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earth-wyrms · 2 years ago

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Hey! It's super cool that you're getting into mending - the more folks fixing their own things the better. I'm more-or-less new here myself (I only started mending my clothes about a year ago) so I really understand how overwhelming it can seem. There's so many materials, so many skills, so many methods, and they all seem mandatory. But worry not! Despite the avalanche of information, this is a surmountable problem.

This is not an exhaustive list and I'm sure there's others with more experience than me. If anyone has more information, please send it my way as well.

(this is gonna get long, so the rest is under a readmore)

ADVICE:

Here's some things that helped me out when I was first starting. If they don't work for you, nose around for inspiration that fits what you need.

Your first project may end up looking really bad. Literally no one else is going to notice. I promise. "Hey, I like your pants" "Thanks! I mended this part right here, myself" "Really? You can do that?? That's so cool!"

2. Every article of clothing you fix is one less gone to waste. This is not meant to frighten you. You cannot singlehandedly overturn all of fast fashion, but everything you do accomplish is a tangible bit of progress.

3. Every minute you spend having fun mending is another minute you aren't being sold something. Simply genuinely enjoying yourself is more than worth it.

4. Most tears, even major ones aren't on a time limit. Yes, the more you wear a torn garment the bigger the hole will be. But that just means you make your patch a bit bigger! There's no set expiration date.

5. If it's a huge hole in a major structural area and it looks like eye catching visible mending is going to be too much of a project just... make it ugly. Slap a big black patch over the hole and secure it with a couple layers of stitches. Sometimes practical is better than pretty.

MATERIALS:

You really don't need expensive materials to get started. Fabric construction concerns can come later down the road. All you need to really keep in mind is to roughly match the weight of the patch with the weight of whatever you're mending. Using silk to mend denim will be a huge headache. You can do it, there's no rules.

Stuff to keep around: There's lots of specialty tools that you may want to look into later, but for now all you need is the basics.

1. Needles. Many needles have specific uses, but you can avoid those for now. Just get a thick medium-sized needle with a large eye so its easy to thread.

2. Thread. Embroidery floss can be used as an all-purpose basic thread for doing things by hand. Sashiko thread is great but it can be pricey.

3. Scissors. The stork shaped scissors have an absolute chokehold grip on my heart but they aren't mandatory. A full-sized pair of paper scissors can cut fabric as well as thread.

4. A stitch ripper. If you want to go back and pull out some stitches, a stitch ripper is the way to go. I've pulled out stitches with scissors and with xacto knives and I’ve found nothing better than my $1 stitch ripper from walmart.

5. Pins. Safety pins, round-headed pins, pins from your florist friend, anything will do. All you need is something to hold your fabric in place while you work. I even pinned down my fabric with other sewing needles once, in a time of crisis.

6. Fabric. Everything is fabric. Old shirts, some curtains you were gonna throw away, the cushon from your neighbor's outdoor patio furniture (with permission), the dog bed your puppy chewed up (wash it). Attack the fabric with some scissors and you suddenly have more patches than you know what to do with.

Where to get stuff:

1.Thrift/consignment/charity stores. Buy whatever is on sale in the material you need.

2. Sewing shops. Some sewing shops sell small samplers of mixed fabric they're trying to get rid of. The one in my town has a bundle of five for $5. It's more expensive than bying a full yard but the upside is that you don't have to buy a full yard.

3. High school, uni, or community crafting classes often have scraps left over. If you ask nicely they may let you walk away with an entire trash bag of scraps.

4. Dental floss can be used in place of thread for heartier projects. Not good for fine details, but you may have it in your house already. Free is nice.

5. The ground. I've found socks, bananas, leather belts, whole sweaters, and various t shirts just lying around while walking my dogs. Toss it in your washing machine! Avoid garments that look caked in mud or like they've been rained on too long since the effort it takes to wash might not be worth it. Also keep an eye out in case it looks like someone is coming back for the item. If there's work gloves in a construction zone, someone probably wants em back.

6. Walmart, or whichever large store is in your area. There's no shame in buying yourself a $5 starter sewing kit just to get basic materials. It'll have some cheap scissors, a stitch ripper, some buttons, a measuring tape, and maybe a thimble. You can find packs of pins on the same aisle. BOOKS: If you've got access to a public library near you these can gotten for completely free. Ask the help desk if you don't know where to look for what you need. You can also ask about Inter Library Loans if your library doesn't happen to have the book. (You can also acquire pdfs of many of these online if you're cool with piracy)

If you just can't make that work, no worries! There's no shame in ordering these books online and having them shipped to your door.

Mending Life: A Handbook for Repairing Clothes and Hearts by Nina and Soya Montenegro Really great for starting out. Covers several common methods of fixing holes and has step-by-step illustrations that explain things better than most books I've found. The hardback cover has a cool texture to it, too. I often open the book to the page I want and search youtube for a video on the same method. That way i can go back and fourth between the two if I just don't understand.

Modern Mending by Erin Lewis-Fitzgerald This one's great because it uses photos of the author's actual hands. I struggle with illustrations because it's hard for me to think in 3D space which is why I like youtube videos. I disagree with the section on "essential equipment". It's a bit intimidating since the author has an array of fancy tools that you may not find you need. Other than that, though, this is a great resource to keep around. It's useful to help you get ideas on how to mend things other than just pants. ONLINE RESOURCES:

Wasteless Crafts is a great blog to go to with questions. They cover more advanced topics like garment modification, but they have a whole section for bare-bones-beginners. If you're super stuck, their askbox is always open. They have great links to outside videos to help you learn a technique you're struggling with.

Made Everyday has helped me a ton whenever I've needed to pull out my (bad, old, cheap) sewing machine. The host is lovely and encouraging. She explains what she's doing and goes into detail as to why it is that she's doing what she's doing. Hit up the search bar on her channel and she likely has a video explaining how to do what you need doing.

I hope you find some of this useful. Mending can be a relaxing and rewarding activity but I know that there's so much to learn. It can seem like you have to know all of it right now before you can even start. You don't. Pick up a needle and make an ugly patch!

I really want to learn how to sew, but I'm very overwhelmed. I'm afraid of practicing on most things for fear of messing them up and wasting them. I'm really the kind of person who needs someone teaching me and available to answer my questions, but I don't have anyone for that and there's several reasons I'm apprehensive about finding a class (the most rational of which are my lack of income and COVID, but social anxiety is also a factor).

I know there's guides and videos online, but I always get so overwhelmed and usually don't know where to start because all my ideas are abstract, abstract to me specifically (because I don't know how fabric construction works), or difficult and/or risky enough to scare and/or confuse me out of wanting to do it.

Does anyone have tips for teaching yourself to sew? How do I practice without being wasteful?

#wasteless crafts #visible mending #mending #solarpunk #sashiko #long post #tagged so others can find it #sheep speaks #<--- temporary original post and replies tag #needlecraft

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subwaysurf45 · 3 years ago

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Our Home to Heal (Ep.2)

Summary: working at the VA, you’ve found your place. helping people in the sobriety unit as well as cooking for the food bank, the VA had everything for you. Bucky Barnes has a not-so-good first impression but after dealing with a dark recent past he finds you to help him heal.

