shoots up from the base of his skull and wraps around to his forehead and flares at the back of his eyeballs. it’s settled, he is never touching alcohol ever again.

an acidic burn tickles his throat, and soon the memories from last night come flooding back to him. the cheetah girl at the club, the solemn and unsobering walk home, the drunken confession, and lastly, the puking.

he cracks his eyes open and immediately recoils, for the golden glow of the morning sun increases the aching in his head and behind his eyes tenfold. jesus, what time is it? a couple of blinks help his eyes adjust to the light, and he becomes aware of the figure sitting to the right of him. in a split second he soon realizes that he’s in your room, tucked under your sheets, inhaling the scent of your shampoo that’s become permanently woven into your pillows.

oh? oh. oh god. did you two….?

heeseungs restlessness draws your attention, and soon you're gazing down at him with a soft expression that makes heeseung feel all soft like honey.

“hey sleeping beauty.” you tease, your eyes still puffy with traces of sleep and the book you were reading before he oh so rudely interrupted you last night is in your hands again - a well-loved copy of murakami’s kafka on the shore, which you place on your nightstand for the sake of passing heeseung a tall glass of water and an advil. he downs both immediately.

“please tell me that the image i have of myself puking on your floor is something my brain conjured up while i was sleeping and not something that actually happened,” he rasps, throat stinging and nose stuffy.

“hate to break it to ya buddy,” you tsk while nodding sympathetically, “but that actually happened.”

heeseung shoves his head into your pillow, his thumbs pressing against his closed eyelids both in an attempt to relieve the ache and as an act of shame. he groans aloud, “oh god y/n i am so sorry, i-”

“heeseung it’s o-kay,” you punctuate, “shit happens.”

still unable to look at you, heeseung just nods, the friction from your silk pillowcase making a couple strands of his hair stand on end.

“besides, it was mostly clear,” you look off into the distance, “mostly.”

a second of quiet, and then you ask him, “how much of last night do you remember?”

he rolls onto his back, index and middle fingers of his right hand pinching the bridge of his nose, “most of it, it guess. i remember going out with my friends, stumbling back here and… telling you that i like you…”

“actually i believe you said that you really, really like me.” your sleep swollen lips curve into a teasing smirk.

“fuck off,” he jeers while playfully pushing your shoulder.

“woah!!! lee heeseung drops f-bombs now eh?”

he just chuckles, his hands moving to pass through his frazzled hair. as he shifts under your poofy comforter he realizes he’s still donning the clothes he wore last night - spare for his shoes, which he’s assuming you took off of him and likely put them on the shoe rack by the front door.

a silence settles over the two of you, but this time it’s comfortable. it’s not estranged or pointed, but hospitable.

“i didn’t know you felt that way about me.” you state. it’s not a positive or negative statement, simply neutral; an admission.

heeseung doesn’t say anything, just gazes at your side profile and admires the way your eyelashes grace the tops of your cheeks, the way your top lip converges at your cupids bow, the way your cheekbones are dotted with blemishes.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, “please?”

a plea.

and, in your secluded bedroom on this bright saturday morning, you answer him by pressing your lips to his.

it’s strange, since heeseung can’t seem to discern any actual sensations, he just feels incredibly warm. warm and soft, like taffy that’s been left out and has melted in the glow of the sun. his heart is flipping inside of the cage that is his ribs as he pushes his pursed lips against yours in reciprocation.

you detach your lips from his for a second only to reattach them moments later in a deeper, more passionate kiss that heeseung exhales into, the tip of his nose gracing yours as he tilts his head to sink impossibly deeper into you. his curious hands make their way up to the back of your neck where he grabs ahold and pulls you against him so your torso is on top of his own, your heart beating against his.

underneath the confines of your comforter heeseung feels your leg glide against his own, the sheets crinkling and tangling in the process. his mouth continues to dance against yours with his tongue experimentally poking out every so often before he pushes it past your lips and into your hot mouth. a whimper makes its way out of you and heeseung swears that if he were standing his knees surely would’ve given out from underneath him.

“heeseung…” you whine before nipping at his cushiony bottom lip, sucking at it to soothe the sting - and to make heeseung swoon even more. ugh! he just can’t get enough of you and your sickeningly sweet demeanour.

as you continue to kiss and suck at heeseung pouty lips and perfect teeth you become more and more restless, your hands moving to smooth over the expanse of his chest and the tops of his shoulders where they come to rest. the palms of your hands are soft and delicate and they send a shiver down heeseung’s spine as he feels them grace his cloth covered skin that’s slightly damp with sweat.

with (what seems like) some reluctance, you remove your mouth from heeseung’s with a wet smack. when he cracks open his eyes he finds you beholding him wistfully, your pupils dilated and lips swollen and glossy with lip gloss of his own making.

“can you show me how you get yourself off?”

your voice is deep and slow; sultry, like a glass of oxblood coloured cabernet sauvignon. his breath hitches in his throat once he fully registers the request you just made. show you? on his own??? he does his best to swallow his nerves.

“sure,” heeseung agrees bashfully, “if you can do the same.”

“okay.” you smile before tossing the blankets off of both of your hot bodies. a much welcomed gust of cool air causes heeseung to erupt in a fit of goosebumps (although he’s not quite sure if that’s from the change in temperature or his current predicament).

unsure of what to do next, he waits to follow your lead. with hungry eyes he watches you pull of your pyjama bottoms before tossing them in a heap on the floor, leaving you in a pair of plain light blue panties and an oversized band tee. in somewhat of a rush heeseung fumbles with the hardware of his jeans, struggling to pop the button and tug down the copper zipper at the fault of his nerves. eventually he does so successfully, discarding his bottoms before becoming stuck in limbo.

with deft fingers you begin to drag the hem of your shirt upwards, exposing more and more of your torso before stopping once you reach your sternum. the soft underside of your breasts are just barely peeking out from underneath the fabric.

heeseung watches with wide eyes and a painfully hard cock as you slip your hand underneath the waistband of your panties in one swift motion, a motion that he’s sure you’ve done hundreds of times before this. his brain swims as he thinks about all of the times you’ve touched yourself in this very room, in this very bed.

your knuckles strain and push at the fabric of your underwear as you play with yourself, your chest rising and falling steadily but with slightly more erraticism than before. heeseung follows in your footsteps and reaches to the thick elastic waistband of his boxers, hesitating for only a second before pushing the garment down to his hips, allowing his hard cock to slap against his tense stomach. he spits in his palm before wrapping his hand around the base of his shaft, giving it a few tentative strokes and watching the way his stomach spasms.

“i don’t think i said this before,” you purr, “but you have a really nice cock heeseung.”

your admittance has heeseung overheating, his cheeks and chest flushing a pretty shade of pink. his stomach twists and churns and he slowly starts to jerk himself knowing that you’re watching his every move, like a vulture stalking its pretty. to distract himself from his own ministrations heeseung looks at you, his gaze travelling from your hand in your panties to your chest to your face where he finds you staring back at him, causing him to quickly look away out of sheer embarrassment of being caught.

“what do you think about when you touch yourself?”

you. obviously.

but he doesn’t say that.

he just remains quiet, his eyes darting from place to place but of course, no answer does not satiate your appetite for knowledge, so you push further.

“do you think about me?”

yes. obviously.

he nods steadily in response before realizing that that simply isn’t a satisfactory response.

“always.” his voice is small yet unwavering.

you smile at his admittance, eyes hazy with desire and your cheek squished against your pillow due to your head being turned towards him. breathy moans and pleas tumble past your lips as you finger yourself, your hips rolling into the heel of your palm. slick wet sounds can be heard both from you and from heeseung, whose precum is aiding in his ability to pump his dick at an increasing speed. the burning pit in his stomach slowly grows and grows and he moans aloud, jolting slightly when the outside of your thigh brushes against his own.

as he feels himself approaching the cusp of an orgasm, the familiar sensation looming closer and closer like a moth drawn to a flame, your hand grabs his arm prompting him to stop, your middle and ring fingers wet against where they’re wrapped around his forearm.

in the next second you’re sitting up, hands grasping the hem of your shirt once again only to fully remove it this time, exposing your back back and tits to him rendering him speechless. you discard your panties as well, leaving you completely bare as you move to straddle heeseung’s tense thighs. all he does is look at you in astonishment, mouth slightly agape.

without thinking heeseung reaches forward and envelops both of your breasts with his big hands, his palms rubbing against your hardened nipples while his fingers gently dig into the soft flesh.

“your tits are perfect,” he rasps, hand moving in circular motions to massage your chest.

“really?” your eyes light up at the compliment.

he nods, his adams apple bobbing in his throat as he remains enamoured with your figure. your fingers tickle his sides before grasping at his shirt, tugging at it in a way that tells him you want it off; he sits up and removes the garment before you place a palm on his chest and push him back onto your mattress, the springs making a slight squeak at the force. your eyes rake over heeseung’s bare chest as he lays before you, a shaky exhale leaving him every few seconds or so.

“you’re so handsome lee heeseung.” you compliment.

“even when i’m hungover?”

“even when you’re hungover.”

you crawl over his body, just a little bit, so your hips are unbearably close to his aching cock, the tip an enraged red spilling pearly white beads of precum. heeseung tries his best to not shudder when you wrap your hands around his shaft, moving yourself to be perched directly above his dick. you drag his tip through your folds to be a tease, only when the boy beneath you begins to squirm do you line his cock up wit your dripping hole before sinking down on it ever so slowly, gauging heeseungs reaction with scrutiny. he looks quite pretty, with his eyes screwed shut and bottom lip tucked between his teeth, his forehead dotted with beads of sweat. once he’s fully inside of you you remain stagnant, hips flush against his own.

heeseung feels like he’s gone limp, his limbs turned to mush and inoperable. he keeps his eyes tightly shut as he becomes accustomed to the feeling of being inside of you, for he knows if he sees you sitting on top of him he’s going to have heart palpitations.

only once heeseungs face slowly starts to relax, his eyelids slowly fluttering open, do you begin to move, gyrating your pelvis against his at a leisurely pace. heeseung can’t help but whimper when he feels you grinding on top of him, his cock throbbing and sensitive inside the warmth of your pussy.

your hands rest on heeseungs chest to help you stabilize yourself, your nails digging into the soft skin covering his pecs and leaving behind deep red marks. heeseungs hands move to grab at your hips and you arch your back in response, teasingly shoving your tits in his face - he takes this as an invitation and pulls you closer to him so he can wrap hips lips around your left nipple, sucking on it while palming the other.

“oh my-, heeseung,” you moan as heeseung continues to play with your breasts eagerly. in response you increase the pace at which your hips are moving at, grinding against him in a fluid, persistent manner that makes heeseungs vision grow warped fuzzy. once again he feels the slow burn of an orgasm take flight in his stomach, slowly ebbing outwards as you work him towards his climax.

the moans and groans leaving him come out muffled due to his mouth still being wrapped around your breast, only detaching once the need for oxygen becomes stronger and stronger and his heart beats faster and faster. your fingers feel hot against his skin as you fuck him raw, the sensation of your cunt constricting around his cock feeling so other worldly that heeseung believes that you and your pussy and your body the only things tethering to him reality.

his name tumbles past your lips in the form of needy whines as your movements slowly become more and more erratic, your eyes rolled back into your skull as you chase your high. all heeseung can do is lie underneath you, his fingers back on your hips while the tantalizing promise of a mind blowing orgasm renders him almost immobile. sweat rolls off of his brows as he pants and groans, hips feebly bucking upwards in an attempt to make him cum faster.

“i’m so close y/n i-” is all he can manage to whimper to let you know that he’s about to finish, about to erupt into a thousand hot white stars. you moan an ‘i know’ in response before reaching down to play with your clit, your cunt tightening around heeseungs cock with each and every flick of your fingers.

you orgasm with a desperate whine, brows furrowed and eyes shut as you keel over heeseung. your pussy flutters around his cock and you manage to pull yourself off of him right before he cums with a cry of your name, spilling his hot sticky seed all over the expanse of his stomach, which twitches and spasms every so often.

the two of you lay side by side as you wait for your heart rates to lower, for your breathing to steady, for the aching in your lower abdomen to cease. there’s a slight ringing in heeseungs ears which slowly subsides overtime, allowing him to listen to the way your pants morph into heavy breathing. in his peripherals he can see your chest, see the way your eyes are heavy with pleasure. you move your hand just enough so that your knuckles trace across the back of heeseungs hand.

the room comes to a standstill, with the sun peeking through the slats in your shades falling across his tainted stomach that rises and falls with each erratic inhale and exhale he takes. you shift to lie on your side so you’re facing heeseung, allowing your fingertips to dance over his clavicle, his neck, his jawline.

bliss.

euphoria.

a happy ending.

a/n: and to think some of y'all didn't believe that i was gonna give you a happy ending.......... what do you have to say for yourselves now huh? HUH??????? here's you're happy ending i'm gonna go cry now bc i'm weirdly emotionally attached to this series.

patience is a virtue taglist: @hello-stranger24 @jainandan @yohanabanana @iamliacamila @nyanggk @chansmaze @beomgyusonlywife

#enhypen smut #lee heeseung smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen blurbs #enhypen x reader #lee heeseung x reader #lee heeseung fanfiction #lee heeseung blurbs #lee heeseung imagines #kpop smut

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valhallaas · 2 years ago

Text

That’s My Girl

pairing: bradley rooster bradshaw x sunshine!reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: SMUT (18+, minors dni) vaginal fingering, p in v, cream pie (wrap it up, pals) jake stirring the pot like the shithead he is

summary: when everyone but rooster sees it, there’s always a texan willing to step up to the plate.

a/n: not me cackling while writing this like some crazed woman. ya’ll can blame @glen-powells for this. the text messages can prove it.

Part 2

Part 3

It surprises you every time you come back to the Hard Deck how it hasn’t changed. At least the atmosphere. Civilians and aviators alike. Penny grins at you when you walk in. Elbowing your way through the crowd, you take a seat at the bar, leaning far enough over to let her kiss you on the cheek. Her and your mom had been best friends. Penny’s known you since you were in diapers, helped your mom through the divorce, and helped you when she passed away. You always did your best to come visit her when you could. You’re on leave for the next two months and you aren’t wasting it anywhere else but here.

“Long time no see.” Penny says as she grabs you a drink.

You only grin. “You’ll be seeing so much of me, you’ll be sick of me.”

“Is free labor included in that?”

“Always.” A two toned whistle catches your attention. Turning to look behind you, you sigh at the sight. Holy shit. They’re all here. Your eyes narrow at the blonde, his grin widening when he catches you staring. “Maybe not tonight, Pen.”

Penny shakes her head. “I didn’t think so. Go on, then.”

Throwing her a grateful smile, you’re up and heading towards the pool table. It’s a reunion, no doubt. You’d been overseas the last few months. Seeing everyone here is a blessing. You can’t help the splitting grin on your face when Bob wraps you up right in his arms. How the two of you hit it off, you’ll never know, but you aren’t complaining.

“Look who it is, folks. Our Sunny girl. Did ya’ll see it get brighter in here when she walked in?”

Your eyes roll so far into the back of your head you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. Turning, you come face to face with the blonde who’d called for your attention.

“Hangman,”

He pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and winks. “Sunshine.”

“What’s got y’all here?”

“You.” Phoenix answers, standing from where she knocked two solids in at the pool table.

You turn to look back at the bar. Penny’s already looking at you with a smirk. What a little sneak. You should’ve known she let you go too easily. Shaking your head you step forward and snag the pool stick from Hangman. He smirks, but doesn’t say anything. You quirk an eyebrow. Lieutenant Jake Seresin keeping his mouth shut? It’s a goddamn miracle. His eyes never leave you as the game finishes. Phoenix grumbles at her loss, you were three shots behind when you started. It’s not your fault that you’re good, that you’re very good. Handing the stick off to Bob, your eyes scan the bar. It’s been almost thirty minutes since you got here. It’s a Saturday night and the bar is busy.

No Hawaiian shirt in sight. No porn mustache spotted anywhere. Your shoulders deflate. If everyone else is here, why isn’t he?

“Who you looking for, Sunshine?”

You glance sideways. “Wouldn’t like to know.”

Jake only grins. “Your bird boy ain’t here yet. Had a meeting with Maverick, I believe.”

Fucking Christ. Are you really that hopeless when it comes to him? So exposed that even Bagman can tell that your head over heels for Rooster? It’s not like it’s your fault. If you had it your way, you’d be happy with your own company. But the heart wants what the heart wants.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Because as much as you pine for him, Bradshaw is a dumbass.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t noticed, Sunny. You’re still that kid from down the road. You need to do something to make him see you.”

The thought has crossed your mind. You’ve known Bradley so long that he probably didn’t think of you that way. Your teeth bite into your cheek, hands fiddling with the hem of your dress. You don’t miss the way Hangman’s eyes take you in. His gaze lingering on your bare thighs. You huff out a small laugh, pulling his attention back to your face.

You and Jake have a weird relationship. He annoys you to no end but you trust him with your life. Pretty sure you’re the only one in the bar that does. Jake’s been protective of you since you met at Top Gun. A relationship without the relationship, you suppose.

“Can always stir the pot,”

You blink. “What?”

“Make him jealous, Sunny.” A snort escapes you and you slap a hand over your mouth. Jake’s smile is wide, his head falling back with a deep chuckle. “Oh, Sunny girl.”

“I have no one to make him jealous. Even if I did, that’s a stupid idea. What am I, in eighth grade?”

“Honey, look at who you’re talking to.”

Green eyes devour you when you look up at him. He is right. No one gets under Rooster’s skin more than Hangman. You bite your lip, unsure. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But there’s a fire in Hangman’s eyes, like he’s got a point to prove. Playing with the hem of your dress, you scrape the toe of your shoe against the floor. Fuck it, really, what do you have to lose?

“What are we going to do, exactly?”

Jake raises his hand, cupping the side of your face. His thumb lightly drags over your bottom lip before pulling it down. He pulls it away and looks down at the faintly smeared mauve color now on the pad. He lifts it up to his mouth and rubs it in.

“What are you doing?”

His lips tilt into a knowing smirk. “Teasin’.”

He’s going to get you in trouble. Lifting a hand to your own mouth, it’s smacked lightly. Sharp eyes glare at him.

“Go pick out a song. Let’s dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yeah, Sunshine, dance. Now go, and pick out a good one.”

You roll your eyes but do as you're told. Eyes follow you the whole way to the jukebox. You lean over, just a bit, the bottom of your dress rising up to tease. Was that why you wore it? Maybe. You wouldn’t tell. Flipping through the songs, you pause a few pages back, a knowing smile taking over your face. Putting the money in, you twirl back to face Jake. When the song starts playing he laughs.

“Honey, you are playing dirty.”

“You started it.”

“Well, you do have your boots on.” He says toeing your Ariats.

“Come on, Texas. Show me how to boogie.”

“You are asking for trouble.”

An eyebrow raises. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Jake doesn’t say anything else. His hand grabs for yours, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you tightly to him. You can’t help but gasp when his thigh slots between yours. Tightening your grip on his shoulder, he twirls you both out and makes room to have a dance floor. The other patrons cheer while watching. A few cat calls thrown your way. A carefree laugh makes its way from you. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way. It’s silly, really. To think that teasing a grown ass man made you feel this way.

“Just a heads up, Sunny girl, Bradshaw’s been watching since you went to pick out the song.” Your heart drops. What now? You go to turn your head, to try to find him, anything, really, but are stopped short. Jake slides his hand into your hair keeping you still. “Stop. You’re going to ruin it. I can see his fucking vein bulging from here.”