Episode: two

Words: 3,848

Warnings: mentions struggles for money, grief, Bucky’s train fall, masturbation

Our Home to Heal Series II Main Masterlist

The same Christmas music played over the speakers as you viewed the racks in the thrift store, you were obliviously humming along as you peeled through the sweaters. Licking your lips for the fifth time that minute reminded you to pick up lip balm at some point, New York was cold and dry. Your fingers brushed over the second-hand clothes, you were trying to find an ugly sweater for the VA’s holiday party. It was always ugly sweater-themed which you enjoyed because you always found the worst clothes here. The random fluctuation of popularity with thrift stores never helped anyone who actually needed clothes from here, the store was bare and only held the clothes with burn holes and paint marks; which were considered ugly, but not in the way you wanted. You saw teenagers with Gucci belts trying to find a large men’s shirts to cut up and then not wear after one day, in the same isle you saw mothers desperately trying to find their kids Christmas presents and clothes that weren’t being picked over.

“Here we go,” you found a homemade knitted sweater with a sheep wrapped up in lights, it was perfectly ugly. After aimlessly browsing you had found yourself in the jacket section, your fingers flipping over the tags to find the price. “What?” you whispered to yourself, “since when was this fourteen dollars?” you dropped the tag and looked to another one, they were all over ten bucks. You quickly looked at the tag for the ugly sweater, “you have to be kidding me,” you whined in the empty lane, the sweater was twenty dollars.

“So much for a cheaper option, huh?” You were completely unaware of an older gentleman standing next to you, “all the prices have gone up,” he shook his head as he spoke.

“I know,” you stood there dumbfounded, you couldn’t afford the jacket and the sweater.

“Why…?” you trailed off and flipped another tag.

“The downtown thrift stores have turned into the new mall,” he shook his head, “these kids want to test out what struggling feels like because they’ve lived their lives with promised meals and warm jackets their entire life,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, “y’know, I was shocked when I came back from the war, and then the training tours I did, the world is moving a little too fast for me.” He looked over at you.

“Thank you for your service,” you smiled, “I work at the VA, down the street?” he nodded, “if you ever want to join group therapy or a specific smaller group you can give us a call, it’s free.”

“Really?” he leaned back, “I always thought you had to pay.”

“Nope,” you smiled, “government-funded.”

He smirked, “so that’s why you’re shopping here?”

Rude.

You just faked a smile and waved him goodbye, but quickly turned around to hang the jacket back up. With the one sweater in hand you walked up to the cash, then you paused. Were you really about to spend twenty dollars on a sweater you’re only going to wear once when you have a perfect one at home? You looked at the tag, normally it would be five dollars. Then the other part of you didn’t want these stuck-up kids to get their hands on something that was supposed to be for you, if they bought it, it would only push the prices up- but wouldn’t you do the same thing by buying it? Business doesn’t care who plays, just how much.

“Debit or credit?” the lady asked.

“Cash,” you handed over a twenty, she took it and there was no tax so no change. “Thanks,” you shoved the sweater into your tote bag. When the door opened you were struck again with the intense cold, the city snowplow was making its rounds, all the cars were honking at it.

As you made your way down the busy streets you felt your phone buzz in your sweatpants' back pocket, the contact saved as ‘James Barnes’ was calling you. You had run into him two days ago, “hello?” you picked up.

“Hi,” you could instantly pick up on the nervous shake.

“How can I help you, James?”

“Bucky, please,” the voice cut in from the other end of the line, “I told Sam about our meet up at the VA, he told me I needed more friends and that you like coffee, so… would you like to grab a cup with me?” his voice got more strained as he talked, “you can say no, I just thought that you were very nice and I’d like a new… friend.”

A smile had grown on your face, “I’d love to Bucky,” you could hear a faint cheer from the other end, “I’m currently out and about, where are you?”

“I’m also out, I needed to grab some deodorant and toothpaste,” you couldn’t help but giggle at the weird transparency.

“I’m near the,” you squinted to see the coffee shop across the street, “the Oak and Barn Café De Latté… what a name, I’m near there.”

“I’m ten minutes away, get us a table and I’ll be there shortly,” you could hear the smile, “and don’t wait up, get whatever you’d like- maybe order me a London fog?”

“Copy that, Sarge,” you laughed at the way he groaned playfully, “see you soon, bye-bye.” and your thumb pressed the hang-up button.

Bucky let out a deep breath as he fell back on his make-shift bed, the one beside his couch made out of blankets and pillows. As he stared a the ceiling he couldn’t help but begin to laugh, a genuine smile graced his lips as he rested both hands on his stomach to feel the movement from the laughing, he called Sam back. As he waited during the ring he kicked himself for lying about also being out, it seemed he wanted to be like you.

“Sam!” Bucky screamed.

“Did she say no?” Sam seeped upset, “because if it takes three hours to call me back then you probably cried for a bit.”

“No, Bird Brain,” Bucky got up and laughed into the phone, “it took me three hours to press that stupid call button but when I did she picked up and I was all like ‘hey, wanna get coffee’ and she was all like ‘hell ya’ and I was all like ‘you pick the place and the time, and I’ll make you mine’ and she was all like-”

“You said that?” Sam screamed from the other end.

“Oh, God no,” Bucky laughed, “I’m not there yet, I think my voice was shaking but it felt like I was- oh, I feel on top of the fucking world! I asked a girl on a date,” Bucky jumped as he laughed.

“Does she know it’s a date?” Bucky could hear Sam’s smirk.

“Well, probably not,” Bucky stopped jumping, “but it’s a step in the right direction, it’s a friendly thing, I told her I need more friends.”

“Steve told me you were such a flirt, I can’t believe you told her you need more friends,” Sam chuckled, “I was joking when I said that, but I’m glad you got a friend date, I gotta go.”

“Yeah...” Bucky’s tone change completely, he was deflated. “Talk to you later,” he said as he pulled the phone away to hang up. The familiar wave crashed back onto him, he found himself sitting on the make-shift. He tried hard but he couldn’t seem to twist up his lips, he wasn’t smiling anymore, he just couldn’t. The feeling of self-loathing creeped out from his mind, he knew it all too well. Any mention of Steve would send a whirlwind of emotions through his body, it was the one subject he couldn’t control. “But I can control this,” Bucky whispered. He stood up and put on a different black long sleeve and grabbed his jacket, “I can control this.”

You were currently tapping on the ceramic mug with Bucky’s mug sitting in front of you, you weren’t impatient but you were getting worried. Calling him would be too much, you might freak him out but you also wanted to know if you were getting stood up. But the bell rang right as you took out your phone and Bucky was walking in, his hair had flecks of snow and his jacket was completely covered. You stood up and waved him over, at the last second you didn’t know what was appropriate to greet someone you only met two days ago but Bucky made the decision, a one-armed hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky whispered as he sat down.

“No worries,” You smiled and finally took a sip of your coffee, “both at the perfect temperature,” you smiled and took another sip.

“Perfect,” Bucky laughed. After he took a second to look around he looked back at you, “have you been here before?”

“No, probably won’t go again,” you pulled your lips tight.

“Why? I think the drinks are good,” he scanned the room again.

“My coffee was nine dollars,” you deadpanned which only made Bucky cough his drink, almost spitting it out.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, “how much was my tea?”

“Seven.”

He shook his head and looked around, “I’m paying you back,” he nodded indefinitely, his eyes looking around for the third time. “I just wanted to let you know…” he trailed off, “how I acted two days ago wasn’t me, I… I was very upset and I wasn’t thinking about first impressions, so I hope you know I’m actually like this more often, me right now.”

You couldn’t help but smile, “and that’s okay, I like this version but it’s not like I hate the version I met two days ago, you were still very kind and I was the one who overstepped, so I’m sorry for that.” you reached over and squeezed his right hand that sat on the table.

“You’re forgiven,” Bucky breathed a sigh of relief, “well, I think this is a great place to start over.”

“Agreed,” you brought your cup up to your lips, “how long have you known Sam?” you changed the subject.

“I knew him for a long time but we weren’t friends, not until this Flag-Smasher thing, but I’d say he’s my best friend now,” Bucky smiled, “I’m going to guess you met him during the war?” he took a sip of his tea.

“Actually no,” you tilted your head, “I met him and Riley during a gap year before university, they weren’t old enough to enlist so they worked as custodians for a community center, along with me and we met there.” the bell rung and a couple walked in, you looked over your shoulder and Bucky peeked, you quickly turned back.

“You knew Riley?” Bucky leaned in, “Sam rarely ever talks about him, not unless we’re having a trauma sharing moment.” He giggled.

You laughed too, “ya, I have a box of letters they both wrote to me during their tour, I have the death notification document for Riley, it was very hard for Sam.” You sighed and put on a smile, you had gotten to the point where Riley made you smile in a bittersweet way rather than cry.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” it was now Bucky’s turn to reach out a squeeze your hand.

“That’s very kind,” you smiled.

Even though that conversation was sad it seemed the both of you knew how to turn it around, there was a clicking sensation you felt every time you talked, you could feel Bucky noticing it too. You had barely touched your coffee because all you wanted to do was laugh at Bucky’s jokes and tell your own, you couldn’t end the moment by taking a sip, you needed to be right there in the because all you’ve felt was the stress of everyday life to other twenty-three hours of the day.

Bucky relaxed, this was going so well he was almost scared. He had come crying into your office and somehow, two days later, he was sharing time with you. Every time he thought of the moment he was in a smile would spread across his face, there was a warmth to you that seeped through the oak wood table and up Bucky to his heart.

“Okay, your turn,” Bucky leaned back and tried to keep a poker face. You were trying to assume things about one another, there was no point system but Bucky kept track of how many times you scrunched your nose.

“Alright,” you leaned in a dramatically squinted like you were trying to read him, “you are afraid of heights?” You tilted your head with a smirk.

Bucky shrugged, “I mean I lost my arm falling from train way up high,” he giggled and looked down to pick up his mug. When he looked up he saw your hand gripping your mouth, your eyes wide and slightly glossy. “What?” he laughed.

“I’m so sorry, that was so mean of me, I should have known better, I’ve seen the museum and I knew that,” You covered your entire face until you felt one warm and one cool hand grab your wrist and pull your hands away.

“Don’t be sorry, okay?” Bucky smiled, you nodded. “And it’s my turn,” he smirked, “you own a cat?”

“I do!” you jumped, every person looked over with disapproving faces, you shrank down and Bucky went with you. “Her name is Cleo and she’s a tabby and she’s so fat and such a lap cat, you’d love her,” you whispered.

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” Bucky admitted, “maybe a white one, short hair, but cool coloured eyes.”

“Why don’t you go to the shelter and nap one up?” you lifted your cup but found it was empty, sadly you placed it back down.

“I’ve,” Bucky sighed, his smile slowly fading, “I’ve had other pressing matters.”

“Oh,” you picked up on his change, “that’s totally okay, I- yeah, that’s okay,” you smiled.

“Um,” Bucky suddenly felt weird, almost out of place. “My tea is done,” he tipped his mug to show proof.

“So is my coffee,” you did the same.

“It looks like our date is coming to a close, you should get home before dark, I do too.” Bucky stood, you quickly did as well.

Part of you was shocked, you thought you’d stay for longer, maybe get some decaf or a muffin that was probably stale. It was weird to see him randomly shut off his funny side and turn into quickly putting his jacket on, why was he going so quickly? It seemed when you talked about the near past he always deflected, what were the pressing matters? Why were they so pressing? What happened? There was no way you could get it out of him, you barely knew him.

As Bucky slipped your jacket through your arms while his head was looking at the ground, almost shameful. He walked you outside the café and stopped when you stood on the sidewalk, beginning to adjust to the cold. It was still day but the sun was soon to say goodbye, Bucky just stood there and blocked its core. His hands shoved in his pockets as he rocked back and forth from his toes to heels. You squeezed your tote bag that was full of your ugly sweater.

“So,” you spoke and noticed to cold puff that came from your lips, “if you ever want to do that again, or call, or come to the VA, or even facetime- do you know how to facetime?” you reached out and unconsciously touched his forearm.

“I actually do,” his smile peeking through.

“Well, do whatever you want if you ever want to reach me, trust me, if I’m not at the VA, I’m bust being a cat lady,” you giggled and leaned in. Bucky went for a one-armed hug and before smiling at you, “see you around, Bucky.”

“Can’t wait,” Bucky breathed softly, then he turned the other way. As he worked his way into the New York crowd, it took seven seconds for you to lose him. Then you realized you were staring longingly at nothing and walked to the train station.

You unlocked your apartment door, throwing the tote bag onto the floor. Cleo was running at you, you scooped her up and allowed her to nuzzle under your jaw. Her purring and vibrations were definitely calming you down, the entire time you were coming home you were replaying the entire coffee date with Bucky, trying to find the moment when everything went sour. After a long commute, you found it was either bringing up heights or asking why he hasn’t gotten a cat, which was two things that normally wouldn’t invoke a one-eighty degree change in personality. It made you over thing: was he faking the happy parts?

“But it’s like,” you huffed and spoke to your cat as you threw all your laundry into two baskets, “I think he was enjoying himself, I really do,” you threw a pair of lace underwear, you wore for half an hour before getting itchy, Into the basket, “and I was having a blast, he’s so nice and funny, I just want to, like, cuddle on our couch with him, y’know?” you turned to your cat, “and just play with his stubble and his hair and just talk to him, I want him to know he can talk to me, is that too much to ask?” you fully turned around and dropped the two full baskets on your bed, Cleo was sitting nicely, just listening to you. Her ears moved but her eyes stayed on you until they didn’t and she walked over to her empty food bowl, painfully meowing. “Oh shit,” you whispered and quickly filled her bowl, “don’t be so dramatic, you’ve got enough meat on your bones,” you whispered and threw two tide pods into the laundry bins, along with a book and your house key.

The sky was a wonderful shade of pink when you crossed the street to the laundromat that was always open. Your building didn’t have machines or else the rent would go up, it was a decision your landlord made by sending a survey to all the people who lived in the building. Even though you thought the laundry machines were way easier, you took into account the new rent; you couldn’t make that.

The bell rung when you opened the door, people of all different stages of their life were in different stages of doing laundry. You found two sets of washers and dryers side by side and began to load in your white and colours. You placed the baskets in front of each, as a way to mark your territory, and sat on half of the colours dryer and half of the whites washer. You used to do laundry mid-day on the weekend but after you put both loads in and left for five minutes to grab a coffee you came back to find two piles of your wet and soapy laundry weeping on the ground, no one fessed up but the businessman with a suit and stupid ear-thing was standing in front of the two that were previously yours and wasn’t looking at you. Also, there was a lady who was in her mid-60’s who seemed to like how young you were. She’d come up and ask a simple question: what did you do this weekend? But she didn’t listen to what you said, she waited for you to ask back.