This is a good thing, right? This is what you wanted? His attention? Jake knows what he’s doing. He’s never led you astray before. Hopefully he won't start now. Jake lets you go, hanging you out with one hand before twirling you around. You’re facing away from him now, and you come face to face with Rooster. You inhale sharply, the smell of him overwhelming you.

“What’s going on here?” He asks, no preamble.

“We’re dancing, I know you have eyes, Bradshaw.”

Bradley looks from Hangman down at you. Head to toe his eyes blaze over you. A fire touching your skin. Licking at the top of your exposed breasts and down your thighs. You can see his lips twitch. The man knows you. His hand reaches out, pinches the fabric of the dress, rolling it between his fingers. It’s his favorite color, and by the look in his eyes you know he knows you wore it just for him.

“Hey Sunshine.”

“Hi Rooster.”

“Couldn’t wait for me, huh?”

You frown. Opening your mouth to talk, you’re promptly cut off. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Rooster shrugs. You follow after him to the table where all your friends are. Most of them try their hardest to look as if they aren’t watching this scene play out like a movie. You jump up to sit on the table, grabbing your drink and taking a sip. You hand Hangman his beer, his glare still on the man beside you. Neither of them say anything for a long time. They just stare, having a silent conversation that you don’t know how to decipher.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for Bagman, Sunshine.” Rooster finally says.

You snort, ignoring Jake’s smirk. “He wishes.”

“That why your lipstick is on his mouth?”

“Who’s mouth should it be on? Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” Jesus Christ, he’s trying to get you into fucking trouble. Widened eyes look at Jake, his face more stoic than you’ve ever seen it.

“What does that mean?”

Hangman huffs, taking a pull from his beer. “All I’m saying Bradshaw, is that you’ve got a hell of a woman hanging off every word you say. Waiting on you to finally do something. So, you better fuck her before I do.”

Did he know you could hear him? You’re sitting like two feet away. Neither of the men back were backing down and it’s making your anxiety spike. They’ve always been at each other's throats. You’re not sure when their little feud became about you.

“Did she say that?”

“Say what?”

“Did Sunshine say that she wanted you to fuck her?”

There was no hiding the smugness in Bradley’s tone. Hook, line, and sinker. A muscle twitches in Jake’s jaw from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. Suddenly, he glances over at you and you know you must look like a deer caught in headlights. He sighs but it doesn’t sound like one of defeat. More like he’s losing his patience.

He steps towards you, thumb trailing over your bottom lip. “If it doesn't work out with him, Sunny. You know where to find me.”

Hangman turns without looking at either of you again and makes for the jukebox. Your lips quirk up when you recognize the song.

***

The sound of the door closing is your only warning. Hazel eyes meet yours in the mirror as you roll your neck. Your body relaxes when you feel him press up against your back. He’s so warm it sends chills running down your spine. The bathroom isn’t all that big. Bradley stands behind you, invading your space and swallowing it whole. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. It’s easy to see that Hangman’s words have gotten under your skin. Your heart thunders in your chest at what’s going to happen next. A small prayer is sent off that Penny never finds out.

“You look good, flower.”

You smile at the nickname. “Thanks. It’s always fun when you can dress up in civvy clothes.”

He huffs. “The dress is really something,”

You grin at him through the mirror and you see Adam’s apple bob, hazel eyes fixated on your lips. You swallow, your throat thick. Tearing your gaze from his, you smooth your hands down the soft material, fingers playing with the hem of it. You took a chance with it, and you’re grateful it’s working out in your favor.

The tension is thick and heady. It clings to your skin, his callouses catch on your skin, gluing themselves to you. The music from the jukebox beats against the bathroom door, it’s the only thing accompanied by your heavy breathing. Your eyes shut when his hand pulls your hair to rest over one shoulder. A light yank of your hair has them snapping open. You meet his eyes in the mirror. One eyebrow quirks up at you. With a shaky breath you nod. Bradley leans in, lips lightly brushing against the expanse of your neck. His gaze rests on the soft spot right next to where it connects to your shoulder. You tilt your neck not only to give him more access, but permission too. Your lips tilt at the groan he lets out before his lips are on you.

Slowly his hands pull your sleeves down your arms. Goosebumps rise on your exposed skin. It makes you feel a little vulnerable. But then Bradley pushes himself even closer. He’s got his Hawaiian shirt on, jeans, and his boots. You can feel him breathing, his chest warming your back. It’s when he pushes his hips against you—you can feel him. All of him. A whimper escapes you and you see him grin in the mirror.

A hand trails down your side while the other moves to your chest. Your head falls back when a nipple is taken between his calloused fingers. You’ve only dreamt of what his hands would feel like. Your imagination didn’t do him justice. The heat coming from him is intoxicating. You’ve been so caught up in him that you haven’t realized a hand has been slipping down, down down. Fingers toiling with your dress, pushing the skirt up slowly. A hum rumbles from him when his fingers finally find your core, slipping between your folds. You’re completely soaked. You’ve been this way since he appeared right in front of you. Your breath locks in your throat when he slips a digit in.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice thick like honey. “No panties, flower?”

You whine, you can’t help it. You push your hips back into him, arching your back. His voice, the accusation in his tone. You knew what you were doing when you left your house. Maybe he’d come home with you, fucking you good and proper in your bed. Not pressed up against the sink of the Hard Deck. Bradley pulls his finger out only to push it back in with another. He does this, warming up your body, until you’re moaning, your own hand wrapped around his wrist and guiding him. You can’t stop your hips from grounding down on his hand. Desire has taken over. Bradley has left your nipple, hand now wrapped around your throat, holding you hostage to watch yourself in the mirror. He grunts when you clench around his fingers. You’re close, so close.

“Bradley,” you whine, fingers digging into his arm.

“I know, flower. You want it real bad, don’t you? Let me feel it. Let me feel you gush all over my hand sweet girl. Would you like that?”

You’re going to come off his words alone. A moan falling from your lips as the pressure tightens. It’s only moments later when the band snaps, hot liquid flooding throughout your body. Your head falls back against his chest, another moan filling the small space.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.”

You can feel him moving behind you. The distinct clinking of his belt being undone. Your whole body grows hotter in anticipation. Searing heat hits you, a hand stroking himself while the other is spreading you open. Heat pulses between your legs. There’s no doubt that he’ll split you wide open. After what you just pulled with Jake, you’d be surprised if he was forgiving at all. It’s a little fucked up, but it warms your belly all the same. Lifting your head, you gasp when his eyes meet yours. Bradley’s pupils are blown, lust and primal desire have taken over. His lips pink and full, he bends down and kisses right between your shoulder blades. Traveling up your spine, over your shoulder, he digs his teeth in where it meets your neck. You don’t miss his smirk when you moan.

He slides a hand across your ass, slapping you just hard enough to leave a red handprint behind as he thrust deep, bottoming out. A hand clamps down around your mouth, muffling the scream trying to break free. He’s big, so fucking big. He’s filling you up like never before. It hurts, a pain that you will never get enough of. Your knuckles turn white with each rough, lazy thrust. Bradley slides a hand along your spine, up the back of your neck and into your hair, your breath catches as he pulls your head up and you’re meeting his gaze in the mirror. He’s watching you come undone around him. Each stroke pulling more and more pleasure. Your cheeks are flushed, pupils blown with lust, and lips parted as each of your clipped breaths turn into whimpers.

“Flower,” he grits, hand tightening in your hair, “you feel so fucking good.”

You stare back at him, feet spreading wider to let as much of him in as you can. His teeth dig into your skin again, this time leaving bruises behind. It makes you whine. Little secrets that litter your skin. He thrusts harder, rougher until your hand is pressed against the mirror just to keep you balanced. He’s fully claiming you. Cock punching into the deepest part of you. Neither of you are too worried about the sounds escaping you now.

“Bradley, I–” you're cut off by a whimper when he reaches that spongy spot deep inside you. Over and over again, you feel it approaching, your orgasm is going to come crashing down and you’re ready to bask in it. Your face lifts up, like a sunflower searching for the sun.

“Flower? Are you going to come for me again? Are you going to let me feel you come around my cock?”

“Yes! Yes, I–Rooster, fuck,”

You come on his cock like a tidal wave, and when you collapse against the counter, your body trembles, heaving desperately for air. Bradley groans, pulling you up until you’re flush against him. His lips meet yours in a messy kiss, bucking his hips harder until he’s chasing his high right over the ledge with you.

“Good girl,” he praises, wiping the sweat off the back of your neck. “Good fuckin’ girl. That’s my good girl.”

The jukebox is still blaring when you exit the bathroom. Slowly you make your way back to where your friends are. Ignoring all of their knowing stares you reach for your drink and down it. When Bradley finally makes his appearance beside you, a possessive arm thrown over your shoulders and a quick kiss to the crown of your head. Hangman’s watching the both of you, a knowing look in his eye.

“So, Bradshaw, how was she?”

#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw one shot #rooster bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw one shot #bradley rooster bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfic #rooster bradhsaw fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic

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itostea · 1 year ago

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about you (rin x reader)

warnings: grumpy x sunshine!!! childhood friends to lovers, reader is delulu, image from our secret alliance

a/n: i had to title the fic about you since it was playing in the bg 😭😭

Being a teenage girl meant a few things. Consuming random content about silly romances and squealing over pixels; experimenting with make-up at 3 a.m; screaming at the top of your lungs to songs about heartbreak.

It also meant going delusional over your crush. In your situation, crush means your childhood friend, Rin Itoshi. Though he wasn’t yours. Not yet at least.

“Rinnie!” you greet him, not noticing the looks of bewilderment from his team. He’s calm, unlike his teammates or who he commonly refers to as npcs in his messages with you.

You already told him over the phone that you were going to visit him for a while. And to your surprise, he offered his place for you to stay at—telling you that it wasn’t a big deal since the house was too big for one person.

You think you must’ve saved a kingdom in your past life from how fortunate you’ve been lately. Like how even now, you were to manage to land early enough to visit him at practice. You’re so ecstatic that his team thinks you might be glowing.

“I found some sandwiches on my way here! You want some? Here let me go to you!” You chirp, running freely so freely that you don’t even notice the ball beneath your feet. Your ears pick up a few warnings and the sound of multiple footsteps. Yet your body picks up the feeling of a pair of strong arms and the familiar scent you’ve grown to love.

Disbelief washes over his team as they see how Rin quickly moved to catch you and their mouths are left open when they see him actually being gentle. You laugh awkwardly as you peer up at Rin who just sighs. “Idiot.”

“Hello to you too Rinnie,” you chuckle, letting him take your bag from you.

He frowns, seeing how the bags were piled with sandwiches. “Don’t call me that here. And why’d you buy so much?”

“For your team of course!”

“Why the hell would you spend your money on these shitheads—“

“Now c’mon Rinrin,” a deep voice snickers and you’re startled at the pair of pink hues that stare down at you. Your lips part, eying his tanned skin and hair of shades of blonde with pink streaks. “If a pretty lady’s offering to feed ya, you gotta say thank you right?”

“I didn’t ask you, antennaed freak. And stop calling me that.”

“Lighten up,” he grins, shifting his attention to you.

Your eyes widened in recognition, hands reaching to grab Rin’s arm—moving it so you could pull a wrapped sandwich out. “You must be Shidou right? I’m—“

“(Name) right? Heard all about you from this guy.” He takes the sandwich from, his hands purposely lingering on your palm.

Rin’s fast to shove Shidou’s hand off of yours. “Hands off.”

“What? You gonna make me?”

“You picking a fight—?“

“Rinnie talks about me?” You beam, ignoring the tension in the air. His teal-colored eyes widened, as if suddenly caught. You don’t let him stop you, instead making your way in between them to beam at Shidou. “What does he say?”

Shidou blinks, lips falling into a wide grin. “I might tell you if you let me take you ou—“

“Cut it out,” Rin’s voice interrupts, his eyes twitching in irritation.

“Are they good things?” You question, ignoring Rin’s look of exasperation.

“You bet. He talks about how pretty your eyes are and how he wants to kiss—“

“No I don’t,” your friend retorted sternly, sighing as he saw the hearts that were forming in your eyes. His hues take a moment to scan your appearance, noticing how you spent some time touching up. “You look different.”

“He means you look cute. Right Rinrin?” Shidou provokes.

“Really? That’s great because I’m trying to impress Rinnie right now!”

Both men watch in silence. You’re sure the whole field just heard that but Rin thinks you’re too oblivious to notice—sighing when you blink as a couple of his teammates give you a thumbs up as motivation.

Rin feels himself growing warm, red dusting his cheeks. He glances at you—how you smile so brightly at him. Only him. For a second, he forgets about the people around him, merely focusing on the way you grin at him. He would’ve enjoyed this moment longer if not for a shit-eating grin appearing next to him.

“Oh? Are you blushing Rin—?”

“Shut up antennaed freak,” he huffs, pulling on your arm. Rin’s eyes flit to you and how you eagerly anticipate his next move. He sighs. “We’re leaving.”

“We are? W-Wait the sandwiches!” You yelp, setting the basket on the ground as he drags you away from his team—his grip surprisingly gentle despite its firmness. You gesture at the basket, waving at his team who seem to be more bewildered at the sight of Rin pulling you away.

You smile as he opens his car door, ushering you in with a grunt. “Did you take a taxi here?”

“That’s right! Why? Did you want to pick me up instead?” you chirp.

He enters the driver’s seat, ignoring your question in his usual manner. He’s already reaching forthe seatbelt besides you, buckling you in—his scent filling your senses. Oddly enough, Rin doesn’t hear any playful remarks leaving your lips. Instead, he’s face-to-face with pursed lips and an expression that’s unmistakably embarrassment.

Oh shit, he thinks. Not again. That feeling swelling in his stomach returns, suffocating the car with tension. You’re not given much time to dwell on the pink that dusts his cheeks momentarily as he’s already reaching for his phone. “Here.”

The tension’s forgotten and it’s hard to slow your rapid heartbeat. You blink rapidly, your lips falling into a big grin once you realize his intentions. “I thought you hated my ‘lukewarm love songs.’”

“I never said that.”

“Oh? So you do like them!”

“I never said that either. Just take my phone already or else I’ll get mad. My arm’s hurting, idiot.”

“Liar. I know you like me too much to get mad,” you muse, taking his phone to open Spotify. You’re already humming to the first song that plays.

He knows you’re teasing but it’s hard to brush off the comment. Rin’s lips twitch, finding it amusing that some parts of you stayed the same since you two were children. You were always clinging onto him—making him listen to your random delusions or listen to you sob about some silly romance novel.

He knows you like stupid tropes about enemies to lovers and your strange obsession with sharing a bed. He knows that you have strange tastes and he’s never pass on making fun of you for that. He knows you like those cringey couple nicknames because they make you laugh. He also knows he doesn’t have a single romantic bone in him but for once, he doesn’t mind doing what the poets do.

You’re still humming, oblivious to what kind of thoughts linger in his brain. He hums. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“Right about what?” You ask, bemused at his sudden comment. He’s quiet, a ghost of a smirk on his face. You’re not sure if it’s the fact that About You by The 1975 is playing but the atmosphere makes you catch on far too quickly.

“Oh my god,” you say too quickly. “Rinnie do you like me? Rinnie? Stop the car! Rinnie tell me!”

Your constant pleading does little to dissuade him as he laughs silently to himself—the sight rare even for you. “You do! You do! You like me!”

“Shut up or else I’m taking the phone away.”

“That’s mean! Wait a minute, that means we’re dating now right? Does that mean I can call you pookie wookiee—?”

“No.”

“Oh you didn’t say no to us dating! You can’t take it back!”

He sighs again, smiling softly. Feelings are weird, Rin thinks. They’re even weirder when confronted but he doesn’t mind doing that when it’s for you. He sighs for the nth time.

“Idiot. Why would I take that back? You said it yourself. I like you too much.”

The car’s silent and About You is still playing. It’s silent and Rin can’t resist glancing over at you, his eyes widening slightly. He suddenly understands why you go so crazy for those books and shows of yours—the ones about love. Since seeing you wear such an expression is enough to make him realize that love isn’t so bad after all.

#itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi x reader #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #fluff #rin x reader #rin itoshi #itoshi rin #rin x you #rin itoshi x you #bllk fluff #childhood friends

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musical-shit-show · 9 months ago

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bad idea, right?

Pairing: Adam (Hazbin Hotel) x Sinner!Reader

Inspiration: Prompts #47 (“you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”) from Prompt List 1 and #34 (“hate is not the word. i loathe you.”) from Prompt List 3

Warnings: Spoilers for Season 1 of Hazbin Hotel, heavy cursing, homophobic language, Adam is just generally an asshole (duh), mentions of murder, depression (?), angst, digital stimulation, choking, general kinda rough smut (18+, minors DNI!!!)

Word Count: 1,657

Author’s Note: So ever since that Hazbin finale, I’ve loved the concept of Adam getting sent to Hell, mirroring how Sir Pentious was redeemed to Heaven. So, since it’s Hell, I figured this would make sense to have it be a little darker and more mature than my typical stuff. So yeah, minors DNI (for real, I don’t want to have to block anyone). If people like this, I might try my hand at other Hazbin characters if I feel so moved (or if anyone sends in a request). As always, check out my Masterlist, About Me page, and Prompt Lists if you do want to send in a request! Happy reading, you degenerates.

“Would you get your hands off me? I just stepped in the door, asshole.”

“Did anyone see you?”

The door slammed behind you, shaking the walls of the seedy motel room on the west side of Pentagram City. Needy hands were already roaming over your figure, and you groaned in frustration.

“No,” you hissed, shrugging away from Adam’s grasp, taking off your overcoat. It was raining heavily that night, so most of the denizens of Hell had confined themselves to the indoors for the evening. That is if they weren’t working the corner or trying to find their next fix.

“As if I want to be spotted here anyways,” you huffed, “I have a reputation to uphold too, ya know.”

“Reputation,” he repeated, his golden eyes glowering beneath the horned mask that he still insisted on wearing. He chuckled darkly, “If I was seen cavorting around with a fucking sinner, there would be zero chance of me getting back to where I rightfully belong.”

Adam couldn’t fathom how this happened to him. He was then first man, the first human, and wielded unimaginable angelic power beyond comprehension.

But he was taken out by a two-foot tall, one-eyed maid with a penchant for stabbing. It almost would’ve been badass if it didn’t result in his untimely demise.

Next thing he knew, he woke up hours later, his angelic form altered into a tacky red and black cloak and broken wings. He still maintained his gold pupils, a haunting reminder of his previous afterlife.

And now he was a fallen angel.

Fallen.

Fallen. All because of that clit-licker Charlie Morningstar and her merry band of misfits. Which, at the present moment, included you. You had decided to take up residence at the Hazbin Hotel, and it made his blood boil.

So why did he still feel so drawn to you?

“Newsflash, but you’re down here too, dickwad,” you spat, taking offense to his comment, “You fucked up big time going after Lucifer’s daughter, and you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

Before you could launch into a tirade, Adam grabbed you firmly, pulling you flush against him, “Ya know,” he purred, “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”

“Pig.”

“Talking back will only make you pay for it later, dollface,” he growled, his dick twitching under his robe as he eyed you hungrily, “And if you didn’t like it, why do you keep coming back for more, hmm?”

You glared at him. The truth was, you didn’t know. He was the antithesis of everything you were trying to work toward; ever since the Princess of Hell had let you seek refuge in her hotel, you felt like you actually could be on the path to redemption.

That is, before you had a chance encounter with a fallen angel—and not just any fallen angel, but Earth’s first man—who also happened to be a massive shithead. You almost felt bad about lying to Charlie and the rest of the crew, but there was something about Adam that made it impossible for you to stay away.

You felt your insides twist as Adam spun you around so your ass was pressed against him, his form much larger and intimidating than your own. You let out a groan as his fingers weaved through your hair, giving it a slight tug as he pulled it back to expose your neck.

He nipped at the sensitive skin by your collarbone, while his other hand deftly palmed around the front of your skirt until it was hiked up to expose your panties. You should’ve been disgusted by the thought of him—and oftentimes, you were—but that didn’t stop your body from tingling with arousal.

He could sense it, the anger radiating off of you. It only turned him on more. These days, he only felt this kind of thrill when he was taunting you, teasing you until you came undone around him.

It was almost as good as when he would come down for his yearly visit, slaughtering sinners with his faithful lieutenant by his side.

Almost.

“Can’t hate me that much when you’re wet as fuck for me, huh hot stuff?” he said, his voice low in your ear. His grip tightened, the discomfort of his clawed fingers becoming almost unbearable.

“Hate is not the word,” you muttered, venom laced in your words, “I loathe you. I should do all of Hell a favor and kill you for good.”

You both knew your threats were empty. Having been an angel, Adam possessed more power than half the overlords of Hell. There was nothing special about you. If he wanted, he could snap you like a twig.

But despite his best efforts, Adam was incredibly lonely. Despondent, even. He didn’t know who he was without his legion of exterminators and Lute.

He had no plan to take over even a measly quadrant of Pentagram City, because he was struggling with the point of it all. Most overlords were now armed to the teeth with angelic weapons, which meant one more stab to the back and he was done for good.

Maybe an end to this misery would be good, but he so desperately wanted to claw his way back to Heaven that it wasn’t a risk he was currently willing to take.

He felt like a pathetic coward. But at least he had you to torment. At least when he was with you, he could stifle the cacophony of melancholia in his head. For a little while, anyways.

“Ugh, I love it when you talk dirty,” he mused, unphased by your aggression as he removed your shirt, exposing your breasts. His fingers moved your clit as he stroked you through your underwear, making you flinch, “Face it, toots. You might not be as fucked up as I am, but you have to admit this is adds just the right amount of spice to your miserable fucking existence.”

“If you’re gonna monologue all night about me being demon scum, I can go,” you shot back, glancing back at him with an annoyed look splashed across your face. “Besides, I told you last time, I’m not fucking you if you keep that stupid mask on.”

The digital façade he wore fell into a scowl, but Adam caved almost immediately and tossed the mask aside, revealing his tousled brown hair and piercing eyes. A five o’clock shadow adorned his face, and you’d almost consider him handsome if you knew nothing about his personality.

He pushed you onto the bed, his fingers threading to grip your hair again, making your back arch. Your comfort was the last thing on Adam’s mind. A part of him actually liked that you fought back against him; being challenged made fucking you even more interesting.

You could feel how hard he was against your ass, and the pit in your stomach started to tense as you felt his cock rub against your folds, your panties now hanging pathetically from your ankles after he ripped them away from your waist.

Satan forbid he actually take off that stupid outfit of his; he had no problem disrobing you, but you didn’t have time to protest. With a sudden thrust, he sheathed himself into you, making you moan involuntarily.

You could almost hear the smirk coming from behind you as Adam began to pound into you almost immediately, his pace steady and rough. “You’re gonna take it like a good little slut, aren’t you?” he mocked, not letting on how perfect you felt around him, “You know there isn’t demon dick in all of Hell that’s as good as the original.”

How this guy got into Heaven in the first place, you’d never know. “Wouldn’t be too sure of that,” you needled as he pulled you to him again, his strokes getting deeper and making your abdomen tighten, “I’ve heard Lucifer is amazing in bed.”

You knew this would set him off; any time you invoked Lucifer’s name, you knew you were playing with fire.

Adam growled in your ear, his temper flaring. His rhythm quickened, becoming more frantic and desperate. You felt your eyes starting to water as he slammed into you, causing your pussy to throb around him.

Before you could utter another insult, you felt his hand finally loosen its grip on your hair and rest on your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck as he continued fucking you from behind.

He wasn’t going to forget that comment, but he could bitch about Lucifer later; he had more pressing matters at hand.

“Doesn’t matter, babe,” he said, his breathing starting to get ragged as he inched closer to coming inside you, “Your cunt is mine.” Adam might’ve been a sadistic asshole, but he was no idiot; he knew you were just as wretched and alone as he was.

You had to be if you were willingly sneaking around with God’s former favorite on a regular basis.

Which suited him just fine. If he was really damned, he might as well fill his time filling someone else.

His grasp tightened around your throat, and you felt your climax building inside you as he rutted against you at a now punishing speed. “Fuck you,” you squeaked out, trying to sound intimidating, but it was hopeless.

You unraveled around him a few moments later, spasming as you gasped for air, the constriction around your throat deliciously agonizing. Adam spilled into you soon after, a low hum of pleasure emitting from him. Him coming inside you was the most intimate he’d get as far your hookups were concerned.

Feeling equal parts disgusted and satisfied, you pulled your underwear back on, resting on your elbows and finally able to look him into the eye again. Even in the lusty post-sex haze, you could feel the sadness in his stare.