Lo and behold, Janet, the yapping menopause lady was walking towards you. “Oh, dear!” she yelled, “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Oh, no,” you faked, “that’s so sad,” you tried so hard to sound fake so she could get the hint and move on.

She looked you up and down, it seemed she didn’t like that you were sitting on the machines. “You know,” her face reddened as she looked around, almost embarrassed, “it’s not nice to do that in public,” her lips pursed together as she shook her head.

“Do what?” you were genuinely confused. Your book was now dog-eared and sitting beside you.

“Oh,” she whispered and look around, when she found no one near her she quickly turned back to you, “public masturbation isn’t legal.”

“What the fuck?” You raised your voice, “what are you trying to do here?” You looked around to see no one paying attention, a man was doing that exact same thing across the room.

“Sweetheart,” she leaned in and patted your knees, “I’ve seen the- what are they called -TikTok videos, I’m hip with all that,” she nodded, lips still pursed, “and I know that young women like you masturbate with vibrations, and I’ve seen girls talk about the washing machine as a ‘hack’.” she ended with air quotes.

Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Astounded. Concerned about what her algorithm was feeding her. That’s how you felt, “I’ve had a really weird day, and I don’t need you coming in here and doing all this, I’m guarding my machines because I’ve had people take out my wet laundry before, and I’m too confused and agitated to deal with that again. So please,” you put your hand together in a praying motion, “leave me alone.”

“I was just concerned about what you were doing, there’s a sex shop down the-”

“I know,” you gritted your teeth, absolutely done with today, “and news-flash, Janet, I’ve been there and I’ve bought something that’s way better than a fucking quarter, rusted, barley dries my clothes, machine, okay?” you took a deep breath, your face felt warm as you realized what you had admitted. It was true, a dark blue vibrator sat in a silk bag in your dresser. You had read silk didn’t carry bacteria so you get one for ‘Buzz’ which was what Sam first called it when he was trying to find treats for Cleo, it always stuck.

“Alright,” she whispered and walked away.

You moved everything into the dryer and opened your book again, it went by quickly. When you left the laundromat it was a deep shade of blue outside, a few stars had shown up. With the baskets stacked on top of each other and resting on your hip, you got back into your apartment. You decided you’d fold everything tomorrow, the exhaustion of the day was catching up. Your feet began to ache and your back was starting to curl into a very bad posture, you grabbed a granola bar and fell into bed. Cleo was sat in the other room, cleaning herself.

With a sigh you opened your bedside table, there sat the silver silk bag, a faint outlives of the bullet sex toy. “Be sex-positive. Masturbation is okay,” you whispered and opened the bag, taking out the toy. “It’s okay,” you clicked it on and slowly worked your way down your body, taking clothes off as you went. The feeling was all you wanted the entire day, a sense of relief. As your eyes rolled back and your lids closed your brain started to go into a semi-conscious space, not really understanding your surroundings.

You barely registered your coffee date’s name slipping from your lips.

Next Episode

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tag list: @imtherain @jackiehollanderr @redneckstrash @tylard-blog1 @readingbooksdrinkingtea @linzc-reader @hotleaf-juice @honeybunchesofbucky @sky0401

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

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World's Best

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: Not every day is easy. Frankie makes it better.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 2.2k~

Warnings/tags: smut, vague-ish descriptions of depression/mental health, hurt/comfort, fluff

Notes: Do y'all ever get into a funk and then attempt to write yourself out of one? Well, this is the v self-indulgent product of said instance heh. I have tagged a random assortment of potentionally interested people but obvi no pressure? idk? :) Sending so much love and well wishes to you guys. x

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

A sea of knotted sheets spans between you—as tangled as your legs—too tired, too leaden to unweave. The fan rotates in the corner, blowing stale air your way every few clicks. You dangle a foot off the bed, skin prickling as the weak breeze sweeps over you and a bead of sweat licks from your knee to slope down your calf. Morning sun leaks through the window— the finch perched on the tree just outside it chirping once, twice, before flitting off.

You’ve been reading the Sunday paper for a solid twenty minutes—which, in all honesty, is an overstatement; you started and quickly abandoned the Sudoku after a measly ten, and you’ve been staring at the same sentence in the local section for the other half, blinklessly hovering over the fine print.

You’re not here today. Not all of you.

There’s this sinking feeling, hollowing you out and unmaking you. It’s as if something unseeable is oozing over you - dripping - something treacle, something thick. You’re far away from yourself—far from the cornflower blue walls and the framed photos hanging on them—the happy faces in the pictures smiling back at you— far from the plants basking in the tines of filtered light by the sill, far from the body lying beside you.

You’re not always this way. Not every day drags like an inky smear, your mind meandering sluggishly in circles, holding you hostage in a prison of your own making; but you can’t say it’s foreign to you either. It’s old, familiar—like that sweater in your closet you’ve had for centuries and rarely wear, but can’t bring yourself to get rid of. You know it well, this slog—you have unwillingly memorized it’s sodden intricacies, and today you feel it. You feel every single one of your days—each grey hour— weighing heavy on your very bones.

heavy heavy

heavier, still.

If you’re not careful, you’ll sink straight through the mattress. You’ll nestle deep into the springs and make a home in the down. You’ll sleep there until you become it. Comfortable. Catatonic.

Frankie sips his coffee. He doesn’t look up from the email he’s skimming. “What’s wrong?”

The baritone of your boyfriend’s voice sucks you back to the present—to the tick of the clock marking the seconds, the whir of the fan. The paper crinkles as you lay it to your chest—big eyes feigning ignorance as you blink up at him, chewing your lip. “Hmm?”

“Baby, I know that face.”

“What face?”

“The one you’ve got on,” he replies, “that’s your ‘I’m-upset-and-I’m-trying-to-hide-it’ face.’”

“I-” you frown, “no it’s not.” Gingerly, you pat a hand around your temple, your cheek, as if you could see your expression through touch.

“Uh huh.” Frankie rolls his digit upon the mousepad, clicking and scrolling down the webpage, and your vision glazes over again—ugly thoughts fogging up the panels of your mind—

“You gonna talk to me about it?”

You blink, swallowing, “nothing to talk about.” You flap the paper, ironing out the pleats, and scan for that pesky paragraph you never managed to finish.

“Mhm,” he replies absentmindedly, bringing the mug to his lips and drinking with an all too obvious slurp.

“Really, I’m fine,” you say weakly. You’re not that convincing—you barely convince yourself.

“Sure, sweetheart. If you say so.”

He’s too casual; he’s letting it all go too easily and God, he’s gotten good at this—at coaxing the truth out of you. He doesn’t even have to try any more. He’s so kind and open and sincere, all he has to do is crack the door ajar—tempt you with an inch of space, with only a sliver of leeway—and immediately you want to plunge through it and chase after him, like a dog and a bone.

He makes you want to share; not because of what he says, but by everything he doesn’t—the welcoming gaps he leaves you with, the gaps you’re urged to fill. This happens every time—it’s pretty damn annoying, actually. You’re so miserably predictable. After three and a half years together, sometimes you think Frankie might know you better than you know yourself.