“So,” he drawled, leaning down to close the gap between you, “Same time next week?”

~~~~~

thanks for reading, depraved sinner! as always, please like/comment/reblog if you enjoyed! <3

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its-time-to-write · 1 year ago

Note

Hi love! Im obsessed with your writing. They actually make my whole day!!

I was wondering if you could do something with like protective!Jamie? Like maybe they’re out at a club and some guy won’t leave her alone!

Whatever you like? Thank you!

I did it! I didn’t know what gif to put with this. Wasn’t sure I’d finish it this weekend, but I got it done! I have finals next week, which either means I’m going to have a bunch of time or none at all. And again, thank you for being so kind. Many anonymous requests are not. 💚🍊

don’t go yet

Roy only lets Jamie go to the club when Richmond has won, which is why you’re both dressed up tonight.

“You can have two drinks. Not fucking four, not fucking three, two. And if you fucking go over, your girlfriend will fucking tell me,” Roy had said.

Jamie had relayed this to you, more than a tad scandalized, but you just shrugged and said, “Roy’s not wrong.”

So now you’re at the club and Jamie’s had one drink that he’s been making last way too long, but he’s finally downed it and you’ve offered to grab him another one. Dani’s in the middle of some hilarious story about his old team, involving shaving cream, an unsuspecting coach, and… snails? Anyway, Jamie’s deeply invested in whatever it is which is why you’re at the bar waiting for your drinks and he’s sitting down.

You’re contemplating what you want to do to Jamie once you get home, when an unfamiliar body sidles up to the space next to you.

You half-turn away to give him more space, but he just moves closer so you give him a look. The man, oblivious, says, “Hello gorgeous, name’s Max. What’s a sexy little thing like you doing out here all alone?”

Any distaste you had been stifling out of politeness ends. “I’m not alone, I’m here with my boyfriend,” you reply shortly.

Max makes a show of surveying the room. “Don’t see him,” he says, “so I suppose you’re fair game.”

Your drinks appear, and you grab them. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hey now, I’m only trying to be fucking friendly. Your boyfriend doesn’t let you have friends?” He’s now blocking your path back to Jamie. You try to dodge around him, but he won’t let you.

Max does not like that, and he snarls, “Don’t be such a bitch, I’m sure your boyfriend wouldn’t mind me having a turn, especially if he lets you out of the house looking like that.”

Your words catch in your throat, and before you can look around for help, there’s a tap on Max’s shoulder.

“Oi mate,” says Jamie, voice calm but eyes simmering with rage, “pretty sure she wants to be left alone.”

Max turns to assess Jamie and you dart past him, behind your boyfriend. “And what’s it to you, shithead?”

Oh god. The last thing Jamie needs is to get into a fight tonight. You know that Nate would love nothing more than to bench Jamie whenever an opportunity presents itself.

“Jamie,” you whisper, “let it go.”

Jamie doesn’t even look at you. “I’m her boyfriend, shithead.”

Max’s eyes betray a hint of surprise, then before you or Jamie can do anything he moves to shove Jamie. Jamie tenses up for a push that never happens, because Isaac has shown up from out of nowhere and has grabbed Max from behind.

“Time to go, bruv,” Isaac says as he and Dani haul Max away.

Jamie fists are still clenched as he turns to you. Despite the anger on his face, his voice is gentle. “You alright, love?”

You nod wordlessly and hand Jamie his drink. He takes both of them and puts them down. Your brain is playing catch-up because everything happened so fast.

“You wanna go?” he asks.

You nod again then shake your head. “No!” you protest, “This is your night out!”

Jamie’s hands are on your waist now, and you’re a little grateful because it’s grounding. You’re still reeling a bit.

“Babe,” he says, “I’m fucking exhausted, and you are too. And don’t fuckin’ lie, it ain’t gonna work. You’ve got little circles under your eyes. Let’s go home.”

You shut your mouth and sigh. That boy. He knows you too well.

On your way out he says, “Can we do face masks? Can feel me face losing its sexy glow.”

You smile and squeeze his hand. Only Jamie can make a shit night into something good.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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bookshelf-dust · 4 months ago

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can u pleaaaasseeeeee write something rly cute w patrick and reader where she takes care of him:((( maybe after the match where tashi gets injured he doesn't know where to go and he goes to her, and she comforts him and yk. like i just wanna give him a hug so bad

patrick zweig x fem!reader

word count: 1,208

warnings: a little swearing, overwhelmed/frustrated patrick, reader tries to straighten him out but also make him feel better, fluff (i can’t think of anything else)

a/n: hii baby!! i don’t usually take requests, but i loved this idea too much to let it slip away!!! i turned it into a little baby fic for you, and left it so you can interpret reader and patrick’s relationship however you’d like. and i made sure to give him that big big hug!! it takes place right after art and tashi tell patrick to get the fuck out lol. thank you for sharing this idea with me and i hope you enjoy it!!! <33

—��——

“I didn’t go to the match.”

Patrick says your name desperately, like he needs you to make this better somehow. You don’t have the heart to tell him this is out of your wheelhouse.

The man is pacing, fingers weaving in between his knotted curls and tugging at them, making his hair greasier by the minute. He’s sweaty, wearing a shirt you thought belonged to Tashi. In truth, his manic state is making you dizzy.

“You didn’t go?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. You sink further into the couch cushions.

“No. I fucked off after we fought and—”

“And,” you finish for him, “now the headlines are blowing up because Tashi fucking Duncan’s been injured and might’ve just jeopardized her entire career.”

Patrick kicks the base of the oversized chair you keep in the corner of your living room. “Fuck!” he shouts.

You stand up quick enough to make your vision blur, but ignore it. “Hey! Shithead! Don’t go fuckin’ with my furniture.”

He raises his hands, his cheeks flushed. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—

“No, you shouldn’t. Now sit your pretty ass down and tell me why you’re so panicked. I don’t have time for minced words.”

Patrick sits down. He watches as you lean over the side of the couch, the soft leather creaking, your oversized pajama shirt riding up to reveal cotton shorts. He realizes with a start that you’d settled in for the night when he barged in.

Being hit in the stomach with a ball snaps him out of his reverie. “There,” you say. “Squeeze that instead of hurting my shit.” He looks down at the stress ball in his hands and sits in the chair he’d just brutalized.

He’s quiet for a few more minutes, and you’re just about to say his name when he speaks.

“I told Tashi I didn’t want to be her groupie. I don’t even know why I said it, I-I just got fed up with planning everything around her tournaments and Art’s at fucking Stanford and I…I just think I’m pretty damn good at tennis too…right? When will it be my turn to be number one?”

Your brow creases. “If you didn’t go to the game, how’d you know she got injured so fast?”

That’s not what Patrick was expecting you to say, but he supposes it’s a valid question. He’s not used to having someone be so assertive with him. But maybe that’s why you work.

“I, uh, I went down to apologize, and you know word spreads pretty fast about that shit, so when I heard someone talking about her knee, I just started walking. And then Tashi and Art were in the infirmary, and obviously she’d told him what I’d said and they both—”

He’s rambling, and you’re not sure he’s taken a proper breath at all since he got here. “Patrick.” You stop him before he keels over on your rug. “Come sit over here with me.”

He does what you say because he can’t form a single coherent thought and instructions sound really nice.

“You stood up for yourself, alright? That’s okay. I’m sure Tashi did the same. I’m sure you both said things you didn’t mean. But…it’s not any of my business.” You pause.

You love Patrick. He's one of the few people you’ve been able to connect with and never worry about where you stand or whether they’ll be there for you if you’re in deep shit. And right now you just want to be a neutral party. He never worries about things going wrong like this, and then he’s never prepared and can’t handle it.

You inhale and continue. Patrick’s eyes are glued to your face, taking in every feature and waiting desperately for you to give him the lifeline he needs. He looks young and scared, and pleading.

“You have to give Tashi some space. She’s a strong woman, a total badass, but this is fucking huge, Patrick, y’know? Don’t overwhelm her any more. Give Art some time too, okay? If you go to them now it’s gonna be a shit show.”

He nods, his eyes bordering dangerously on the edge of becoming watery. All he hears is alone, alone, alone. Patience is not his strong suit.

“It’s not your fault Tashi got injured, Patrick. It’s just bad timing. You never could’ve known she’d get hurt a few hours after you ripped her a new one.”

He snorts. He knows you’re trying to make him feel better. And what else did he come over here for?

“I know,” he finally says. “I just got so pent up, and admittedly I’ve been a dick lately, but I don’t know what to do.”

You shrug, a little smile appearing on your face. “So don’t be a dick.”

Patrick blinks at you. “Don’t be a dick?”

“Yeah, don’t be a massive dick and don’t let yours control your decisions either, Zweig.” He almost protests, but you hold up a hand. “You know I’m right. For now, just focus on doing your job, and it will all sort itself out.”

He lets out a low laugh and starts shaking his head. He can’t believe this is his life right now. Honestly he should though, because of course it’d wind up being a shit show after such a good streak.

“Patrick?”

The gentle tone of your voice snaps him out of his reverie. He finds your gaze with impressive speed. “Hm?”

“Would you like to lay down? We could—

“Yes.” Patrick sits up on his knees, eyes shining and waiting for whatever embrace you’ll give him.

Without speaking, you lay down on your side with your spine pressed to the back of the couch. Patrick lays down next to you so quickly you think he might’ve gotten whiplash, and buries his face in your collarbones. He tucks one hand under his cheek and wraps the other one around your waist. You let him rest his temple on your arm and hug him close to you.

“It’s all gonna work out, okay, sweetheart? I’ll be here when the shit hits the fan.”

He looks up at you. “And when it doesn’t?”

“I’ll still be here anyway. You don’t ever have to suffer alone.”

Patrick lets out a little laugh. “You’ll suffer with me?”

You scratch at the base of his scalp with your nails. “Of course. I love suffering with you, Mr. Zweig.”

Patrick smiles, amazed at how he landed you for a best friend. You’ve never judged him a day in your life, even when he’s made the shittiest of all decisions and pushed everyone else away.

He lowers his head and burrows back into the warmth of your embrace. “Me too,” he mumbles.

“And Patrick? I just want you to know that you are fucking stellar at tennis. You’re great, and you’re talented, and you don’t need validation from anyone else to recognize that. But if it helps, you’re always number one in my heart.”

He squeezes you, closing his eyes so he doesn’t cry because you’re being so sweet. You give him tough love, but that’s what he needs.

“Thank you,” he says. And he means it. He believes what you’re saying, and he realizes he always has.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#savannah’s fics #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x y/n #patrick zweig x fem!reader #patrick zweig x female reader #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig fanfic #patrick zweig fanfiction #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig one shot #patrick challengers #patrick zweig challengers #patrick zweig comfort #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig angst #patrick zweig oneshot

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feelmyskinonyourskin · 2 years ago

Text

Not A Date

Pairing: Frank Castle x Female Reader

My Masterlist

Summary: You get stood up on a date and Frank decides that's unacceptable and you deserve to be taken out tonight. Except it's absolutely not a date, he swears, despite the fact it has all the makings of a perfect first date.

Warnings: Just all the fluffy goodness of friends to lovers. Some swearing because this is Frank we're talking about. Mild alcohol use. Author's questionable understanding of billiard rules.

AN: My first time writing Mr. Castle. I have a headcanon that Bucky goes to Curtis' veteran group therapy and I think he and Frank would be friends from that so both of those guys make an appearance. Feedback is always appreciated!

WC: 2151

The three flights of stairs up to your apartment leave you feeling winded even on a good day, but the complimentary glass of wine the waitress provided after feeling sorry for you buzzes through your system and couples with the twinge of disappointment, making the trek up to your home a feat akin to climbing Everest.

You fumble with your keys, but the knob on your front door gives way, no longer locked as you left it an hour before.

“If you’re gonna break and enter, at least lock it behind you,” you shout out, closing the front door behind you.

“Not breaking and entering if you give me a key,” a gruff voice answers back as you hang your now discarded jacket on an overcrowded hook in your entryway.

“A decision which I deeply regret,” you reply, entering the living room to find a familiar large man sprawled out on the sofa.

“Better than me breaking your window locks again …” his response cuts off as you enter the room, giving you a glance up and down. His brow furrows at the sight of you, more overdressed than usual, in front of him.

“What are you all dressed up for?” he asks

“I had a date. And it could have been a disaster if it had gone well and I brought him up here only to find my very intimidating and more-than-occasionally bleeding friend on my couch.” You gesture, taking note of the lack of open wounds on Frank’s body.

Finding Frank in your apartment was not an unusual occurrence, though it was always a surprise which state of distress he’d be in - whether he was dropping in for a friendly visit, or bleeding so profusely you weren’t sure the whole of the Red Cross’ supply could replenish him. Thank god, you didn’t also have to deal with stitching him up tonight.

“Okay. Clearly didn’t go well since you’re alone and it’s only 8:30,” he responds, checking his watch.

“Yeah well, he stood me up so…”

“You’re shitting me.” Frank's lips purse and his signature vacant stare glazes across his eyes.

“Nope,” you sigh, flopping down beside him. Your relationship with him so comfortable that you don’t even register the change in his expression, let alone fear it. You nudge your knee against his, attempting to reclaim some personal space from his massive frame currently dominating your tiny New York apartment. Frank does not yield, too focused on the tale of your love-life’s misfortunes.

“What a shithead. What’s his name?”

“Frank, no.” you say sternly.

“I just want to talk to him.”

“Yeah sure, talk to him.” you give air quotes, “Talk to him with your favorite shotgun.”

“Pfft don’t need a gun to let him know what I think. Fists’ll do just fine.”

“Well if the Punisher is suddenly going after scumbags who stand up women on dates instead of your usual criminals, I’m happy to provide a whole list.” you say dryly

Frank swallows thickly, fingers mindlessly plucking at his jeans as fury begins to grow inside him.

“Really? There’s more than one idiot standin’ someone like you up?” he gestures to how well you’ve cleaned up for the evening, letting his gaze linger on the way your outfit clings to your body.

“Apparently a very good majority of men in this city,” you respond with a shrug, trying not to notice the way his intense stare follows you to the kitchen as you stand again. Your fridge is embarrassingly empty and you mentally curse yourself for not doing any food shopping this week as a small gurgle rises in your stomach.

Frank cracks his knuckles and shakes his head and you swear you hear something similar to “assholes” mumbled under his breath.

“You hungry?” you ask “Cause I didn’t eat anything at the restaurant while I waited for that jerk, and now I’m starving. I’m gonna order something if you want?”

“Nah. Don’t order in tonight.” he replies, planting his weighty boots on the area rug and pushing against his thick thighs to stand.

“Frank, I’m starving, why not?”

“Cause we’re going out. You got all dressed up and I’m not gonna let some fucker ruin your night.” he explains, a mischievous spark dancing in his dark eyes.

“I am not letting you take me on a pity date, Frank.” you argue, cringing at the thought

“Not a date. But you’re hungry, I’m hungry. So let’s go somewhere.”

“Fine. Where are we going?” you resign, knowing there is no arguing with him once his mind is made up.

____________________________________

The small windows of the bar are caked in a layer of dust that matches the brown shade of the sticky wood floor Frank leads you across. The chatter from the handful of the evening’s patrons is punctuated by the occasional glass shattering from a barback tossing an empty beer bottle in the trash and the whack of cue poles hitting pool balls in the corner, where you and Frank are currently locked in a heat battle with two of Frank’s “fellow FUBAR veteran group” friends (as he lovingly introduced them.)

Deviating from a normal situation with you two, no one gives a second glance at Frank, worn jacket slung across his large frame and mud-crusted boots not even garnering a raised eyebrow from the several patrons seated at the bar top, all of whom in some way resemble the cast you’d see in b-grade cop show. Your chosen ensemble for your defunct date stands out among the casual crowd, prompting a few glances every once in a while from a passing handsome stranger. Frank does not hesitate to display a particularly harsh scowl, causing them to scuttle away in regret for even looking at you.

Frank’s calloused hands sneak a french fry off your half-eaten plate as you rosin up the cue pole, racking your brain for how you’re going to proceed strategically.

“Kay sweetheart, Curt and Barnes are up a point, so all you need to do is sink the 13 or the 9 and we can beat em’.”

“Angle’s too tight on the 13,” you respond “I think I can make the 9, but I’m not loving how close the 8 ball is.”

“You can do it, we just gotta get you lined up right. Here…” Frank ambles over to you, carefully bracketing his arms around you and guiding your hands into position. His broad chest barely sweeps against your back as he leans over you, sending an icy shudder down your spine. Usually so steady and precise, you swear you see his hands tremble for a moment as they rest on top of yours, lining up your shot with his military-trained eye for accuracy.

His breath is hot on your neck as he mumbles “All you” into your ear and takes a step back, the nearness of his body to yours stringing tension in thick spider-webbed threads between you.

“Kay, 9 ball. Right corner pocket,” you announce, throat suddenly feeling dry. You take a deep breath, over compensating for your current shortness on air, before pulling your elbow back and releasing.

A sharp crack rings out as the cue makes direct contact with its mark. The 9 ball wizzes across the green velvet, narrowly avoiding the 8, before sinking cleanly into the intended target. You jump up with a “whoop!” as Frank wraps his strong arms around you in celebration.

“Atta girl!” he cheers and you’re buzzing, though whether it’s the joy of victory or the way Frank is currently enveloping you and your senses, you can’t say.

Bucky and Curtis groan in frustration. As Bucky steps up to rerack the game, Curtis speaks up.

“You know you surprised me. The way Frank’s always describing you, had me thinking you’d be more demure and shy. You’re really more than he gives you credit for.”

“You talk about me at group?” you whip around to Frank, who stepped toward the back wall to take a swig of his beer.

“Mighta mentioned you in passing.” he shrugs, fiddling with the label of the bottle.

“Can’t get him to shut up about you.” Curtis replies

“C’mon Curt!” Frank rolls his eyes

“What else does he say about me?” you turn back to Curtis and a broad grin spreads across his face.

“Reracked and ready for round 2.” Bucky announces

“Barnes has an unfair advantage with that roboarm.” Frank complains, hoping to deviate the current subject away.

“I think Curtis and I are at a disadvantage going up against two of the best sharpshooters the country’s ever known,” you argue back, Frank’s attempt at changing the subject nearly working to take your mind off Curtis’ comments.

“Yeah well, only one of us isn’t a hundred.” Frank steps forward to take his shot and Curtis uses it to his advantage, leaning in to speak only in your ear.

“He says you’re the first thing that makes him feel good about himself since Maria and the kids died. Like he’s got a purpose for himself instead of just existing to be the Punisher. Those of us in the profession like to call that hope.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as Curtis steps away to go order another round at the bar, his words lingering in your mind as you glance over to Frank. His dark eyes meet yours, then he clears his throat, and quickly turns his attention to Bucky, who is circling the pool table with deep concentration. You swear you see a dopey smile growing on his face as he looks at the floor, avoiding your gaze.

____________________________________

The wind is loud in your ears as Frank’s motorcycle weaves and zips through the New York streets. You grip tightly to his back and breath in the hints of his woody aftershave mixed with the remnants of gunpowder still engrained in the fibers of his jacket. The Brooklyn Bridge looms large above as you cross over it, making your way back towards your apartment.

“Tonight was fun, Castle. You bring all your first dates to such a romantic spot?” you ask as you and Frank stroll down the sidewalk, stretching out the steps it takes to walk from his bike, which he parked an entire block away in a not-so-subtle act of extending the evening, to your front door.

“Told you sweetheart, that wasn’t a date. And no, I got a little more class than that,” His hands shoved in his pockets as the crisp evening air stings against a still healing bruise on his left cheek bone.

“So where do you usually take your first dates?” you ask

“Italian. There was a little place in Hell Kitchen that I used to take Maria to, but it’s been closed for years now. Gotta find a new spot.”

Frank has never shyed away from bringing up his family with you. You love that he feels comfortable enough with you to do that and he’s made it clear one of the reasons he keeps you around is because you don’t “get all weird” around him when it does come up.

“Well this is my building.” you say with a nod of your head towards the front door. He knows that and you know he knows that, but still you weren’t quite sure what to say as the evening is clearly coming to it’s end.

Deep, dark eyes meet yours and you both stare for a moment, before he cups your jaw and draws your face close to his. His lips are soft, even hesitant as they meet yours gently. He doesn’t linger, but pulls away just enough to give you the choice about what happens next.

“You kissed me,” you comment, lips still hovering inches from his as a giddy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah, that’s what you do at the end of a date when it goes well. Know I’ve been outta practice for a while now, but didn’t think that part changed much.” The boyish charm you know hides behind such an intimidating man now appearing behind his soft stare and lopsided grin.

“I thought this wasn’t a date.”

“Shit. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“I like Italian.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you respond nodding your head “So take me for Italian. On an actual date. And if it goes well, kiss me again.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” you confirm with another soft peck on his lips.

And for many years later, the number one argument in your relationship is which evening actually counted as your first date and which day your anniversary actually is. Frank lets you win that argument every time though. As embarrassed as he is when you tell people your first date was at a “seedy, Brooklyn dive bar no rational girl would’ve called him back after” (instead of the very romantic Italian spot he picked the next night,) it meant that you were his and that’s all that mattered.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #the punisher #frank castle imagine #punisher x reader #frank castle fluff

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okkalo · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! I saw you opened requests and thought I would drop one into your box!

I really like what you wrote for the crush + confessions, and was wondering if we could get scenarios for Reo, Shidou, and Kunigami saying "I love you" for the first time

Thanks in advance if you decide to write this!

hello! congrats on being my first request back 🤭 i hope u enjoy these and have a good day!!

characters: reo, shidou, kunigami (i haven’t mentioned this in my rules yet but i will always write pre-wildcard for him unless specified otherwise [it depends on the req too bc i feel like i won’t be able to characterize him right 😔]!!)

reo

- he was down bad since you started dating so he’s been feeling it for awhile

- knows not to say it early though because he doesn’t want you to doubt his feelings

- you’re probably feeling insecure about your relationship once he says it

- he revealed your relationship on social media not too long ago and a lot of the comments were making suggestions of you using him for his money and frankly just not being good enough for him.

- the average reo cliché am i right 🤣🤣

- reo knew you wouldn’t use him so he never worried about the comments

- he didn’t take into consideration the other comments though and just you not being used to hate comments

- he only realized once you had broke down in front of him

- he’s quick to comfort you, holding you in an embrace as you cry while rubbing your back

- once he hears you blubber about truly loving him and not needing his money he immediately gets it and separates from the hug to gently yet firmly hold your face, looking into your eyes as he confesses

“y/n, you know i don’t think any of that.” he started off, tone softening to match your vulnerable state. “and who cares what those losers claim? they’ve probably been single for decades to where they need to talk shit to cope, leave them be.”

“reo!” you gasp at his claim, giving him a light smack on the arm. that didn’t stop you from smiling, however. he only shook his head, continuing with his speech despite your disruption.

“y/n, i love you so so much. at this point even if you were using me for money i would still oblige.” he was quick to place a finger to your lips to stop your complaint. “i know you aren’t, though. but either way i still want to spoil you everyday, so i couldn’t care less about what those shitheads think, i only care about you.” you forgot how much of a sap reo could be, but either way his rambling certainly did comfort you. he sealed it all with a deep and loving kiss, making sure to replicate all of his emotions into his action.

shidou

- i’m actually going to stun everyone for a moment and say it actually takes him a WHILE to finally say the three words

- now stay with me for a minute

- i get that he’s a very say what he feels kinda guy but at the same time he doesn’t really feel love until later on

- and i mean like a year or 8 months

- it hits him so suddenly too

- you’re probably just doing something domestic with him and he realizes how important you’ve become to him

- he was soon to leave for a match abroad, so he had to get the most of your affection now before he was left to his lonesome

- that also meant he had to get some of his rowdiness out as well

“shidou, put me down!” your shout rang through your shared apartment as you thrashed around on his shoulder, which he had thrown you on like you were a stupid sack of potatoes. humiliating. he gave into your wishes shortly after, flinging you aggressively on the bed. he paid no mind to your hiss of pain at the not-so-polite meeting with the mattress. he was quick to climb on top of you. though, you noticed his usually aggressive eyes turn soft once looking down at you.

all at once, the thoughts of not being able to see your face for days on end, let alone hear your real voice hit him. he remembers back to the last time he had to leave you. how off he had felt the whole trip, his mind always thinking about you. wow, has he stooped as low as sendou?

without thinking another thought, he whispered a soft, “i love you.” he must have to be sounding this vulnerable in front of a woman. he figured he didn’t really care, enjoying the feeling of being you all to much to care. he dropped down to collapse on your body, effectively knocking out all of the air from your body while doing so. meanwhile, you were still shocked he showed you his softer set of eyes.

kunigami

- he probably tells you 2-3 months into the relationship

- it honestly depends how fast you guys are going

- he absolutely does it when you are doing something cute in his eyes

- so that can be in public or just the two of you, he doesn’t care, really. if it’s public get ready to blush because the way he says it with total emotion will make you weak.

- for this one you guys were in the comfort of his house, lounging around on the couch on your phones while you rested on his chest

- you got hungry so you got up to go get something to eat from the kitchen

- still on your phone, you gasped so loud once you came across pictures of baby and mama polar bears together, knowing your boyfriend would love the sight

- so, of course, you ran back to his arms, ignoring his worried questions, and shoved your phone in his face.

“rensuke, look!” you exclaimed, eyes wide as you shuffled in to get comfortable in his lap. he gave a confused look to you, wondering what the whole ordeal was about. you sighed, bringing your phone down to give him a pouty expression. “it’s polar bears, you’re favorite.”

realization spread across his face, now understanding you had been excited to show him the pictures of his favorite animal. “that’s what all that was about?” he breathed a sigh of relief. you only nodded, lifting your phone back up so he could look at the pictures of them.

a small smile spread on his face, more at you then the pictures. once you finished scrolling through the different photos of polar bears and looked back at your phone with a content smile he confessed. “i love you,” it was mostly a thought that just happened to slip from his lips, catching him but some surprise too. your eyes widened, looking back up at him. he had a soft pink tint on his cheeks. he figured there was no going back with his sentence, instead leaning in to give you a soft peck on the cheek.

unedited thanks for reading!

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk imagines #blue lock imagines #bllk fluff #blue lock fluff #blue lock drabbles #bllk drabbles #blue lock reo #bllk reo #reo x reader #blue lock shidou #bllk shidou #shidou x reader #blue lock kunigami #bllk kunigami #kunigami x reader

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ugh-yoongi · 1 year ago

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ONG i neeeeed more brothers best friend seokjin you write him so well all awkward and flustered but then… not. Would you ever continue that Drabble or give us a prequel?

ah, thank you! <3

ask and ye shall receive. sorry it took me so long, but here's that time they fucked in the bathroom.

(read the original drabble here.)

want it anyway

pairing: seokjin x f. reader genre: brother's best friend au; smut warnings: reader is a brat again & is wearing a dress, spanking, one corpse joke, brief protected sex, nonstop bickering, unedited. rating: explicit. minors do not interact. wordcount: 1.2k

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Seokjin only knows you’re rolling your eyes from your reflection in the mirror. Maybe Seokjin only knows a lot of things in that kind of way, because you’ve been over this a hundred times and it’s getting a little old. You’re not even a couple, but you’re now able to finish his sentences, already know what he’s going to say.

You roll your eyes again.

This earns you a swat on the ass. Despite the amount of noise on the other side of the door, it’s loud in the cramped space of your brother’s bathroom, and Seokjin immediately pales, goes stock-still like he’s at war and his life depends on going unnoticed. You think he’d abandon you to press his ear against the door, but he keeps his hand against your bare skin, grips tighter when one second passes and then two.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says. If it wouldn’t get you spanked again, you’d roll your eyes for a third time. Talk about stating the obvious.

“Really?” you deadpan. “Would’ve thought we had all the time in the world to fuck in my brother’s bathroom.”

He reaches around, gently tugs at your bottom lip. “Either put this mouth to good use or keep it quiet. No more bratty comments.”

“One might argue the bratty comments are putting it to good use.”

“Not me. Bend over.”

“I am—”

“More, then. Can you at least pretend to be helpful?”

Of course you can, but you’re not going to. Not with all the grief Seokjin had caused you up to this point: all the looks across the room, the way he’d choked and had to excuse himself after your brother had seated you two together at dinner and you’d rubbed his thigh just as the meal was winding down, the panicked text he’d sent from the bathroom saying his boner wouldn’t go away, to which you’d replied he was far too old to call it a boner, to which Seokjin had sent back an eye-roll emoji and asked if you were going to come help him. Maybe later was your response.

“Later” wound up being twenty minutes. Long enough to clear the table and half-ass the dishes. Long enough for your brother and the rest of his friends to break out the beer and video games. Long enough for you to slip down the hallway unnoticed, knock on the door, roll your lips at the exasperated look on his face. Long enough for him to drag you inside and lock the door, pull the skirt of your dress up and over your ass.

Seokjin sighs, undoes his belt. Makes another face at how loud the metal clangs together. “Why are you like this? Do you honestly think you’d die if you weren’t a shithead for five minutes?”

“Who could say?” you fire back. “You wanna take that risk? Might end up real weird for you.”

“Ugh, why—”

“You’d have to explain to my brother why you’re in here with my corpse.”

There are a lot of reasons that, of all your brother’s friends, Seokjin was not a smart pick for the kind of mutually beneficial relationship the two of you have, but sometimes he’s the best. Because it’s as easy to rile him up as it is to fluster him. Because one second he’s huffing and complaining about your smart mouth, and the next he’s rolling a condom on, pulling your panties to the side, and pushing inside.

“Fuck.”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you, already overwhelmed at the stretch and the fullness. Could be Seokjin, with the way he’s rolling his hips and desperately trying to stay quiet; the way he whines a little every time his skin slaps against yours so he steps in closer, fucks in deeper, has to bury his face against the side of your neck to muffle his moan.

The proximity has you dangerously close. Has Seokjin’s cock pressing exactly where it needs to for your legs to tremble, knees threatening to give out. Lips still pressed against your neck, Seokjin smiles, asks if you’re close, if you’re gonna come undone for him.

All you can do is nod, and you do.

The sound Seokjin makes when he comes is nearly enough to pull another orgasm out of you.

There’s a brief moment of calm. Seokjin pulls out slowly, laughs a little—the huff of air feels nice on your heated skin. In the mirror, you watch as he hesitates: looks like he wants to kiss you. His lips had stayed pressed to your neck the entire time, and it only now feels strange that he hadn’t done it. Feels like you’ve been robbed of something, and you wonder if you should mention it. God knows you aren’t shy about asking for what you want, but Seokjin’s hesitancy has you second-guessing.

He doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he busies himself with tying off the condom. Crumbles up some toilet paper and cleans you off first, then himself. Fixes his clothes. Mumbles a shy, quiet excuse me and then he’s taking your place at the sink and splashing cold water on his face. When he surfaces, he still looks beautiful and not at all like he’d just fucked you right where he stands.

“Should I go first?” you ask. Normalcy feels weird. A little wrong.

Seokjin shakes his head. “No, I’ve been gone longer. Give me a couple minutes and come up with a story.”

You snort. “Probably won’t need to. They’re all so drunk they probably forgot we were even here to begin with.” Seokjin doesn’t look relieved. “Fine, go. I’ll figure it out.”

“Sorry—”

You wave him off. He still looks torn, but he turns to leave anyway, and it’s only when he goes to unlock the door and let himself out does he realize he’s still holding the tied-off condom and that torn look morphs into panic. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Huh? Just throw it away.”

“Your brother will see it!”

“Oh my god, who cares—”

“Should I just flush it down the toilet—”

“Are you insane? You won’t put it in the trash, but you’ll clog his plumbing?”

“Well, I don’t know! Can’t you just take it with you?”

“And do what with it?”

“I don’t know! Put it in your purse!”

“Ew—”

“Please!”

“No, Seokjin, that’s disgusting. Are you serious?”

“Please. Please! I’ll owe you one. I’ll do whatever you want, I just can’t throw it away, it’s too risky.”

“Put it in your pocket, then!” He pulls a face. “Oh, so you’ll have me store it in my purse, but putting your own cum in your pocket is too much? You know what—”

You rifle through the drawers, sighing in relief when you find a box of pads. You pluck one from inside and open it, temporarily sticking the pad itself to the counter. With as unamused an expression as you can muster, you hold out your hand and wordlessly ask for the condom, which Seokjin hands over with trepidation. You place it in the wrapper and toss it in the trash.

“There. Can’t even tell.”

He points at the pad. “What are you gonna do with that?”

“You’re gonna stick it in your boxers and suffer. Consider it your favor repaid.”

Seokjin squawks in protest, but it dies on his tongue as soon as you pull the bathroom door open.

#seokjin x reader #seokjin smut #bts smut #bts x reader #seokjin fanfic #bts imagines #seokjin imagine #work: 1kfm #jewel answers

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hachiibun · 2 years ago

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❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

I'm honoured to have collaborated with the incredible @onetrickponi to celebrate a certain gravity-manipulating shorty's birthday! This has been in the works for a while now, and we're both really excited to finally share this with everyone!

Without further ado, we'd like to present Vigil.

— ♠ —

“I’ve always wanted to die in a church.”

Beside him, Chuuya snorts. “I thought you wanted to die in the Ooka.”

Dazai wrinkles his nose. “Not since it became a tourist trap,” he replies. “That wouldn’t be a peaceful death at all.”

“The amount of thought you’ve put into this disturbs me,” says Chuuya, his own nose creasing. His, however, is due to a low seated, buzzing itch along the bridge of his sinuses that has been lingering since breakfast.

Chuuya won’t give it the satisfaction of culminating into a sneeze, however; instead choosing to quash the soft tingle into oblivion with the sheer force of his willpower alone. Anything else would be unacceptable.

(—as well as fucking candy to the idiot next to him, if Dazai ever gets wind of…whatever this is.)

Chuuya swallows against a spark of itch that ignites in his nose and grits his teeth. When he thinks he can speak steadily he points to the pews with a gloved hand. “Find the flash drive,” he orders. “We’ve got a window of thirty minutes at—the fuck are you looking at, shithead?”

Dazai cocks his head to the side, blinks, and answers with, “Just admiring your striking resemblance to a cherub in this light.” It’s smooth and practiced, like most of Dazai’s bullshittery.

“Why, you–” Chuuya cuts himself off and exhales slowly through his nose. He tries not to wince at the slight whistling sound it makes. With a sharp sniff he stalks off to the sanctuary and begins sifting through the drawers there. Dazai scurries off to the apse with an excited noise, muttering something about how angelic his corpse would look strung up along the mosaics.

Chuuya’s nose gives a foreboding quiver.

It isn’t like Dazai hasn’t ever heard him sneeze, or vice versa. They’ve been working together too long for that. They’ve seen each other express every bodily function possible to man (in addition to the ones that aren’t).

And Chuuya might have even been okay with his current predicament, had it not been for a quip Dazai made last week about Chuuya being a “weakling.” It had stung because Dazai, whose lack of self care is, frankly, appalling, can operate seemingly unbothered by even the most serious neglects of basic needs. Chuuya’s seen him run at peak wit on days of sleeping ninety minutes a night, seen his hair and skin glow on a diet of crab cakes and sake…while on the other hand Chuuya’s the one with the—

Don’t say it. As if ignoring the problem will make it go away. It hasn’t worked with Dazai, so Chuuya is a fool to think it will work with his increasingly sensitive airways.

Chuuya rifles through some bibles, sparing a glance or two at Dazai before deeming it okay to swallow a couple of sneezes and throat clears into his sleeve. He’s perfected the silent stifle over time, which is a feat in and of itself since Chuuya tends to sneeze harshly, loudly, and in multiples. Perhaps the intensity is Corruption at work, but regardless, Chuuya enjoys scaring the living daylights out of people. Usually.

The flash drive is proving to be elusive. The Port needs it, badly, if they have any chance of winning over the west side gangs of the Pier. Chuuya jams a gloved knuckle against the side of his nose as he hitches, squints, and glares at the church pews like they personally offend him.

“Oi, Chuuya,” Dazai whisper-calls from somewhere behind a cupboard. “I think someone’s coming. You find it?”

“No,” Chuuya snaps. The dust of old, flaky books is making his already irritated nose twitch. He shakes his head and the tickle abates. Cocking his head he realizes that Dazai is right; the sound of slow footfalls is getting closer to the vestibule. “Shit.”

Dazai scurries lightly over to where Chuuya is glowering at nothing in particular, and takes him by the arm. “There’s a little den area over there,” he nods to a veiled corner, “where we can stay hidden until whoever it is leaves,” he says.

“Or we can just come back in the morning,” replies Chuuya, snatching his arm away.

“Mori-sama will be disappoinnnteddd,” Dazai sing-songs. Dammit. He knows how to hit Chuuya where it hurts and they both know it.

Chuuya sighs. “Fine.” He stalks over to the den and crouches in the darkness with Dazai just as the cathedral doors swing open. The gibbous moon twinkles through the stained glass windows enough for the two of them to make out one of the western gang’s right hands.

Dazai crouches low and squints through the shadows. “Maybe he’ll show us where the drive is,” he whispers.

“Shut up, slug.”

Dazai holds up his bandaged hands in a familiar, placating gesture. They watch the guy glide down the stone nave, rummage around some boxes along the altar’s steps, sift through a stack of papers, and make himself comfortable on a nearby cushion.

Well, there goes Chuuya’s hopes of a night in. And now with Dazai sitting so close, he’s bound to find out Chuuya isn’t in as good of shape as he claims. Chuuya’s not going to waste all of his energy hiding it, but he’s also not ready to be discovered because he couldn’t keep his damn nose under control.

He’d never hear the end of it from Dazai.

So when he feels a trickle of damp at the edges of his nostrils he takes a slow breath in and times a much-needed sniffle with their visitor’s dropping of a folder. Dazai shoots him a curious, but unsurprised glance, which Chuuya pointedly ignores.

The sneeze teasing the swollen membranes of his sinuses, however, is much harder to ignore. Chuuya knows he can stifle it, but he also knows that doing so won’t exactly solve the problem. The irritation needs somewhere to go, or it’ll just build fruitlessly until he lets them out proper.

He breathes carefully, making sure to hitch silently as he bunches up a handful of fabric from his jacket. Chuuya ducks his head in preparation for the sneeze (or sneezes, if this is indeed a…cold).

Dazai raises an eyebrow as he watches Chuuya curl into himself and shiver with two inaudible stifles. When Chuuya uncurls Dazai can see the bleary, hazy look of someone who still has desperately to sneeze but is trying very hard not to.

“Can you stop, Chibi?” whispers Dazai. Chuuya shoots him a look that is equal parts furious and embarrassed. It’s adorable. But…

“Frankly, I’d rather not get caught because you couldn’t tame your little nose there,” Dazai continues. “Are you suuure you’re good?”

Chuuya gives a curt nod. Which should be reassuring, but Dazai’s smile falters because this is actually very bad. He recognizes the lack of quip, even while hiding like this, means that Chuuya does not trust himself enough to speak. He’s seen it before.

Dazai flicks an errant strand of hair out of his eyes and sighs. “Maybe we really will die in a church, if you keep this up.”

Chuuya’s returning grin is feral. “Y-you wish.” No way in hell will he allow Dazai the satisfaction. The carpets blanketing the enclosed den mean that they can whisper without much of an echo. It’s a small relief, since Chuuya can feel the congestion crawling and pattering away in a far back place of his nose, dormant but threatening.

He focuses on how intently Dazai is eyeing him, knowing well what Dazai isn’t saying. Engaging would be easy, but it would be messy and they’re supposed to be currying favor with the west side gangs, not killing them (or in Dazai’s case, very emphatically bonking them on the head).

Chuuya’s right eye waters with the sharpness of the tickle, as the itchiness swells and becomes decidedly less dormant. He bites his lip. If this keeps up his nose is going to turn into fucking Krakatoa.

Dazai watches Chuuya massage his flaring nostrils through the fabric of his gloves and grins with as many teeth as he can muster. Chuuya’s losing battle with his nose is even more hilarious than the fact that he’s currently sitting on a pile of Communion pamphlets.

It won’t be long now, what with the way Chuuya has gone stiff and rigid. Dazai counts backwards from five in his head. He gets to two before Chuuya’s lip trembles as the itch erupts and overwhelms him.

“Gnt!” Chuuya’s able to pinch that one into submission, though it makes his head throb and the pulsating trickle along his nose intensify with unsatisfied need. “Gnt! Nt! H’Gnt!”

He starts to lower his hand, before—“Gnt!” Jesus fuck, can’t he be done?

The answer is no, apparently, because Chuuya feels his eyes begin to flutter shut and his chest start to jump with silent, building hitches.

Before he can sneeze again, however, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It successfully distracts him from the budding sneeze as Chuuya whips his head around to stare at Dazai’s familiar, shit-eating grin.

Dazai uses the finger he’d tapped Chuuya with to beckon. “C’mere.”

Chuuya sniffs carefully and squints. “Why?”

Rolling his eyes, Dazai grabs him (gently, Chuuya notices, which okay, is a little odd) and smashes his face into his long overcoat (a little less gently).

“Mnflgl?” Chuuya questions.

“Sneeze, Chuuya,” Dazai orders. Chuuya tries to shake his head because one, Dazai’s forgetting how harsh his sneezes are—sure to give them away, and two, Chuuya might hate the guy but he’s not going to sneeze on him.

Dazai seems to read his mind. “The fabric will muffle the sound,” he replies. “And you’ll pay for my dry cleaning.” Chuuya can hear his smirk. Asshole.

But he also wants very badly to sneeze. No; at this point he’s desperate to sneeze. His nose feels like one of his gravity bombs, pulsing, thrumming, and the itch is all consuming. It would feel so good to just let a few out. He really shouldn’t.

“I know you need to,” whispers Dazai.

So, against all logic, Chuuya does.

“Hep-MPPH! MPPHT! H’MPPH!” Somehow, the fabric dampens the sound better than Chuuya thought it would. So he decides he can sneeze a little more.

“Hh…hh…MPPHT! PHT! MPPHT! Hp!…H-Hep-MPPHH!”

He’s beginning to feel dizzy. It’s worth it, though, as the stuffy, spider-crawling prickle along his nose subsides for the time being. God, he’s never had to sneeze so badly in his life. Makes sense it’s now, when he needs to be quiet.

And Dazai—the utter prick—is patting his head, like Chuuya’s some sort of mutt. “You’re a mess, you know that?” he’s saying, fondly, as Chuuya shakes with sneeze after sneeze. It’s a wonder the gang’s right hand hasn’t discovered them yet.

Slowly, Chuuya comes up for air. He thanks some leviathan god that it’s dark, so he doesn’t have to look at what he’s done to Dazai’s coat. He’s not even going to look at Dazai, because this is probably one of the most humiliating things to happen to him in…well, not as long as Chuuya’d like to admit. This is Dazai, after all.

“Bless you,” Dazai says quietly. Chuuya’s head snaps to him because Dazai sounds wrong. Odd. Genuine. Ah, that’s why it took so long to place. Dazai rarely does sincere, and the few times he expresses genuine emotions tend to signify nothing good at all.

“Thank you,” Chuuya mutters between a clenched jaw because he may have made a mess of himself but he still has manners, goddammit. He blinks the remaining wetness from his eyes as he peers at Dazai for a suspended moment.

“Oh, and if you’re curious, the guy left five minutes ago.”

And the moment is over.

Chuuya jumps up. “You utter assho-ho–” He’s cut off by the familiar needling sensation at the back of his nose. Oh no you don’t. Jamming a fist under his septum hard enough to bruise, he points a finger at Dazai.

“I despise you,” he hisses. “All thihh…th…hih…”

Dazai holds a hand to his ear. “What was that?”

Chuuya shakes his head with a tickly sniff in hopes that his nose will make up its mind and move from where it’s currently settled—in the burning, stinging place between sneeze and not sneeze that’s driving him even more up the wall than Dazai is.

Dazai cocks his head at just the right angle that a piece of hair falls into his eyes. “That sneeze looks troublesome,” he observes. “Is it stuck? Like Chuuya’s growth spurt?”

Chuuya growls and kicks a nearby chair leg for good measure, now that they don’t have to concern themselves with being quiet. The sound is hollow and echoes across the large cathedral chamber.

There’s a wrinkled, damp spot on one side of Dazai’s overcoat that Chuuya pointedly avoids looking at. The crazy bastard had let him do that, all for, what? Funsies? To torture him? Chuuya will unpack that for later. It never bodes well to try to make sense of Dazai’s brain. Besides, the much-needed sneeze is still eluding him. If he could just–just…

“Hih…Hept! Hh…Fuck! Shit!”

Dazai sighs. “Okay, I can’t watch this,” he says, striding over to Chuuya. “Stay still, Chibi.”

Chuuya glares at him, irritation evident in his eyes and in his raw, wide-blown nostrils. “If you’re doi’g anythi’g other thad helpi’g, Dazai, I will obliterate you,” he says darkly, throat crackling and sore.

Dazai grins wide. “Relax,” he says. He wiggles a finger. “I know Chuuya’s sneeze spot.”

“What the fuck even is a—” Dazai presses a finger to the bridge of Chuuya’s nose, in the center, and gives it a circular rub back and forth. Chuuya stumbles back and manages a wavering, shaky curse in French before he snaps forward with a fusillade of unrestrained sneezes.

“Hih-ASHHHu! Hep’ASHHU! AHSSHU! AHSSH! AHSSHH! AHSSHU! Merde!…Heh-heh…hih’ASHHU!”