A scary thought—wonderful, too.

“I’m just-” You run a hand over your face, pressing into the bridge of your nose and you grunt, frustrated. Exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

Frankie settles his coffee cup on the hill of his sternum, closing his laptop quietly. He swivels his head to you, hair mussing into the wall.

“Of anything in particular?” he asks, linen soft.

“No, yes—I don’t know,” you heave—an errant thing fluttering around in your chest as you fold the newspaper, letting it float to the floor with a splat. “It’s just-” you worry the inside of your cheek raw, fumbling with the blur of your emotions. You shake your head. “It’s just a bad brain day.” Your voice is small as you slump into him, letting your body go limp.

“I’m sorry I get like this. I’m okay—I’ll be okay,” you mumble, face burrowed into his arm. He smells summered, like sweat and heat and the promise of long days fading into even longer nights, and you take a heady drag, inhaling his scent.

You hear him sigh, stretching as he sets the mug and computer down on the side table. He shifts back to you, snaking an arm under your body as you coil your own around his center, hugging him close.

“You know, it’s alright if you’re not,” Frankie murmurs into your hair, planting a kiss at the crown of your head. “And you know you don’t have to hide from me when you aren’t.” His thumb finds your arm, the chewed nail bed scratching soothing circles along your skin.

Your gut somersaults, flipping and purring, and all you can do is press your lips to the cottoned shoulder of his tee shirt—the one with the holes in the collar and motor oil stain on the hem; all you can do is tighten your grasp, wringing around his cozy waist.

“And you know that nothing you say is gonna scare me away, right? I’m always going to be here for you.” Frankie gives your forearm a reassuring squeeze.

God, this man.

You nuzzle further into his chest—snuggled and swaddled in the safety of his warmth—and you mumble something incoherent, muffled against his relaxed body. His beard catches on your fly-aways as he dips to hear you better. “What was that honey?”

“I said,” you crane your neck, lifting out of his side, “you really are the ‘world’s best uncle’.”

A ripple of confusion twists over his features before you bat your eyes up to meet his, shooting a glance over to that exact phrase wrapping itself around the ceramic cup beside him.

You got stuck with it at some terrible white elephant exchange last Christmas. It’s fucking tacky and aggressively large—not even you - you, in all your caffeine dependency - can chug that much coffee fast enough in one sitting without it going cold— and neither of you have any nieces or nephews to speak of…

Naturally, it’s become your favorite mug.

Frankie barks out a laugh, his stomach flexing against your grasp. “Oh yeah? Is that all I am?” he smirks, a glint of mischievousness reflecting in his irises as he bores down at you.

You quirk an eyebrow, a coy tug blooming across your lips. “I dunno,” you drawl sweetly, “you going to prove me otherwise?”

His face is split into a grin now, wide and aching and unnecessarily endearing. His hair is a mess, wavy tufts jutting out every which way, and his eyelids are still puffy from what little slumber he was lucky enough to get in your hot, cramped apartment.

You really can’t keep putting it off—you need to buy an AC unit.

His focus dances from your eyes to your mouth, breath hitching as he watches you skip your tongue over the plush mound there. “I just might,” he growls playfully, maneuvering you onto your back with one broad swoop, pinning you to the bed.

He makes love to you like a man unburdened - untouched - by time. He fucks into you slowly, unhurriedly—at a pace that’s mind numbingly measured and patient. Frankie devastates you, dragging himself through your walls from head to hilt, letting you feel every ridge, every vein of him; filling you up so impossibly well—his thick cock sauntering in and out, and in and out again. Each roll of his hips makes you gasp, his blunt tip brushing against that deep, uncharted chasm within you that tempts you into oblivion. Your legs are locked around him, crossed at the ankles, and the perspiration at the pits of your knees slicks his sides.

Frankie’s palms dimple the fitted sheet as he brackets your head, burying himself into the crook of your neck. He moans—hot breath ghosting over the prickled skin there, babbling disjointed strings of guttural praise into your ear.

Fuck baby—fuck you feel good

How’d I get so lucky, how’d I-

God, you’re a— fuck

You’ve got the perfect pussy—made for me

Made for me, made for me, made for-

You turn your head and capture his mouth with your own, whimpering into him as he nips at your bottom lip and bites. You scrape your fingers through his scalp, pulling at his locks, and Frankie whines a tortured noise—giving an especially hard thrust that pries a yelp from your throat. He rears his head back, catching your gaze, a concerned line creased into his brow. “Y-You okay?”

“No- nono, yes Frankie. Again, right there,” you beg, lashes fluttering.

He darkens—the timbre of his voice made husky and raw as he drinks in the sights and sounds of you mewling for him, splayed and needy. “You like that?” Frankie drives into you again, sharp and searing as he bottoms out, the smattering of curls at the base of him soaked with your gloss. “You need it hard, baby? You want it rough?”

You whimper, clawing desperately at the nape of his neck. “I just—I just want you, all of you,” you pant as you hold his stare—the gorgeous, chestnut gleam of it—and the wordless expression that crests over his features makes you want to cry. The precious indent in his cheek, the stubble littering his jaw, his sculpted nose and clever lips, the sad rings under his eyes—the grooves he thinks you don’t notice, the grooves he tries to mask by always taking care of you, always putting you first, even when he shouldn’t.

Fuck, he’s so beautiful—he’s so beautiful you could weep.

“You have me,” he rasps breathlessly, bowing to meet you in a messy whirl of tongue and teeth before breaking away—forcing himself up off his hands and back onto his shins. He hooks an elbow under your knee, letting the other frame the outside of his hip. “I’m right here—you have me, you have me-”

Frankie’s hips are frantic now, pulsing in short, strong bursts as he grinds into you. He dips a hand to your center, pad of his thumb working erratic, sloppy flicks over the sensitive nub of your swollen clit. Your feet arch, the muscles there constricting as the tension in you mounts.

“Babe.” You’re whining now, vulnerable and shaking and fuck, you’re going to come apart—any moment now, any unbearable second, you’ll snap. “F-Frankie, baby oh god—”

You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes screwing shut as you shatter. Like a vase crashing onto kitchen tile, you break into a million jagged fragments. Your cunt seizes, legs spasming against him as he fucks you through your orgasm, and it doesn’t take long for the tight contractions of your heat to yank him right off that same ledge. The both of you—tumbling and fracturing into terrible, perfect shards—to be intermingled and scattered among each other’s glass pieces.

Indiscernible. The same.

When you glue yourself back together again, you will find parts of him there - here, within you - filling your jigsawed cracks like golden ore.

Frankie slips out of you with a squelch and a huffed groan, collapsing to the mattress in a panting heap. His cum dribbles from your apex and you shiver at the feeling of it—at the feeling of him, warm and wet and lingering inside you. He rests his cheek on your breast while you both catch your breath—rising, falling. Waxing, waning. Two pitter-pattering hearts beating in time.

The sheets have been sloughed, lazy and forgotten, to a crumpled pile on the wood floor and the steam once rising from the mug on the nightstand has long since disappeared. It’s too muggy for you two to be this entwined—his leg draped over you, a big arm slung across your belly—but neither of you dare move. Neither of you have the energy, never mind the desire.