Chuuya sneezes and sneezes, for once uncaring about decorum. It’s a miracle his hat doesn’t fly off. He’s so overcome with finally scratching the itch in his nose that he almost doesn’t feel the tap at his shoulder. Dazai’s extending a packet of tissues that look like they were newly purchased.

“Goodness! I don’t know whether to bless Chuuya or call an exorcist,” he remarks.

“Shut up,” Chuuya mutters around a tissue. With that annoyance out of the way, it’s seeping in just how awful he feels. He sighs, heavy, and rubs at a temple. “Nom de dieu…”

“I really don’t know how someone so little can sneeze with such ferocity,” continues Dazai, ignoring Chuuya. It’s easy to say the man was put on this earth for the sole purpose of making Chuuya’s life miserable. “Hih…ASHHU!” Chuuya’s head gives a throb and things slide out of focus for a minute. He coughs, rough, and pushes some sweaty hair away from his face. How unsightly.

“Oh, and Chuuya?” Dazai makes a burlesque of leaning in and peering at him. “The next time you’re sick, call in, okay?” And then he reaches one lanky arm over and pats Chuuya’s head.

“I never said I was sick,” Chuuya snaps, jerking out of reach. Dazai makes to poke his nose again, but Chuuya evades him with a hoarse snarl. “Stop.”

In response, Dazai gives him a condescending look that Chuuya knows well. It’s the one where he purses his lips and crinkles up his large, dark eyes. The one he knows infuriates Chuuya the most. “Please,” he says, waving a hand. “I knew before we even got here. Just wanted to see how long you could keep it up.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to utter some expletive, he doesn’t know which one yet, but the sneezy feeling decides to return—bristling like a thousand tiny whiskers along the rims of his inner nose. Stifling it to refute Dazai’s point will only make his head pound harder, so Chuuya wrenches to the side with a sneeze. Which, naturally, makes him cough.

“Hmmm, you really don’t sound good, Chuuya.”

“Fuck you.”

Dazai makes a face. “Ew, no thanks. But since you’re already paying for my dry cleaning, why don’t I treat you to a nice bowl of leek soup and tea?”

Dazai is so confusing at times Chuuya could strangle him. Or at least blame him for the acute emotional whiplash.

“Hh’ASSHu! AHSSH! J'en peux plus…” Chuuya twitches his nose to the side and straightens his hat. “Whatever—let’s just find that drive and get the hell out of here so I can go to bed,” he grumbles. It’s not exactly a refusal (because tea does in fact sound nice), but Chuuya is more than done with this place.

“You mean this?” Dazai wiggles a little USB between two bandaged fingers. Chuuya sputters. “Yup. Found it ages ago and switched it with a fake.”

“AAH?!”

— Fin —

#snz #snz kink #hachiisnzart #ch/uuy/a n/akahar/a #b/ungo st/ray d/ogs #o/sam/u d/az/ai #hachiibunart #ppls fics #onetrickponi #my GOODNESS poni your writing #give all the thanks to poni for the wonderful fic and patience waiting for me to finish #seeing all the ppl into b/s/d nowadays is so lovely #i'm still v much into the series and especially this angry shorty #hopefully it shows in my part >;)

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foxymoxynoona · 1 year ago

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Over the Falls Ch. 3: Churn

Sexy Banner & bar by @borabae-gx

Summary: Jungkook sees a lot of things as a pool tech. It’s… fine. It pays the bills between mornings on the water and evenings rocking out with his garage-band. His favorite thing to see on the job has been Grace Birch –older but a hottie, wealthy but nice, and unfortunately very married. At least until Grace learns what her husband has been up to behind her back. Now that she’s free, Jungkook finds himself wondering: what does it take for a guy like him to catch the eye of a woman like that?

Genre: Poolboy Jungkook x Rich Divorcee OC

Tags: Age gap (older woman), socioeconomic gap, Surferboy JK, drummer/guitarist/vocalist JK, Wealthy divorcee OC, househusband

CW: Mature/Explicit, Infidelity (not between JKxOC), language, alcohol, recreational drugs, lots of explicit sex, ageist/racist/classist remarks down the road, outdoor sex, beach sex

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

“GRACE!”

She hated the way her name sounded as a shout. The gr got swallowed, the a dragged out, the c punched too hard. Tim had always said her name in a way that sounded like an insult, she just hadn’t realized it until now. He rarely called her by it, only if he was angry or disappointing her, pleading for her to accept an insincere apology.

Grace pulled her phone out and opened the voice recording app, as instructed. When her divorce attorney had given her these tips, she hadn’t thought she would need them. She’d been more focused on her regret that she wouldn’t get to see Tim’s face when he got served the papers. He’d be so shocked. He didn’t know she knew. He would never expect her to go through with this even if she did find out –and that had, in fact, been the deciding thing for her. Her husband would make excuses and expect to be forgiven.

Well, she refused. She refused to be that woman. She refused to spend another minute of her time working on a marriage to this man. She’d worried about her decision up until the first meeting with her divorce attorney and then relief had flooded her system so sharp and fast that it nearly carried her away. She couldn’t fucking wait to be divorced from this asshole, who was too stupid and to even delete the evidence from their in-home camera system

They’re always stupid, the divorce attorney –a woman named Lidiya Hel, very good at what she did– told her. Their egos can’t imagine that they’ll get caught. Their egos can’t imagine they won’t be forgiven because they’ve always been forgiven for everything. It’s not like this is the first thing he’s done wrong in the marriage, is it?

No. It was not.

As soon as the backdoor slid open, Grace sprang to her feet, hit record, and announced, “I am recording this conversation so I’d suggest not saying anything you don’t want on record.”

“Grace.” He spat her name and stormed towards her, the yellow legal envelope curled in his hand like a newspaper to hit her on the nose with. “The fuck is this? Divorce papers?”

“Yes. Did you read them?”

“I didn’t need to! I saw the first line and knew something was wrong. I was at work! I was just leaving a meeting with the CEO and this fucktard comes up and asks who I am. I thought it was a shithead new hire! Instead he gives me this shit. At work!”

Grace was glad to hear the play by play and corrected him, “I don’t control when the server finds you.”

“Don’t give me that shit. What is this? What do you mean, divorce? First I’m hearing that you’ve got any issues in this marriage and you didn’t even have the balls to talk to me first? Sweetheart, whatever it is–”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she interrupted. “That’s what you’ve been calling all of the women you fuck in our home. I’m not sure what you call the ones you don’t bring here.” She didn’t actually know if there were more than the three over the last two years, but she assumed so. Probably on all those business trips.

Tim froze. The fucking idiot. The papers said she was filing on grounds of adultery. He really hadn’t read them. Grace couldn’t imagine the self importance you needed to just walk into a situation like this blindly and assume it would go well for you.

“You can’t be surprised I figured it out,” she scoffed. “Do you realize how much footage I have from the home security system you chose?”

“You’re bluffing and it’s not a good look for you,” he countered. “You don’t have the login for the account. It’s in–”

“I’m your wife. It was no problem at all to get it.”

Tim froze, like she’d paused a video, for an insanely long moment.

“Now… now look here. I…” he restarted.

Actually, this was even better than seeing him when he got served. The emotions moved so rapidly across his flace she couldn’t name them, but she did know they indicated a usually brilliantly-quick mind trying to pick its angle. He was quick on his feet, that was why he did so well at his job. What would he choose: play the victim? Blame her? Beg for forgiveness? Rage about the invasion of his privacy?

He glanced at the phone in her hand and laughed, “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart. I can toss that in the pool and there goes your precious recording.”

“Ruining my property, I think that’s technically assault.”

“Just because your head-up-his-ass father is a lawyer doesn’t make you one. I’m sure he’s– no. No, I didn’t mean that. You’re just catching me by surprise right now. I’m not going to break your phone. What, did you think I was going to do something violent?”

“Maybe.”

“Grace…”

“Turns out I don’t know you at all.”

“Oh come on,” he sighed, and looked away. He was still deliberating. He was trying to buy time, trying to calculate which method would get him what he wanted. And she knew he was having a hard time because he couldn’t predict her anymore. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave another deep sigh. “Grace. I’m sorry.”

She really hadn’t thought he’d pick that one.

“I made a mistake. You’re right.” He nodded, gaze roaming the pool area, her book, her drink beside the lounge chair. “I got carried away… I’m under so much pressure with work, you know that. A few late nights, and… and you working so much…”

“So it’s my fault you fucked multiple women?”

“I’m a sex addict.”

“You’re a liar,” she corrected, “And a selfish prick.”

“Oh, what now, who’s the one calling names on your little recording?” he demanded, as if this was some incredible victory for him. “Here I want to have a conversation about how we can fix this marriage and you’re–”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Fix what?”

“I know you’re hurting right now and in shock… I… I didn’t mean for you to find out,” he said, hands out like he expected her to slip hers into them. “I knew I messed up. I’d already called it off and I was going to come clean and–”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“You fucking bitch, you can’t even listen to me saying I– Sorry,” he interrupted himself again, holding his hands up for a pause and looking away. Grace just stared at him and tried to understand how she had ever loved this toad. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I’m just frustrated. Sweetheart, I understand you’re hurt and mad. Hey, I’d be pissed too if you were fucking around, but if the situation was reversed and I was looking at it from how you’ve been, I’d hear me out because I love you and—”

“From how I’ve been? How have I been, Tim?” she demanded. “Supportive? Lonely? Dedicated to our marriage and the things that make you happy?”

“Me? The things that make me happy? What’s so hard that you’re doing to make me happy? You don’t sacrifice a damn thing for me, you just peck at my all the time and all the ways I’m not as successful as your dear old dad. Let me tell you what you’re not doing to make me happy is you aren’t… you aren’t supporting me when things are hard at work. You aren’t listening to me now as I’m apologizing and trying to fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re a terrible husband but I thought you were at least loyal! I thought you were just a workaholic because I’m an idiot!” She stepped away from him, biting back her own rage so it wouldn’t make her cry. She didn’t want to rage cry. She wanted to stay calm and in control because she had made her decision and there was nothing he could say to change it.

“Sure, now you’re saying I’m a terrible husband, but I’ve made you happy! We’ve been happy together all these years and I’m not the one giving up on our future. Get rid of these fucking papers,” he said and threw them into the pool. “We’re not talking divorce. We’ll go to counseling. I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not going to counseling with you.”

“Oh, but I’m the bad guy? I’m the one who wants to work on our marriage here–”

“We don’t have a marriage, Tim. It broke as soon as you started fucking around and I can’t begin to understand why you suddenly want to fight for it now.”

“Because I made a mistake and I don’t want to let that ruin the best thing in my life–”

“No. No you did not make a mistake. How many mistakes did you make, Tim? How many women? For how many years? I have proof of at least three and I’m sure more will be uncovered–”

“What, your dad hired a fucking P.I. or something?” His face hardened and it reminded her of the “jokes” he’d made before, about whether her family did that kind of thing, if they’d have him investigated or watched, if they’d ever trust him. He said they were crazy, delusional, then reached his hand out for some of their money. They had done that before the wedding, without her knowledge of blessing. Because her family well knew that money made other people crazy and delusional and willing to do anything to get it from you. There had been nothing to find back then. Or he hadn’t been as lazy about hiding it.

Tim paced, tucking his hands into his armpits as this new thread caught him, and he pressed, ‘What does your dad think about this, huh? Your family all up in arms ready to crucify me when I bet your dad’s done the same thing. It happens, Grace. Men make mistakes when they work with the kind of stakes men like me and your dad do–”

“Stop comparing yourself to my father,” she scoffed. “You are nothing like him.”

“So far as you know, huh, Grace? You’re so fucking naive…”

“Yeah, about you!”

“Daddy’s Girl, worship the ground he walks on. I should have known he’d tell you to leave me. Is that what he said?”

Grace knew it would drive him crazy as she answered, “His reaction isn’t any of your business.” Tim wanted so badly to be liked by her father, despite his claims of not caring. How devastating for her that he would probably be more upset to lose her father’s respect than to lose hers.

“You want me to apologize to him? I’ll do it.”

“It’s over, Tim. I am not interested in reconciliation and it has nothing to do with my–”

“Like hell you’re not! I’ll fight for this marriage–”

“Why?!” she cried. “You don’t want to be with me!”

“Of course I do! I married you, Grace! I love you!”

“You don’t.”

“Don’t you tell me what I do or don’t–”

“You cheated on me! You don’t cheat on people you love!”

“It was a mistake. I regret it! You get that on your recording? You got your little trophy? Turns out when a man is nagged by his wife it gets to him.”

“It’s not my fault!” Grace insisted. She felt like he was spinning around, trying to make her dizzy and confused.

“You want me to grovel? Is that it?”

“If I’m so awful as a wife, why do you even care that I want a divorce?” she countered. “Don’t you want to be free so you can be with those nineteen-year-olds.”

“I would never be with someone under twenty-five,” he grimaced. “And no, Grace, I want to be with my wife.” It was insane, the way he made it sound like she was the one hurting and depriving him here. She had thought her rage and pain had built enough of a bulwark around her heart for this conversation, but watching him lash out like this just drove the point in deeper. Maybe there was a small part of her that had hoped Tim would offer a valid excuse, or that his apology would feel sincere and enough and she could forgive him, love him again, save her marriage.

But all he had to say was that this was her fault and he’d made a mistake. He didn’t seem loving or apologetic as he grappled with a barely-controlled rage that had her checking that the chair wasn’t right behind her in case she needed to run. Tim wouldn’t hurt her physically… right? But two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have expected he could cheat on her either… well. Maybe that wasn’t totally true. Maybe she wasn’t actually surprised by all this. Was that better or worse than being blind-sided? It didn’t matter, she’d never be close enough with someone again to compare.

Her face must have shown some emotion that Tim seized upon, because he reached his hand out and insisted, “Come on, sweetheart. Stop this bullshit. We’ve been together too long. I know I fucked up and I’ll make it up to you. No need to call quits on us yet.”

“Is it because of the prenup?”

The question rolled out without a thought and she immediately regretted it.

What little restraint Tim had held through all of this snapped. Ah, the prenup. The one her dad had insisted on, that she almost hadn’t done in an effort to prove that she loved and trusted Tim. That he was worthy of trust.

“This isn’t about the fucking prenup!” he shouted in a way that made it very clear it was. At least in part. Grace was very familiar with that prenup, having just gone over it in detail with her divorce attorney. Their marital earnings would be split 50/50, but exclude any interest earned on the money either had before marriage, defined as a set dollar amount. Grace’s amount had been much larger than Tim’s. Tim would be safe from paying alimony despite the fact he made more now, unless a judge overruled their prenup on that point. But, probably the most stressful piece to Tim right now, was that he would owe her father the amount he had borrowed to start his consulting business, after his own parents wouldn’t loan him the money because the first one had folded. Grace had been so confident he’d succeed, she hadn’t even felt embarrassed by her father’s insistence on tying the loan to her prenup. She’d figured it was just a way to spare Tim’s ego at accepting the loan, since obviously he would always be a loving, devoted husband, and so it would forever remain just “family money” and not require payback. That consulting business too had gone under, the money was gone.

Until now. Now Tim owed her father $5 million dollars, on top of splitting his assets with Grace in half. She was not actually sure he even had the money, though she suspected he had multiple bank accounts in addition to their shared one. She had a second one, no harm in that, but at this point she doubted him on everything so who knew what he was hiding? So she had squashed her early instinct to be merciful and nodded when the attorney suggested he’s probably been using you for a long time; let’s take him to the cleaners.

“How fucking dare you bring up the prenup? The prenup doesn’t matter! We aren’t getting divorced! You know better than that! There’s no way your family supports you leaving me, we made a commitment to each other–”

“That you failed when you cheated on me.”

“And now you’re failing it worse by quitting! Don’t even talk about it anymore, I won’t go through with the divorce! We’ll take some time off work and go on a nice vacation together and do marriage counseling and then we’re going to put this whole thing behind us–”

“Until you cheat again?”

“Stop talking about that! You think I wanted to do that? But you’re such a bitch all the time and it wears a man down to have someone like you always nagging about what’s going on at work and whether I closed the deal and why can’t I be like your dad! Go fuck your dad then if you think he’s so fucking great!”

“Stop. Just stop talking,” she pleaded under the weight of his words. Probably the whole street could hear them right now, she realized. She was done with this conversation. She wanted it to end. Any sense of victory or enjoyment was now gone.

“No, you wanted to talk about our marriage! Let’s talk! You think you’re some poor suffering wife here? You’re barely a wife! You run around playing at being a real estate agent so you can spend money on that shit you call art and be some queen bee in the Society or whatever the fuck your family gets randy about–”

“Stop it, Tim!”

“Oh you don’t like us talking about you, huh?”

She grabbed her things, phone still clutched in her hand and tried to step around him to get to the house.

He grabbed her arm and she screamed, “LET GO OF ME!”

“Hey everything ok back there?” a male voice called, and for a brief moment Grace thought it was the pool guy again. Wouldn’t that be perfect? And yet a strange rush of relief came with the idea; Grace felt a desperation to hide behind any man who could make Tim go right now. So feminist of her, huh? She hated herself for the impulse and yet…

“Fuck off!” Tim shouted at the interloper.

“Ma’am?” the voice called again and now she could see the mailman by the back gate. “You need me to call someone?”

“I told you to fuck off,” Tim said, stepping around her to march towards the man now. Grace wanted to wilt under the mortification of a witness at the same time she felt a deep gratitude that someone had heard and actually stepped in. Who did that? The mailman! Even if her neighbors did hear anything right now, they were probably sipping mimosas by the window to hear what other dirty laundry came out.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she called to the mailman. “My ex-husband was just leaving.”

“Like fuck I am,” Tim said, whirling on her again. “This is my house. I’m not going anywhere. You do some thinking, Grace, and get your head together quick to save this marriage, because you need me more than I need you. You think anyone else is going to deal with your rich bitch attitude?”

“Who says I want someone else? I’m not shopping around, but I deserve not to be treated like this–”

“Yeah it’s all about what you deserve. You have no fucking clue what the world is like because first daddy protected you and now I’ve done the same thing and look where it fucking got me. Wasting our money on a goddamn divorce lawyer. We aren’t getting divorced!”

The mailman was still there and had pulled out his phone. Grace saw it and tried to gesture not to. Tim didn’t notice. He’d said his piece and stomped into the house, fuming. There was no way to slam the sliding door but he tried and his scream of rage almost cut through Grace’s fear to make her laugh.

But she didn’t laugh. She sank to the lounge chair, her legs shaking, her head throbbing. The air felt static in the wake of his fury.

“You ok?” the mailman called to her. “I can still call.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m so sorry you saw that. We’re… getting divorced and he’s not taking it well.” The first person she had told she was getting divorced: the fucking mailman.

“Good for you,” he said, but it sounded sincere. “I hope you leave that bastard high and dry. You sure you’re going to be ok? You have somewhere else to go?”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

He seemed reluctant to go. She couldn’t believe he’d stepped in so much; she’d never traded a word with this man in her life though she did leave him a gift at the holidays. Merry Christmas, to our postal worker, because she didn’t know his name. Did she really seem like such a damsel? His hesitation twisted her emotions and she began to feel genuine anger. Couldn’t he see that this was embarrassing? She’d said he could go! He should go!

He was gone before the angry words rolled off her tongue, for which she was grateful. But then she was alone and that felt bad too. The yard felt eerily quiet and she wondered what Tim was doing inside. It scared her. She still believed he wouldn’t physically hurt her, but was that only because she wanted to believe that? He might be in there finding some other way to vent his rage: destroying her paintings or smashing TVs or who knew what.

She ended the video. It was long. She couldn’t bear to watch it but immediately sent it to her attorney, then called.

“Grace. I haven’t watched the video you just sent. Is there something wrong?” Lidiya asked.

“Tim isn’t handling news of the divorce well,” she admitted, her breath shaking as she blinked back tears. She felt like he was still standing there yelling at her. “I don’t think I can stay in the house with him. I mean, I can… but I don’t want to… but will I lose my stake in the house then? Abandonment?”

“No, not at all. He has made you feel unsafe. As long as you keep paying your part of the bills, it’s fine.”

“Hold on a second.” Grace looked up at the rumble of the garage door. A car door slammed and then Tim’s car peeled out of the garage.

“He left. I can breathe now.”

“Good. Catch your breath and go pack your things. Stay with a friend, family, hotel, it doesn’t matter. The disclosure is hard if the other person doesn’t see it coming. I won’t lie and say this will be the only hard part, but you will get through this and I’ll be right there with you.”

Grace wanted Lidiya to tell her she was doing the right thing, that this divorce was the right step. She knew it was. But it was one thing to know it and another to have Tim standing there yelling, twisting her around, making it sound like she was the cause for failure. And she hated this. She didn’t want to leave the house! She couldn’t pack up all her stuff so quickly so she’d have to leave things behind and hope he didn’t destroy them in his rage. She didn’t want to stay somewhere else. She didn’t want to admit to her friends and family any of this was happening, and staying somewhere else was a concrete step towards admitting this was happening. She loved this house! She hadn’t loved married life to Tim but she could pretend she had, to mourn the things she had thought were good. She wanted to keep lying by the beautiful pool, but Tim had ruined her day just like he had ruined everything else.

September

“So then she grabs my ass,” Jungkook explained, “and laughs. Like, right in my face with her nastyass cigarette breath.”

Yoojin reached around him to pull the cabinet open and search for a sippy cup lid, nearly clocking Jungkook in the head from where he sat on the counter.

“That’s so gross. Did she try to pretend it was an accident?”

“No. She asked me what kind of body oil I use. I was just sweaty! It’s fucking ninety-eight degrees out there today!”

Yoojin crinkled her nose and said, “That’s disgusting.”

“I know!”

“No, I mean you being that sweaty. Have you thought of getting a doctor to look into that?”

“Shut up, asshole,” he laughed, trying to kick the back of her knee as she sauntered away.

“Hey, not in front of my son!”

But Max not only wasn’t in the room, it would be highly unlike him to repeat anything he heard, despite their best efforts. His first birthday had just passed, but he still had only a few words he reliably used, much to Yoojin’s panic. She’d recently implemented a rule that everyone had to only speak English to him, in case speaking two languages at home was slowing him down. Eomma insisted he was clearly smart and just didn’t have anything to say yet, but it was a sore subject, likely to send Yoojin into a shrieking fit, like she had when Jungkook asked if the pediatrician had said anything about it. He still didn’t know if she’d even asked about it. He didn’t think fear or shame were a good reason not to ask the pediatrician though, even if it was them doing something wrong.

“Yeah, how would he feel to hear his mom is victim-blaming, huh?”

“I’m not victim blaming. If you’re so pissed about it… I don’t know. Tell your boss you won’t work at their house anymore or something. I thought you dealt with this all the time?”

“Not all the time. It was worse when I was a cabana boy, and those fuckers didn’t give a shit what we dealt with from guests. The guest is always right.” He shuddered. The tips had been phenomenal but ultimately not worth it. He still started on the defense around older women drinking by a pool or beach, at least that kind of older woman. You could always tell. Just like he’d known Mrs. Abigail Pender was trouble since he’d started working for them. He hadn’t thought she’d actually grab him like that, but he’d never felt comfortable around her. Just tried to be polite when she’d so brazenly flirt with him. Apparently all it took was three margaritas (she’d been bragging) and the encouragement of her friends (they’d been drunk too, watching from the patio.)

Jungkook still felt shaky about the whole thing, even though that was embarrassing too. It wasn’t like he thought Mrs. Pender was going to harm him or anything. But who knew what a pissy white woman was capable of? She’d looked shocked when he’d pried her hand off and said, “Please do not touch me, Mrs. Pender. I’m just here to clean your pool.” Like she’d actually thought he came by to flirt or something?! Now he debated whether to tell Bob about the incident or wait to see if she’d call to file some bullshit complaint. That had happened multiple times, and though Bob had been understanding about the call from Limpdick Birch a couple weeks ago, if this was the second woman complaining about Jungkook, at what point would Bob think Jungkook was doing something to cause it all? He wasn’t! He was just cleaning the fucking pools!

Well, except for the Birchs, where he had involved himself and was no longer cleaning the pool. He’d asked someone else to cover the last month of their cleanings for the summer and worried that was just going to make him look bad in light of any complaints from Mrs. Pender.

“Yeah, but I mean as a pool guy. Maybe you need to wear more clothes or something? Don’t look at me like that, I realize how it sounds but this is how it goes for women all the time. We should be allowed to wear whatever we want and not get assaulted. It doesn't mean we can.”

“It’s hot and I work outside,” Jungkook defended. “At least if a guy grabs you, you can deck him and everyone will agree it’s deserved. If I deck an old lady, I’m getting sued and going to jail.”

“Ooof, it’ll only be worse in prison.”

“Yoojin, that doesn’t help!”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, screwing on the lid of the sippy cup and sloshing apple juice onto the counter. The sink was piled with dishes even though she and Max had been the only ones home for lunch. “What else do you want me to say? Cougars are gross. Get a different job.”

But Jungkook didn’t want another job. He sighed noisily as she left the kitchen. Yoojin wasn’t usually his first choice to complain to, because she tended to be unsympathetic at best, and usually just found a way to insist her story was worse. Yeah, Jungkook didn’t envy her raising her son alone –but she wasn’t really “alone.” She lived with his parents. Jungkook babysat a lot for free.

“If jobs are so easy to change, why don’t you have one?” he demanded, chasing after her.

“Get off my ass, I’m on round two of an interview!” She slapped at his arm. “Don’t make me sound incompetent in front of Max!”

Max had been reaching for Yoojin but Jungkook scooped him up, hotly defending, “I didn’t make you sound any way. Besides, if I quit my job, I probably can’t babysit for free anymore like this. You want to pay me?”

“You aren’t babysitting,” she immediately complained. “You’re uncling.”

“I’m letting you mooch off my time,” he insisted. But then, afraid she would actually take it as a complaint, he spun Max around and added, “It’s his fault, he’s too stinking cute. It’s hard being the favorite person but ah… a burden I must bear.” Max giggled and squished Jungkook’s cheeks and babbled. “Hey, do you think he just said ‘uncle’?”

“No, I don’t think he just said uncle. I wish! He won’t even say ‘mama’! What the fuck, right? Hey, next time one of the old crones hits on you, why don’t you just play dumb and point out they’re old enough to be your mom?” Yoojin asked. Her eyes sparkled like this sudden idea was the clear and obvious answer to all his problems.

“But they’re into that, that’s the problem,” Jungkook snorted.

“God I wish people thought I was old enough to be someone’s mom. I’m so sick of people asking if Max is my baby brother. Like what the fuck?”

“Language, Yoon. Or ‘fuck’ might be his next word,” Jungkook scolded her just to get a rise out of her. She opened her mouth, probably to let another string of curses out, butEomma and Appa swung the door open, back from grocery shopping. “Not a word about my work thing,” he said quickly to Yoojin. The last thing he needed was Eomma and Appa worrying about his job security or health and happiness. One time they’d found out about a woman harassing him as a cabana boy and they had actually gone to the resort to talk to his boss about employee protection and the next thing he knew, Jungkook was looking for a new job. The resort swore it had nothing to do with that, but Jungkook knew. Even though he couldn’t hate his parents for it, they had just been trying to help when there had been so little they could do for his brother. Not that they’d ever admitted that was a part of it, but honestly, marching into a resort to complain?! We didn’t come here for our children to be treated like this! He didn’t want them to think he needed that kind of help. He could take care of himself.

Besides, it wasn’t like Jungkook didn’t ever flirt to get good tips or reviews. He didn’t do that now, at least not with any women who would take it too far, but back then… eh, he’d hooked up a couple times with guests too, which was technically what he was fired for…

<“Eomma, Appa, I said I’d go shopping with you,>” Jungkook scolded in Korean, carrying Max over.

“Stop talking in Korean around him!” Yoojin cried. She was ignored.

Eomma assured him, <”We don’t need you to go grocery shopping with us. We had the time together.”>

<”You work tonight.”>

”Bye Eomma, Bye Appa, I’m going to my second interview. See? Speak English like that,” Yoojin said, trying to slide past them after she kissed Max on the head.

Appa’s face screwed up as he asked, “An interview dressed like that? What is this company again?”

“It’s a catering company, I told you. I have to look nice.” Now Junkook looked at her outfit and also thought it looked a little off for a job interview with a catering company. Her short black dress was pretty tight, and her heels were nothing like you’d wear to show you knew how to cater food and she had a small purse. Small purses meant date.

“Are you going on a date?!” Jungkook hissed, clamping a hand over one of Max’s ears as if to protect him. Max was far more interested in Jungkook’s shell necklace than in whatever his mom’s secret plans might be. “Am I babysitting for you to go on a date?!”

“No! It’s not a date! It’s an interview, I swear! I just dressed nice!”

Jungkook didn’t want to dig in too hard in case it was true and he made her cry –she could turn it on like a faucet in front of their parents and then he’d look like an ass. But Appa raised his eyebrow, also not convinced, and shuffled past with two bags of food.

Eomma nodded at her, <”Ok, good luck if it’s a job interview.”>

“You’re all bullies,” Yoojin huffed. It was impossible to tell if she was really upset by their doubt. Jungkook thought her lack of shouting might actually mean she really was going on a date and didn’t want to back herself into a corner confirming it. Jungkook bit his tongue, for now, but only because their parents were there, and Max was grunting like he was trying to poop. Jungkook would change the diaper, but he drew the line at holding the kid while he did the deed. He’d save the brotherly lecture for later. The last thing Yoojin needed to be doing while she was unemployed with a one year old was going on dates! Not to mention every guy she went after was just like her ex, and she threw a fit if you pointed that out to her. If she was going to date, at least Jungkook wasn’t going to babysit for free for it.

He wound up trading Eomma, so she got stuck with the diaper while Jungkook carried in the groceries and did his best to help put them away with some guidance from Appa. He’d wanted to help with the shopping so Eomma wouldn’t wear herself out before her shift at the nursing home; she was working nights this week.

<“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”> Jungkook asked Appa, before realizing it was Thursday so Appa had Go night at the community center in K-town. His days were off. He blamed it on not cleaning the Birch’s pool yesterday. He wondered if Mrs. Birch had noticed someone else came by, or if she’d even cared. Probably she was relieved. For all he knew, she’d called to ask for a replacement anyway and Bob just hadn’t mentioned it yet.

<”You and Max can come with me tonight,”> Appa suggested.

<”It’s tempting but uh…”> Jungkook scrambled trying to think of an excuse, before settling on, <”Yoojin told me not to take him there. You know, she just wants him hearing English. Maybe she mentioned that.”>

<”That’s not the problem! He’ll talk when he’s ready, in English or Korean!”>

Jungkook shrugged. At least the excuse worked. He didn’t feel like sitting around listening to Appa and a bunch of old men play games and talk about sports and weather. He had thought about taking Max to the beach to get him used to it early, but diaper bags were almost as much of a hassle as getting sunscreen on a baby, and after his morning, he didn’t feel up for it. Plus it was hot out. Maybe they’d go for a walk later or maybe they’d just play inside.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and it felt like he’d stuck a staple in an outlet. He left Eomma and Appa debating what to eat for dinner since both of them would leave early and carried Max with him back to what had become Max’s room once he moved out. He knew it would be Bob’s name on the screen before he even got his phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah, Bob? What’s up, man?”

“Hey, JK. I just got off the phone with–”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jungkook blurted out. “I didn’t flirt with her or anything, she was just drunk and gossiping with her friends and then grabbed my ass.”

“Uh… who’s this now?”

“Shit. Uh… who did you get off the phone with?” Jungkook asked. He looked to Max for a shared grimace but Max saw toys now and squirmed to be let down so he could play. Jungkook collapsed onto the rug beside him and began nervously stacking blocks.

“I was just calling about the Breslins, they said they want to keep the pools at their properties open through the winter and it looks like it fits into your schedule now that you dropped the Birch house but what’s this about?”

“Ah, just… an incident with…”

“JK, man, I told you, you gotta tell me if there’s an incident. What house?”

“Pender. She got drunk and grabbed my ass. I told her not to touch me and that I was just there to clean the pool. She said some other things but went back into her house and I finished up and left, that’s it.”

“Pender, Pender…. Oh that’s why that name is familiar. You’re the second poolboy then. I don’t give third chances, I’ll let her know we’re dropping her account.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Good, that frees you up for the other Breslin properties. I’ll email you the new schedule.”

“No, wait, Bob, you can’t just drop a client, can you? Aren’t they going to… I don’t know, sue or review bomb or something?”

Bob’s chuckle over the line reminded Jungkook how much he actually did like this job, as he said, “Sometimes. And then what am I going to do, say she’s got to stop assaulting my pool techs. And then she wants to take me to court to prove it didn’t happen, and everyone’s talking about it now? Nah, she’ll bitch to some friends about what a shitty company we are. These people are petty but they’re lazy, and if it’s a repeat offender, they probably don’t want anyone opening the closet door. A couple people start coming forward, suddenly you’ve got a dozen people saying she’s assaulted them.”

“Bob…. thanks. I thought…”

“I’d fire you? I know I may not look like it now, but I was quite a looker back in the day. You think I never caught any eyes or wandering hands? I don’t have much, but my company and dignity are two things that can’t be bought. Well. Company might be bought if it was a really good offer…” He gave that jolly laugh of his again. “See you Monday, mandatory meeting.” And hung up, just like that, no problem.

Jungkook wanted to weep. He’d had enough overbearing, shitty bosses to know Bob was a real one. Not only was he not fired, he had a new schedule now. No Mrs. Pender. No Mr. Birch. No… Mrs. Birch. Which was for the best. It was. It was for the best that he wouldn’t see her again as she debated whether to stay with her shithead husband or go through probably a messy divorce… Yep. For the best. Not his business. He was just the poolboy, remember?

As relief surged through him, Jungkook took hold of Max, rolled onto his back and propped his nephew on his feet to airplane him. Max shrieked with delight; this had been one of his favorite games since he was little.

“Wait, you didn’t just eat, right? No spitting up on me, ok? Hurray, airplane Max!” Jungkook cheered, doing leg lifts with him because if he couldn’t make it to the gym or beach, might as well get some fitness in before their jaunt around the neighborhood. Jungkook was so relieved, he had the energy for adventure.

“Hey, maybe let’s head to the beach after all. You want to? You want to see your uncles and some crabs? You want to be a surfer baby? Yeah, let’s do it.”

January

Grace let out a sigh of relief when she stepped out of the terminal at LAX and felt warmth finally seep back into her bones. Seeing her family for Christmas had been nice, but she was glad to be away from Missouri’s brutal snow and windchill.

Just about the whole extended family had gathered, which was rare these days. Sure, she would have preferred spending the holiday with only her immediate family in Chicago, but maybe it had been better this way. It had meant more options for distraction every time someone tried to bring up her divorce, and fewer opportunities for one on one time that might lead to inescapable questions. Of course everyone had wanted to talk about it. It wasn’t a thing anyone in their family had done before. Ever. Her extended family’s horrific responses a constant reminder of that fact, everything ranging from aren’t you embarrassed for people to know your marriage failed? To well what was going on at home? Men cheat when something is wrong at home and that’s the wife’s domain to keep happy. She found herself wishing her family would just go back to making subtle digs about her weight and diet like they usually did. Not that they missed an opportunity to warn her to cut back on the stress eating and take up some activity, no need to let herself go.

Her immediate family… well, they seemed to be following her lead in just not talking about it at all. That was for the best. Even if some small part of her was desperate to talk to anyone except her attorney about it because fucking hell it was miserable!

She checked her email as she waited for a cab, fully expecting an email from Lidiya with some new bullshit Tim was trying to pull. Mediation was not going well, despite the ironclad prenup. Tim wanted to fight her on everything, and dragged his feet about the information he was required to share, and kept trying to find bullshit “leads” to chase down like he was a real detective. She couldn’t fathom what his play was: this was only going to end in divorce, and he was going to exhaust his finances long before she did hers. Lidiya had suggested he was hoping to burn through their cash without understanding that the court could require him to pay her legal fees alongside his even if he didn’t have the cash at the moment.

But now that the blinders were off, Grace had a new theory. She thought Tim might just not truly understand how money worked. Just like he hadn’t seemed to understand how their prenup worked, or how a marriage vow worked, or a home security system account, and certainly not how she worked. He’d made clear at every turn that he expected her to change her mind and realize she was making a mistake. Maybe that was truly the reason he was making this so miserable, to “give her time” to realize she was wrong.

No emails had come from Lidiya during her flight. No contact from Tim, either, which she carefully documented. Every text, every phone call, every “drop by” her rental condo to “give her stuff” after he’d somehow found out her new place. It wasn’t illegal to go near her, since she really had no grounds for a restraining order, but it was definitely annoying and stupid, clearly just an excuse to see what she was doing, or maybe as an intimidation tactic.. Grace suspected he was hoping she was having men over so he could try to counter that she had been unfaithful as well.

Part of her wished she had. As she watched the city pass outside the window, buildings spreading further apart and climbing into the multistories of wealthier neighborhoods of Santa Monica, Grace found herself again fantasizing about the petty things she’d rather be doing than fighting Tim in court. How delicious would it have been to be the one who cheated on him? To get her world rocked by someone else and then have Tim discover it and hurt as deeply as she did. Some hot young successful man Tim could never hope to compete with. A guy even came to mind, that art collector, Namjoon Kim. Intelligent, sophisticated, successful, a total hottie, and Tim hated him. He’d be perfect. How beautiful to get some sort of justice.

But there was no real justice to be got and she was not actually going to pursue something with the mild-mannered guy, especially not as vengeance against her ex. Hopefully she’d get the house, that might be a small justice. She loved that house. In fact, her mother had pulled her aside and offered to help buy the house out from Tim if she needed the money for it. It was the only reference to the whole thing her mom had made, and kindly meant, though Grace wasn’t sure that she wanted to co-own her own home with her mother. But it might be the only way…

As tempted as she was to drive by the house now, she worried Tim would be there. Possibly with someone. She didn’t want to let on that she really wanted the house or he’d obviously make it impossible. She tried to make it sound like she intended to stay permanently in the furnished condo she was renting. It was nice! But it felt nothing like a home.

Maybe she should get a pet? The thought struck her as she walked through the door. She could. Her family growing up always had dogs but she’d wanted a cat for as long as she could remember. Tim liked to say he was allergic but really he just didn’t like animals –which in hindsight ought to have been a warning sign. Not for the first time, Grace considered all the warning signs she had ignored. The rosy glasses of love really were more like blinders.

Grace set about unpacking her bags. Unpacking was obviously the worst part of travel and she usually procrastinated it but there was nothing else to take her time right now. She didn’t have a single active real estate client at the moment, no houses to stage or sell, and she enforced a strict “no paperwork” policy during her holidays. There weren’t any tv shows or movies she felt like watching, and she’d just sat on the plane for hours anyway, so not in the mood for reading either. Her fitness classes had already passed for the day and she hadn’t signed up for a general gym membership, though it had been on her to-do list because this condo complex didn’t have its own –one of several compromises she had made just to find somewhere fast.

God, do I really not have any hobbies? Grace collapsed across her bed and stared at the ceiling. That felt like a failure to her. She came from a family of always-doing-somethings. Hunting, riding, jet-setting, painting, hosting, visiting, gambling, taking up whatever club sport or craft struck a fancy and then abandoning it when it no longer served. Grace had ribbons from a half dozen sports lined up like a museum in the bedroom her parents still kept for her at their house but she didn’t fence anymore, no pool, no horse. It had been nice to ride again in Missouri.

She pursed her lips and considered tennis. She’d loved tennis. Hadn’t played it in a while, because she and Tim used to do that together and then he got too busy working –and fucking, probably. A game of tennis actually sounded good right now, without Tim.

But it would require inviting someone, and Grace didn’t even bother to pick up her phone to consider it. She had always thought of herself as adequately social, she had plenty of “friends,” but going through this divorce had made her question everything she’d hinged on that word. After overhearing the gossip about herself at the third party she had attended without her husband, she had decided to take a break from the social scene —which would inevitably lead to more gossip. It felt like letting the rumor mill win, but what was she supposed to do, clink a spoon against a champagne glass and confirm that yes, she was divorcing, because her husband had fucked around and she wasn’t wiling to overlook it? All these adequately-married couples she’d thought were her friends for years only asked after her to try and get the dirt on why her marriage failed. They expected her to be ashamed for the wrong reasons. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been enough, hadn’t been right for her husband; they wanted her to realize how stupid she was to let a stable-earner, social-charmer like Tim go. What was she going to do now, be alone? Boys will be boys. Just forgive him!

A few people had reached out in ways that felt sincere. Megan blew her phone up every couple of weeks when she went for brunch with “the girls.” Eva from the club had invited her to check out the new gallery opening she patronized, which seemed thoughtful and not geared towards gossip or lecture. Stephanie, who Grace had known since they were girls and had moved to LA only a couple years before, just sent condolences and suggested a girl spa-weekend/ski trip “without the boys.” Kindly meant, even if it revealed the rumor mill had reached her; Stephanie was a different social circle than the Santa Monica club, but Grace hadn’t told her about the divorce.

Grace had brushed everyone off. As she and Tim warred over who would “keep” which “friend” group, Grace found herself doubting who she could trust. Abigail Pender, after hosting one of the parties Grace attended, apparently reported Grace’s presence to Tim, and afterwards she’d received a scathing voicemail from him saying he had known the Penders longer so she shouldn’t go to their parties anymore. Even though he hadn’t gone! And maybe he’d known them longer, having met Mark Pender on a golf green, but she was the one who’d put forth the effort to build and maintain the friendship –mainly because he thought Mark could be a useful friend for him, business-wise. She’d done that with all of them! Tim had always been happy to carry a case of beer to a cookout, or fire up their own grill, but she was the one who planned the events, bought the meat and beer, made sure everyone was having a good time, followed up for the lunches and fishing trips and whatever else got mentioned to make sure these things actually happened.

All that effort and Grace felt like she’d lost it all. Now she finally began to understand the warning her mother had given when Grace had finally called home to say she was divorcing: “Divorce is like burning the house down and you’re still in it, Grace. Really think about this.”

Would she have done anything differently? She couldn’t say. But she did know it was really fucking lonely now, not knowing who were actually her friends. She missed her house. And she felt pathetic, lying there on her bed, not sure what to do with her time. Tim didn’t own her hobbies, so why couldn’t she think of any? She’d been putting so much energy into her marriage and the social network Tim required to feel secure and connected and successful.

Damn, did that make her as bad as everyone else? But the social networks were just like that. Sometimes you genuinely like the people you invited to dinner and other times it was because there was some business or family connection, or potential, or some unspoken duty to be friends because your distant cousin had married the niece of their best friend.

Now Grace had failed the social contract by leaving her two-timing (well, at least four-timing) husband and she didn’t want to hear about it anymore. She didn’t trust anyone. She didn’t want to risk getting asked about it more, as if it was a news headline that affected them all but not personally or emotionally. She was very personally and emotionally affected! Didn’t anyone want to talk to her about something else? Was poor divorced woman all they saw when they looked at her now? She had been someone before her marriage, and during her marriage, and she would be someone again soon!

Once she figured out what she actually liked without Tim’s opinion weighing on her shoulder.

Once she discovered which foods she actually liked instead of the ones they’d ordered just because he did.

Once she figured out how to reclaim her social life from that thieving new-money bastard.

Once she could find a place to live that didn’t look so cold and generic and neutral. She knew neutral colors were all the rage now. This was what new money thought elegance looked like, she’d heard that plenty of times from her mother.

Ugh, what did Grace like? What did she want to do?

Grace wanted….

Grace liked….

Grace didn’t want to be in bed right now, so she showered and changed clothes to get the smell of travel off. And she walked to get a coffee from down the street just to be among Californians again.

Then, on an impulse she decided to give into, Grace drove to the animal shelter. It was almost shockingly easy to fill out the paperwork. She didn’t know whether her rental allowed pets but didn’t care, she put her address as the house she was determined to move back into once mediation granted it to her. She googled a vet reference on the way, assuming they wouldn’t check –they didn’t– and listed her sister as her personal reference, assuming they wouldn’t call –they didn’t.