The clock whispers in the morning quiet.

A new bird claims the branch the finch left—she sings now, roosting there in the birch.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur sleepily, drawing patterns into the valley of his spine, mapping out his freckles and moles and scars. “Thank you,” you say. Thank you for putting up with me, thank you for understanding me, thank you for listening even when I cannot speak. “I love you so much.”

Gently, silently, Frankie tilts his head, bristled hair peppering your flesh as he mattes your skin with his lips; laving along your breasts, across your clavicle and up the plain of your neck—each kiss a response, each kiss a truth.

You don’t have to apologize

You don’t have to thank me

I love you

I’m right here

I love you

tags:

@pedros-mustache @roxypeanut @frannyzooey @djarinsbeskar @read-and-rec @keeper0fthestars @krissology @greatcircle79

#frankie x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie x you #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fic #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #pedro pascal #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfic #hurt/comfort #triple frontier

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thatgoblin · 3 years ago

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Inadequate - Chris Redfield x Reader (G/N)

Requested by @phoenixofthevalley

Summary: You're not feeling the best about your body and Chris takes notice.

Usually you're pretty good at loving yourself. You've gotten better over the years, not picking yourself apart till you're in tears and refuse to wear what you want. Most of the time you're happy to wear that dress or that shirt that may be tight and form fitting, but sometimes. . .

Sometimes when you're out with Chris, your boyfriend, your partner, your best friend, you stand out in ways you'd rather not. The man was a mountain of muscle that wasn't for looks. He had a job to do and was good at it. That was why he was so big, not going to the gym for 4 hour work outs twice a day, no it was functional muscle that wouldn't leave him only looking big and tough.

Because of his size, everything he wore was tight fitting. He couldn't help it, even got frustrated by it as it forced him to buy more expensive clothes so things fit right. You always told him that he looked good no matter what, even if he was in a unicorn onesie giving you that Chris Redfield scowl he would look good. He would say it to you too, but you knew better.

Right then you especially knew better. You'd gone up a size in jeans and were having a hard time fitting into the ones you had. How had you gained weight? Specifically in that one spot that made buttoning your jeans so friggen hard? You already had belly rolls that you tried to hide with flattering shirts or dresses that made getting dressed difficult, now your jeans were becoming a terror.

You had wanted to wear a pair of jeans and a tank top, on account of the hot weather, but the sight of the fat on your biceps and the way it dipped into your elbows and jiggled at every movement had you grabbing for a long sleeved shirt instead. Now the jeans were were making you put off going outside all together. Throwing them in the floor, you saw the spots on the inside of the thighs where they rubbed together when you wore them were so frayed they were basically holes. If you did wear them, you'd end up chaffed and sore.

So you stood there in your underwear as you looked at your clothes and wondered your worth. Why would anyone like you if you just looked like 'you could be good looking if you weren't so fat?' Maybe less fat around your face and you wouldn't look like that chubby German kid from Willy Wonka. You could be cute, but in the same way a pug was. You were so ugly you were cute.

Glancing at the clock, you and Chris were supposed to go to dinner with Carlos and Jill, but the thought of seeing the other two with their equally fit bodies in clothes you could never wear had you feeling nauseous.

"Hey, you almost ready? I promised Jill we weren't going to run late this time," Chris called from the living room.

"I'm not feeling that well babe, you can go without me though," you called back as you pulled out an extra baggy shirt and gym shorts. They were comfortable, but you couldn't wear them to dinner. It was at a kinda nice place and everyone would be dressed up. You would feel even more like a sore thumb.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked as he came into the bedroom as he worked his belt through his jeans loops. "You don't feel good?"

"Yeah. I think maybe it was something that I had earlier," you said, pulling on the shorts and shirt without looking at him. You didn't see him eyeing the pile of clothes you had already tried on and threw on the bed or floor, knowing you better than you knew yourself sometimes.

"Maybe it was something in the laundry? It would explain why it looks like the dryer exploded in here," he said as he slowly started to pick up the clothes.

"Here, sorry," you said, moving to pick things up so he didn't have to.

"You wanna talk about what's really going on?" He asked, helping you fold and hang your clothes.

"I. . . Nothing fits right!" I cried, nearly breaking down into tears. "I can't fit into freaking jeans that fit last week and they're ruined anyways because I wore holes into the thighs and the rest of my jeans are dirty but they probably don't fit either! I don't have any dress pants or a dress or anything else to wear besides gym shorts and my arms are too big and flabby and gross! I mean, I don't understand why you're with me sometimes."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, pausing mid shirt hanging.

"It means I don't know why you're with the ugly, fat person when you could be with someone like Jill or Carlos or Leon. They fit in with you better than I do," you said, sniffling as you angrily wiped tears from your face. "If any emergency happens, you can't wait for me. I can't run as fast as you or lift as much. I'm useless! You wouldn't be able to carry me if I got hurt or if we're in a tight place you'd have to leave me behind and I wouldn't blame you. It would be better for you if you-Chris!"

In the middle of your self deprecating ramble, Chris moved over to you and lifted you up with the smallest of grunts. His hands grabbed hold of your ass as you quickly wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips.

"You saying I'm not strong enough to take care of you?" He asked, looking at you in the eyes. His voice was firm, unwavering and stern without being loud. "That I can't and won't do everything I can to keep you safe and happy and loved? All because you're fat?"

You winced a bit at that. You hadn't meant to imply that he was a bad person and no one really called you fat. It was a fact, you were fat, but no one really said it. Big Boned or fluffy or more cushion for pushin. But not fat.

"I don't care that you're fat, Y/N. It doesn't make you a bad person or ugly or anything negative. It's just your body and you should be proud of it. I am. I fucking worship it and will keep worshipping it even if you think I shouldn't. Not everyone is built like me or Carlos or Jill or Leon and you shouldn't have to be. You don't run around the world on missions trying to stop bio terrorism and I don't want you to either. I'm not an example to lead by. I'm this way so you don't have to be. Not everyone can or should be built like me and it's one of the things I love about you. You're not built like me, you're soft and warm and my home."

"Chris. . ." You said softly, sniffling more at his words of admiration and praise than of your own hurt.

"I want you no matter how big you get or how little you get. You are more than your body, you are stars and space and love and kindness and everything I want to protect and hold close. You don't have to be pleasant to everyone's eyes because it's not about pleasing them. It's about you understanding and accepting yourself. If you want to go to the gym and work out, I'll go with you and cheer you on and fight with you every step of the way. If you want to just enjoy being alive, I'll be right there with you," he said, pressing his forehead against yours.

"You're too good to me," you said with a softly chuckle, smiling as he returned it.

"No, you're too good to me. Our bodies don't dictate who we are. Fat or skinny, you're still you and you are an amazing person that I love dearly. So please, be kinder to yourself," he said.

"Okay," you said with a nod.

"Now, how about I help you pick out an outfit? Jill will probably be expecting us to be late," he said with a soft chuckle.

"That sounds like a good idea," you said. "But. . ."

"But what?"

"I'm gonna need you to put me down first."

#resident evil #chris redfield #chris redfield x reader #chris redfield x plus size reader #chris redfield x g/n reader

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doyumacy · 4 years ago

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ʀɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ - 1

ʏᴜᴛᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ᴍᴀʀᴋ ʟᴇᴇ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɢᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʏᴇᴀʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀʟꜰ ʙᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴀ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʀᴀᴄᴇꜱ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴏʏ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʀᴀᴄᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ ɢᴇᴛ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ.

ᴍᴀʀᴋ ʟᴇᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʏɪɴɢ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ ʀᴀᴄᴇꜱ, ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴇ��, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴜɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛɪʀ ᴜᴘ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴏʀ’ᴀ ʜᴀʟꜰ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴘɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ, ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅʀᴜɢꜱ, ɢᴜɴꜱ, ɢᴜɴꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴊᴏᴋᴇꜱ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛꜱ,

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5,3ᴋ

three years ago

you slide out from under the car you've been working on when you hear an unfamiliar engine approaching the garage. it must be a customer, you think as you go to the front desk to help them.

the man who enters the office surprises you. he has light brown hair and is wearing black jeans with a white shirt with black flowers. his dark brown eyes sparkle with curiosity as he sees you. a black maserati is parked behind him.

"can i help you?" you ask, freely.

"i have a faulty spark plug and my garage is on the other side of the planet. they told me this was the best place in town."

"and it is. go ahead and go into the store."

"don't mechanics normally keep people waiting in the office?" he asked amused.

"only when the person doesn't know anything about cars. obviously you do, so you have to keep me company while i fix it," you smirk.

"what's your name, suh? -he asks, using the last name on your work shirt.

"y/n. yours?"

"yuta. nakamoto yuta."

"nice to meet you. let's get that car fixed, shall we?"

a few minutes later, the black car is with the hood open in the garage. yuta, on the other hand, is helping you by handing you the necessary tools. you let his fingers brush a little more than strictly necessary when yuta hands you a wrench.

yuta smiles and leans back against the car once you're done. "how much do i owe you?" he asks quietly.

it takes you a second to really register how close you are to each other. you look him in the eye. "how about you take me out to dinner and the debt is settled?" you ask in a sudden flare of audacity.

fortunately, he smiles.

"my thoughts exactly. what time will you be out here?

“six.”

he looks down at that ridiculously nice black gold watch.

"it's only an hour from now. how about i keep you company until then?"

"i'd like that."

"so what were you working on before I showed up?"

"my charger over there. there are some bastards who want to compete with me saying their luxury imports can beat it. tonight they're in for an ugly surprise."

you assume yuta has heard about your garage, knows about your regular clientele. they consider themselves the best store around to the fellow street racers. but to everyone else, it's just a small garage.

"that sounds like something i'd like to see. mind if i stay and watch you kick their asses?"

"it'd be my pleasure," you smile.

as expected, you end up following yuta back to his apartment after winning the race by a solid car length. the endorphins from winning the race flood your senses, and yuta is amazed that he had managed to stumble upon such an amazing girl. someone like him.

sl walking, you find yourself wrapped in warm arms and leaning against a hard chest. you caress the dragon-shaped tattoo on his right shoulder and plant a kiss on it.

a quiet moan tells you she is waking up. his arm tightens around her. he plants a kiss on your forehead.

"Good morning to you too," you say.

yuta rolls you onto his back and rests his torso on top of yours. "good morning."

"You look happy.

"i woke up with a beautiful, bad-ass, street-racing woman in my arms. how could i complain?"

you laugh. "well, i could say the same thing. it's not often i get to wake up next to a hot guy and that brother would probably beat up if he knew where i spent the night."

he barks out a laugh. "you're most likely right..." he bites his lip. "there's something you need to know."

your smile disappears. "you're not married, are you?"

"no! god, no," he replies instantly. "i just want to know if you want it to be more than a brief fling."

you are silent for a moment as he thought.

"yes, i think so. i mean, we could get to know each other better but yes," you explain.

"then we're on the same page," you nod absently. "do you want to have breakfast before we go on with our talk?"

you can't help but get a little nervous. what does he have to say?

"what do you want for breakfast?"

"uh..." you sit up, holding the black sheet against your chest to cover yourself. "whatever. i'm not particularly picky."

yuta nods and gets out of bed, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants. he leaves his room and you lie back down on the bed. your cell phone rings somewhere in yuta's room and you grunt getting up to look for it. you find it inside your jeans.

"y/n! where the hell are you?" johnny asks as soon as you answer the phone. “you didn’t come home last night, and jaehyun said there was a guy watching you the entire race.”

“don’t worry about it, brother. that guy was my date last night. i’m at this place right now,” you grin.

“hold on, you had a date?! who? why didn’t you tell me?” johnny bombards you with questions.

you sigh. you saw this coming.

“everything all right?” yuta asks, entering his bedroom.

“my brother,” you say with your mouth. “johnny! easy with the questions. i’ll tell you later, bye!”

“be responsible!” it can be heard from the phone and you hang up.

you exhale dramatically and fall back on the bed.

“trouble, dear?” yuta inquiries.

you raise your head to look at him. “big brothers are tedious,” you announce after a minute.

“i wouldn’t know; i’m the older brother.”

“oh?”

yuta smiles warmly. “i have a younger brother. the idiot used to fight older bullies in the yard, and i was the one who had to finish them off.”

you smirk. “you protected him. my brother’s the same way.”

“let’s eat, okay? i still need to talk about something important,” yuta declares.

you nod and he tosses you slightly one of his shirts. you put it on and grab your panties putting them on.

yuta made sunny side up eggs and french toasts. between bites, yuta begins to speak. “i work for the korean mafia.”

“huh?” you stop eating and stare at him. “you what?”

yuta laughs lightly. “i work for the korean mafia.” he repeats. “i bet you’re wondering what a japanese guy is doing working for the korean mafia.”

“not exactly my first thought but yes,” you shrug. “what do you do?”

“let’s say i’m a middleman between the korean mafia and the yakuza,” he confesses.

you frown. “so you buy goods from them and sell them?”

yuta raises an eyebrow at you. “what are you? a businesswoman?”

you laugh and have a bite of your toast. “i went to business school, but i dropped out this semester.”

“hot,” he plants a kiss on your lips. “so yes, that’s my job. aren’t you scared?”

“of what? you? your job?” you snort. “i’ve seen way worse in the underground. i gotta say i’m surprised because i thought you were a good boy.”

yuta chuckles. “i am good at other things,” he winks at you.

you push the plate aside and sit on his lap. “i can’t recall, do you mind refreshing my memory?”

yuta grins and places his hand on your ass cheeks. “aren’t you too sore?”

“pain is my best friend,” you nip at his lip and he groans.

yuta kisses you and his hand goes to your throat tilting your head to the side and biting your neck harshly. you whimper at the painful yet pleasurable sensation. yuta shushes you and darts his eyes to you. “i thought you enjoyed the pain, baby girl.”

one year ago

you’re standing in front of his gravestone and place the flower bouquet next to it. the only sound is the wind, rustling through a nearby copse of trees. it has been five days since yuta died and the hole in your chest only gets deeper.

it hurts.

you’re broken.

your life without him means nothing. the city without him means nothing. nothing makes sense without him.