“Shouldn’t they make it harder to adopt?” she mused on the way home, carrier wedged into the front seat beside her, back seat packed with a splurge worthy of her sister’s shopping habits.

Foam said nothing, just peered through the mesh with the big eyes that took up an odd amount of his face, one ear flicking. The nub of his other ear swiveled when she turned the car.

“Almost home,” she said. Suddenly Foam let out a high-pitched yeowl and turned a somersault in his carrier, then curled up in the back. “Sh sh sh, almost home.”

The narration wasn’t important; deaf little Foam couldn’t hear her anyway, but that hadn’t stopped her from talking to him at the adoption center and it wouldn’t stop her now as she hauled the carrier and bags into the condo. She would order a cat tree for him, and a better scratching post, and whatever else struck her fancy, but at least for now he had bedding and food and toys and treats to mark this completely new chapter of his life. From kill shelter to rescue agency and now to life with Grace, she hoped this was going to be a better future for both of them.

As soon as he was out of the carrier, he climbed her like a tree; she flinched at the pinpricks of his claws until he’d reached her shoulder, trying to nestle himself onto her chest like he had at the center. That’s when she’d been a goner. He couldn’t hear her but he could feel the vibrations of her speech and had purred and nuzzled beneath her chin and really Grace had almost broken down in the room as she stroked his gray and white fur. The rescue thought he might be a Singapura-American shorthair mix but Grace couldn’t care less what he was. No one wanted this beat up scrawny deaf kitty, and Tim hadn’t wanted her.

“Fuck Tim, you’re all I need,” she beamed, arms around Foam as she swayed.

Apparently he didn’t even need a period to warm up to her, which would have been understandable. She would never know what his life had been like in the five years before he’d got to her, but that didn’t matter either. Suddenly the future looked so much better; already Grace was thrilled to hear the padding of little feet as Foam explored his new home. He shadowed her as she did a pass to make sure there wasn’t anything obviously dangerous for a cat and put on some music and grabbed her laptop to read more about cat ownership. She wondered if Foam would be the kind of cat who’d be happy hiking on a leash or in a backpack…

She’d always wanted a cat and now she had a perfect one. Maybe building the life she wanted, only for herself, wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

March

A lot of people kept their pools open year-round, but there were still enough to closed them for the winter that March always saw a surge in business. Jungkook had spent the winter working mostly on commercial properties, which was stable and all, but he was glad to see his schedule shift back towards more private residences. Not that he liked dealing with snotty rich people, but there were plenty of middle class families too who didn’t treat him like garbage. And hey, maybe his ego could use a little stoking from the non-handsy variety of women, just the ones who admired and flirted a little, because winter had not been kind to him in the dating sphere. Teona had come back into his life for a whole month before deciding he still hadn’t grown up enough. He’d had a string of dates that he shelled out good money for only to find himself ghosted or even blocked afterwards. When he’d drunkenly demanded of Jimin “is it me? Am I a creep?” his friends had taken the shit out of him a little too well. He was still bothered not to know whether they were just teasing or really did think he was a fuckboy.

The tide was out on dating and Jungkook saw spring as a chance to refocus on work and surfing and the band and let the universe steer his dating life for a while. Probably straight into a wall, but if he was going to end up there anyway, he might as well blame it on the universe.

“You’re hot but you don’t have any substance,” he murmured, repeating the words his latest date via an app had provided when he asked if there was any particular reason she didn’t want a second date. He’d liked her. He had thought the question would reflect well on him, and anticipated her answer being something like oh the sparks just weren’t there or you’re great but I realized I just don’t have time for a relationship right now. Maybe even I realized I was going to fall too hard and fast for you, it scared me. Nope. Hot but no substance.

What did that even mean? Jungkook had so much substance! He had hobbies and interests! He cared about his family! He was good with babies! He played the guitar and drums and sang and worked out and he could cook. He had a stable job and only played a reasonable amount of video games and he knew how to listen. Wasn’t that enough?! What else did women want??

He was still grumbling to himself as he parked at the Cool Pool Inc. building to confirm his schedule and grab a company truck for the day. Bob had sent them out the night before, but Jungkook had a few questions. Namely, about the typo on his schedule regarding the Birches.

“Huh? The Birches?” Bob finally said, looking up from his computer on the third repeat. “Oh, you’ve still got the house but it’s not the Birches anymore. Didn’t you look at the addresses?”

“Yeah but it says the Hessers. Did you mix up the address?”

“No. They bought the place, Birches don’t live there anymore and wherever they moved, I dunno, they aren’t using us anymore.”

Jungkook’s brow lowered in thought. That couldn’t be right. Granted, maybe there weren’t Birches anymore if Mrs. Birch-or-whatever-her-name-was-now had gotten her head on straight and left that twichy-dicked corn chip. He looked at his list of names again but didn’t see her name listed anywhere.

“Maybe they changed their name,” Jungkook suggested. “Or I mean, she did. Did we get any new customers from another address with the first name… Cornelia?” It was just a name, but he felt wrong to say it, like he wasn’t supposed to know, even though it had always been written on his schedule. Hers had been the primary name on the account: Cornelia Birch, even though she had introduced herself to him as “Grace” that first time he’d cleaned for them. It had made sense to him, in a way, that she wouldn’t give her real name to be used casually by a contractor. And ‘Mrs. Birch’ had felt like the proper way to call her anyway –in the beginning because that’s just a thing he did, to charm the rich white ladies with his manners, but later because calling her by her name would have felt intimate or wrong. They weren’t on the same level. She was older and rich and he would just have felt weird about it, ok? Calling her by her first name or a nickname, like they were casual friends. Besides, was she really called Cornelia? That was such an old lady name… He kind of liked that about her though. She had a weird name, and people always thought his name was weird too.

Bob’s eyebrows lifted. He smacked his lips and glanced at the computer as if going to check but then answered without checking,

“Nope, no new Cornelia anything. Why, you looking for her?”

“No,” Jungkook quickly assured him. “Just… you know, she’s the one who was so serious about their pool, just wanted to know if she closed the account or just moved to a new house–”

“And changed her name?”

Jungkook shrugged, “I dunno, divorces happen…”

“Or you want to know if Timothy Birch’s calls complaining about you cost us an account?” Bob countered, like he could see it all before him.

“It wasn’t my fault he complained about me, he was just like that. I hope for her sake, she did leave his ass, he was an asshole.”

Bob chuckled at this show of passion and shook his head, lecturing, “Marriages are a complicated thing, son. Maybe you’ll get it someday. But no, no Timothys, Cornelias, or Graces, Birch or otherwise.” He was already feeling nervous that Bob would think he’d been involved as much as he had been though and didn’t want to dig in more.

“Ok,” Jungkook shrugged. “I got my schedule then. See ya, boss.”

“Keep it fresh, JK,” Bob said, one of the phrases the younger employees had taught him. He was a good one, that Bob. Jungkook waved over his shoulder as he grabbed the keys to his truck to head out.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the suspicion from his mind. So… did that mean Mrs. Birch and Slim-Jim Dick had divorced? Or just moved somewhere else? He decided to hit up the new owners of that residence first, but still half expected it to be one of the Birches up until he knocked on the front door to introduce himself.

“Great,” the man, Adam Hesser, greeted him with a firm handshake. “We were told by the previous owners your company had been managing the pool so I take it you know what to do? We’re going to keep it open year-round so just keep it nice, our kids will use it a lot. Let me know if you need anything.”

Jungkook nodded, “Yeah yeah, for sure, man. Hey, so you spoke to the previous owners? Which one? Did they say where they were moving?”

“No, I didn’t really, they just had a list of previous contractors.”

“Ah, ok. I’m glad they recommended us. I’ll keep it looking good, head on back on there now. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hesser.”

Gone. That made Jungkook think they’d divorced although he couldn’t be sure. Maybe the Birches were the kind of people who’d decide they had to do everything and anything to save their marriage and they’d moved to Spain or something. Even if they’d divorced, Mrs. Birch might have moved somewhere else. Maybe she wasn’t even in the area anymore, or maybe she didn’t have a pool, which he’d feel sad for her about since she seemed to like it.

Or maybe she did and had just decided to use a different pool cleaning service.

“Wouldn’t that be fucked up?” Jungkook demanded, leaning in close to make sure his buddies heard him over the noisy bar. Taehyung, Jimin, Hoseok, and Soyoon circled the high-top. Taro was here somewhere too, probably networking. Yoongi had already bailed, claiming he had work early but probably just to get away from the place. He only really hung out at bars if there was music he wanted to catch, and even then bounced the second the bands were done.

“Uh… yeah,” Jimin nodded, but he had a look like he didn’t understand why.

“Because I was great at what I did,” Jungkook insisted. “I kept the pool looking great so if she –if they have a new pool and decided to use someone else instead, it would be personal, right? Because I was the best professionally.”

“Didn’t you have a fight with her in her backyard about whether she ought to divorce her husband?” Soyoon asked. Jungkook glared. Hard. He had told her that in drunken confidence and of course she had then casually mentioned it to everyone else without a second thought.

“Yeah, kinda weird,” Taehyung grimaced. “Almost as weird as giving her a video of her husband fucking another woman that you filmed through their window…”

“Hey!”

Jimin came to his defense, insisting, “It’s because he was emotionally compromised.” Wait, that wasn’t the defense Jungkook had hoped for.

“The fuck does that even mean?” Jungkook scowled.

“Aw, it’s because you always had a crush on her, right?” Hoseok asked, his gaze sliding to Jimin as if to confirm this, or make sure it was ok to say. It wasn’t!

“Not in a real way,” Jungkook defended. “Just in like a… a Stacy’s Mom kind of way.”

“That song is fucked up,” Soyoon huffed. “If you reversed the genders, that would be a felony.”

“Sex with a minor is still a felony but they didn’t have sex,” Taehyung countered. “He was just creeping.”

Jimin made a face and admitted, “Really, you think it was just the guy being horny for her? I mean she came out in a towel while he was mowing the lawn, right? No one is surprised by a lawnmower. She knew he was out there.”

“Do you ever see people do things like that when you’re working?” Hoseok asked Jungkook with open curiosity. “Like in just a towel or–”

“Or fucking someone else in the kitchen?” Jimin laughed and threw his arm around Hoseok’s shoulder. “Yeah, he sees it all!”

Jungkook made a face and admitted, “Yeah, I see the towel thing happen.”

“Yeah and is it ever an accident?” Soyoon demanded.

Mrs. Birch didn’t mean to see me when she came up from the home gym in her sports bra. He kept that memory to himself, since these fuckers couldn’t hold anything sacred.

“Eh, sometimes,” he decided. “Sometimes it’s on purpose, but other times it’s just because they just don’t give a shit about you. Like, you’re not even a real human so what do they care if you see them in their towel? But other times yeah it’s on purpose.”

“What’s that show… Desperate Housewives? Wasn’t someone fucking a poolboy in that? It probably gave all the old ladies ideas.”

“Is that show even still on? That’s really old. My mom watched that.”

They looked at Jungkook, who had to explain, “Uh… I don’t… know? I don’t watch that shit.”

“Oh, you know what show I just saw that was great…” Taehyung said, changing the subject further away from what Jungkook had wanted to do: complain about his lack of closure on the Birches.

He grabbed another beer and pretended to follow along, but mostly he was just thinking about how he regretted bailing on those final two weeks of cleaning at the Birches. If he’d gone, maybe he would know what was going on with them, or where they’d gone. It wasn’t like he expected anyone to leave him a note, but it felt wrong for them to just disappear. It felt… bad. He felt bad. He was the one who had sent the tape and while he was sure it had been the right thing to do, he would like to know that was true from Mrs. Birch-called-something-else telling him how grateful she was. Cornelia. Fucking Cornelia. Maybe that was another reason he always called her Mrs. Birch, he just couldn’t bring himself to call her Cornelia. Or Grace, a nickname, which felt even more intimate?! Cornelia wasn’t a name you could say as you fucked a woman slowly against the side of the pool, and Grace was so short… Gracie might make for a good–

Fuck! Abort! Too much beer! Fuck, he was horny, that was all. It wasn’t about her, he’d just crossed the streams of two different thoughts. Never cross streams.

Besides, now he’d never call her anything. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him she was grateful or even just reassure her by her happiness that he’d done the right thing. Which he had. Even if she had not seemed grateful when they’d fought about it.

Damnit, couldn’t a guy get closure about anything? Sure he’d had a fantasy crush about her but he was a good guy, he also just wanted to know that she was happy and doing well. Maybe he could google her…

He pulled out his phone and wandered off, mumbling about getting another beer so no one would see his phone screen as he typed in Cornelia Birch.

A shocking number of results came back. He leaned against the bar and scrolled in disbelief, but the links were all to dense text webpages and he had drunk enough that the letters looked blurry and he didn’t feel like reading a lot right now. Besides, he couldn’t tell if the Cornelia Birch who sat on art boards and was a part of some trust or whatever was her or if it was a common rich white lady name. There were no pictures. Except for a table sold by Wayfair, the “Cornelia,” part of the Birch Lane furniture line. That was kinda funny. White ladies and high end furniture lines, that made sense. He started to type in Grace Birch to see if that got different results, just in case she actually did use that as more than a name to give poor peasants so they wouldn’t sully her proper dignified name when–

“Excuse me, are you ordering or…?” He looked up at the hand on his arm, and the owner of the hand: a pretty blond, tanned and green-eyed.

“Oh, yeah sorry, am I in your way?” He scooted to the side and she pressed in. The bartenders had ignored him but came right over for her. She surprised him by motioning for him to tell his order to.

“Can’t believe they make you wait here,” she said to him.

“You waited ten seconds…”

“No, I mean you. If you can’t get a drink then I don’t get it.”

Jungkook was tipsy and confused. But he nodded and didn’t point out he’d been on his phone and also that he wasn’t sure he’d wanted another beer anyway. But one was brought, and on a whim, he told the bartender to put hers on his tab too.

“You don’t have a tab open,” the bartender pointed out. Which was annoying because they knew him here and that he was good for it. It embarrassed him in front of the girl. He slid his card over and pretended to be smooth about it.

“Thanks for the drink,” she beamed at him. “I’m Mary.”

“Another old lady name…”

“What?”

“Nothing, so, you new around here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“You know everyone who comes here?” she teased.

“Just about. Except the tourists. You wouldn’t happen to be one of those, would you?”

“No. I live here, I just never come to this part of town.”

He nudged her closer, away from someone trying to get by, as he pressed, “Then what made you come tonight?”

“My girl friend had a date and wanted a backup, you know? But apparently that went well because she already left.”

“Wait… so your girl space friend, right? Not your girlfriend?”

“What?”

Jungkook decided she must not have a girlfriend, he was just confusing them both.

“So… are you leaving then?”

“No. Why, you want me to go?” she laughed.

“Nah. Just checking.” He chugged half his beer to find some liquid courage. He couldn’t believe his luck. A random girl hitting on him in the bar? Great. Perfect thing to distract him from the fact he’d never know what happened to Mrs. Birch. Besides, so what? It didn’t matter. She was just some lady he cleaned pools for.

“So what do you do?” Mary asked him.

“I’m a pool technician,” he answered. “And I also teach surf and work as a lifeguard sometimes.”

“Ah, that explains the muscles. I can tell you’re fit.”

“I drum too. It’s a pretty good workout, no one ever realizes that.”

“Yeah, full body. I don’t play but I mean, I’ve seen people drum.”

He grinned. Yeah, she was into him.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a senior at USC.”

Jungkook swallowed hard and drank more beer to give himself time to count. Senior… so she was twenty? Twenty one? Twenty two at most probably. He was twenty-six, that wasn’t… too bad…

“What’s that look?” she laughed.

“You’re young.”

“What?! How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“What? I thought you were like, my age,” she laughed. “I’m twenty one.”

He tsked and shook his head, trying not to smile and ruin the joke as he teased, “A baby.”

“Hey, you’re the one with the baby face.” Ah, he kinda hated it when girls said that, even if he knew it was true.

“Because I’m Asian?”

“What?!” she gasped. “Oh my god! I would never say that! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I’m kidding. I know.”

“Oh my god, I am not like that. I don’t care who or what someone is, if they’re hot, they’re hot.” She was clearly really offended by his joke, or maybe too drunk to be calm about anything.

He nudged her and prompted, “So you think I’m hot?”

Within an hour he knew she did. She’d said it enough times, her nails digging into his chest and abs as she bounced on his dick, the springs of his mattress screaming beneath them. He grabbed her hips and pulled her down, eyes slitted so he could just make out the circles of her nipples and the pink folds of her pussy around his girth. She was thin and perky and had an absurd bikini tan despite admitting she never went to the beach. Total California girl in the purchased, store-bought way.

Which was fine by him. She could be from California or New York or Florida or Timbuktu for all he cared right now. Her energy was great; his drunk brain felt like a tornado of pleasure touched down where her body stroked his.

“We’re going to break your bed,” she giggled.

“Nah, I would have broken it by now.”

“Oh my god, you’re a dick,” she giggled, and slapped him on the face. He didn’t love that but it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t like a dealbreaker or anything. He definitely wasn’t going to pull out for that. It just seemed wrong for this younger girl to do something like that in sex. If someone was going to slap him… ah, Mrs. Birch could slap him. He thought about it with a grin, sinking into the alcohol-logged fantasy he was drunk enough not to stop this time. He let his hands flop out and spread his legs and surrendered. Mrs. Birch could do whatever she wanted to him. She had that fit body but with way more curves than Mary. Small tits were fine but Mrs. Birch’s were bigger, they’d bounce. She had some jiggle to her thighs. If he grabbed her by the ass, he’d get at least a handful. Mary’s assbones were pulverizing his thighs. But Mrs. Birch in that white swimsuit, maybe a size smaller so her body started busting out of it…

Jungkook grabbed Mary’s hips and nutted pretty quickly after that, wordless at the rush of pleasure as a mental image of Mrs. Birch with swollen nipples straining against a white wet suit filled his head in the moments before it all went blank. He rolled Mary onto her back and got in a final stroke and gasped for breath back into his lungs. When she pushed against his chest to get him to sit up, he sat there just gasping while her eyes and hand roamed his stomach, her other hand rubbing herself furiously. He watched with the kind of fascination he always had for a woman cumming: it was a beautiful thing no matter who the woman was. This fake-beach babe looked hot as hell spasming around his spent dick and he made sure to tell her so as he gripped the condom and eased himself out of her.

“You think so?” she taunted. “Because your eyes were closed a lot.”

“Nah, just hard to keep ‘em open when it felt so good,” he assured her. “Trust me, I was looking.” She’d rolled onto her side and he smacked her ass.

“Ouch, too hard,” she complained with a giggle. And reached behind him for the blunt she’d pulled out earlier but abandoned when he’d pulled her shirt off.

He padded to the bathroom to rinse off and toss the condom, then accepted the blunt when she handed it to him, one arm crooked behind his head in absolute relaxation. Balls empty, brain empty, best night.

She was just nice to him, that’s why he wanted to know whatever happened to Mrs. Birch. Not enough he’d actually look through those google search results or anything. He was just curious. He just wanted closure because she’d been nice to him before and he didn’t feel great that the last time he’d ever see her, they’d had a fight. Hopefully by now she had realized he was right.

“Hey,” he said after blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “If you were married and your husband cheated on you, you’d fucking divorce him, right?”

“Geez, proposing to me already?” she giggled and took the blunt back.

“No, I’m just saying, that’s what you do, right?”

Mary nodded emphatically, “Yeah, this is the 21st century, no woman should stay with a cheating piece of shit.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You get it.”

“Oh my god… you aren’t married or anything, right?”

Jungkook laughed loud and gestured, crying, “You saw my house! I live with a bunch of dudes!”

“Oh. Right. I wasn’t really thinking about anything like that.”

“Just thinking about my dick?” he grinned.

“Yeah, and how bad I wanted it,” she agreed, rolling against his arm. “And it did not disappoint.”

“See? That’s what I’m saying,” he said again. “You get it.”

“Yeah, I got it good.” Just as Jungkook started to gloat, she asked, “Hey, you got anything harder than this?”

“Than… what?”

“Than pot.”

“No. Take it from your elders, don’t do anything harder than pot,” he snorted. Just like that, warm cozy fantasy of success with Mary started to crumble. Ugh. What was he even doing with a college-age girl he picked up in a bar? One clearly surfing for dick and apparently coke too?

No. No regrets. Not while his dick was still twitching with satisfaction.

“You’re not my dad,” she snickered, before whispering into his ear, “Unless you want me to call you ‘daddy.’”

“You call me daddy, I’m going to spank you a lot harder than that,” he warned. Honestly, he wasn’t really into the name but he also didn’t want to chase her off with a denial. Not when he felt this good. Whatever, he could play along. He could stomach being daddy for another round…

She handed him the blunt and watched him; he felt her gaze even with his eyes closed in the low light.

“Are you thinking about someone else?” she asked. “Who were you talking about? Someone cheated on who? Your sister or something?”

He nearly choked as he sat up and insisted, “Yeah I am not thinking about my sisters while I’m fucking.” That made her laugh harder. She choked too, coughing hard as she took the blunt back to set in the bowl on his nightstand.

“Then who?”

“Nobody. I just knew you’d understand.”

“Yeah, I’m great like that. Hey, can you spot me money for a lyft back home?”

“Just spend the night, I don’t mind.”

“.... no thanks. You’ve got like a lot of laundry in here…”

“Yeah, tomorrow is laundry day,” he lied, but her criticism made him run a little colder.

“Yeah it was just an observation. I have class early though I gotta go.”

He sighed and pushed himself out of bed to see what cash he had. Only a twenty, which she gladly took before ordering a car that would go on her card anyway. Damn college girls. He got her a glass of water and made sure she got in the car ok before returning to his room. There wasn’t that much laundry in his room. Maybe he’d been in a hurry changing between surfing and work and going out but so what? He hadn’t expected to bring someone back tonight. If she was so particular they could have gone to her place. She probably had laundry everywhere too.

Dizzy now between the pot and alcohol, Jungkook realized with regret there was no way he’d drag himself out of bed in time to catch the morning surf. He had lifeguard duty and family stuff this weekend too, and band practice Sunday, so tomorrow morning was his only chance. And now Mrs. Birch was gone and he had missed the last two cleanings at her place because he’d been too sulky about her being mad at him. He’d fucked, that was great, his balls were drained, but at what cost? Was it really worth it? Was something wrong with Jungkook to wonder if maybe other things in life were even better than sex–

Wait, Mary had early classes on a Saturday!?

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

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