“you shouldn’t have died,” you say. “we could have been better.” you mumble, sitting in front of the grave. “it’s weird, today i woke up and i thought i heard your voice. am i going crazy?” you scoff.

you stare at the gravestone and then lower your heard. “i came to say goodbye. i can’t stay here anymore. everywhere i go i see your face. everyone reminds me of you.”

you feel tears streaming down your face. “i’ll never forget you, yuta. i love you so much.” you burst out crying.

after you left town, you were pretty much everywhere: singapore, thailand, indonesia, philippines, malaysia and even japan for a few weeks. racing and making a fame known as the ‘nameless girl’ who would beat everyone.

you left a note to johnny saying you’d be okay and you would return when you feel ready to.

you didn’t stay long in every country and you didn’t make any relations so things didn’t attach to you there. you were lonely but you got used to it. and you didn’t dislike it.

one night, you decided it was time to come back home. yuta would never come back and you felt you moved on.

the train arrives at its last stop and you grab your small suitcase exiting it. you walk and take a taxi to your house, or johnny’s house just to find a party. people and their racing cars everywhere.

of course. it’s friday.

you get into your house and see people everywhere. people dancing, no, grinding on each other’s bodies and blowing some smoke. perhaps weed. you walk through the crowded living room and spot johnny sipping a beer. you don’t know how he's going to react since you didn’t tell anyone you’re back.

you walk to johnny but he’s interrupted by a red haired and kissed him. you roll your eyes, johnny and his bitches.

you change your direction walking to the kitchen and see jaehyun talking to some people. he turns to you and doesn’t seem to notice you, it’s when he turns again and his face brightens up with a smile. “y/n!” he walks to you and tugs you for a hug, lifting you from the ground.

“hi,” you giggle, placing a kiss on his cheek.

jaehyun puts you back on the ground and smiles, "i almost didn't recognize you, you've changed so much."

“i just dyed my hair: i got babylights,” you grin.

“i like them, you look great,” jaehyun nods. “but where have you been?!”

“huh everywhere?” you shrug.

“and you couldn’t call?” he stares at you.

“i know, i’m sorry,” you rest a hand on his shoulder. “we’ll talk later, okay? where’s everyone?”

“johnny is lena, jungwoo is having a blunt with jinsoul in the yard and of course jisung is in his room, he’s not allowed to come downstairs,” jaehyun comments.

you nod and rest your hands on your waist. “i don’t know half of these people. who are they?”

“johnny became kind of a sponsor?” jaehyun frowns and you laugh. “no, it’s true! half of these people are rich kids betting on johnny's people, he met two guys that are literally gods of racing.”

“i’d like to see that,” you add. “what are their names?”

“mark lee and lee donghyuck,” jaehyun hands you a beer. “they’re dickheads but we’ve been getting so much money because of them.”

you scoff. “they’re just lucky. i am back.”

jaehyun whistles, smiling. “that’s the attitude, baby. i can’t wait to see you race again.”

you smirk. “i bet you wanna.”

“ah, johnny’s coming,” jaehyun murmurs.

you turn and see a blond haired johnny walking towards you. you tuck your hands into your jeans pocket and smile nicely. “hi brother.”

“when people started saying my sister was here i didn’t believe it because maybe she left this fucking town a year ago leaving just a note!” johnny exclaims. “and thought ‘why would she return just like that?’”

you sigh. “i’m sorry, johnny. but i’m back and i’m okay. that’s the only thing that should matters.”

johnny rolls his eyes. “are you dumb?”

you frown. “just because you’re my brother i d-

“half-brother,” johnny remarks.

“fuck you, johnny,” you hiss and leave the kitchen

when johnny gets upset he tends to be the classical dickhead and uses the ‘half-brother’ excuse just to hurt you. you think you might deserve it, but why is it so hard for him to understand why you left? why you need to leave?

maybe it’s because he has never loved someone the way you loved yuta. or maybe he’s too selfish to understand it.

of course you also think you didn’t do the right thing by simply disappearing out of the blue, but again, you don’t owe anything to no one.

you go to the bathroom that is next to the stairs and groan when you realise it’s locked. you lean against the wall and sigh. next to you, there are three girls whispering and laughing. you don’t care, until you hear your name.

“did you see y/n? she’s back,” one of them says.

“yeah. i thought she was in jail,” the other mocks.

“in jail? for what?” she laughs.

“apparently she was the one that killed yuta,” she comments. “and ran away, but my boyfriend told me the police caught her.”

the blonde one laughs. “poor thing.”

“and i’d go back to jail for ripping your ugly faces off,” you murmur, still leaning against the wall.

the girls stare at you and they decide to leave. you groan, rolling your eyes. “assholes.”

someone walking down the hallway whistles and smiles at you. “should i be concerned about my well being right now?.”

you look at them and you see a black haired guy, wearing a green jacket with black ripped jeans and black shirt. you scoff. “fuck off, dude.”

“but please don’t rip my face off.,” the guy rests his hand on his chest.

you stare at him and clench your jaw. “bugger off, dude. really, i’m not in the mood to take someone’s shit.”

“sorry,” he nods. “i’m mark by the way,” he passes the bottle of the beer he’s drinking to his free hand and extends his hand.

you look at his hand, hesitant. you shake your head and take it. “y/n.”

he grins, gripping at your hand. “you’re the famous y/n.”

you chuckle. “and you’re not the famous mark lee.”

mark smiles sideways. “so you’ve heard about me.”

“very little,” you shrug. “nothing impressive.”

“ah, they weren’t wrong when they said you’re a bitch,” mark frees your hand.

“did i hurt your feelings?” you pout mockingly.

“you’re gonna need more than that to hurt my feelings, gorgeous,” he winks at you.

you nod. “noted, boy. well, it was nice talking to you.”

“you leaving already?” mark asks.

“yeah. i’m tired and i need a place to sleep,” you say. “i guess i’ll see you around.”

mark nods. “have a good night, y/n.”

(...)

“when did she get back? how come i didn't see her?” donghyuck slides off the plastic armrest of the outdoor sofa he was sitting on.

jeno walks away to get a drink. “who 's back?” he asks.

“y/n suh,” mark replies.

“johnny’s sister?” jeno looks at him.

donghyuck and mark nod.

“what was she in jail for, like, a year?” jeno’s voice drops to a whisper.

“she was in jail?” donghyuck stares at mark.

“no. she just disappeared last fall,” mark explains.

“it was probably jail,” donghyuck adds, “that or she had a baby. i mean, the timing kind of fits for that, don’t you think?”

“and where’s the baby, smartass?” mark glances at him.

“gave it away for adoption,” donghyuck shrugs.

“what are you fuckers talking about,” johnny questions, going outside the house.

“your sibling,” jeno admits, earning an elbow to his side by mark.

johnny laughs and turns to look out over his yard. “which one?”

“y/n.”

“watch it, dude,” jaehyun warns him, joining them outside.. “johnny’s not too forgiving when it comes to his siblings.”

“noted.” jeno nods.

“anyways, i’m here to talk business,” johnny sits in front of them.

“back to the things i like,” mark comments.

johnny grins. “there’s a race next weekend, 15 grand for the winner.”

donghyuck whistles. “i like what i’m hearing already.”

“it’s a bit complicated since it won’t be in an enclosed area as usual. it will be in downtown LA,” johnny adds.

“count me in,” mark says.

“dude, do you know how risky it is?” jeno stares at him.

“i’ve done riskier things and here i am,” mark rolls his eyes. “i’ll be there, johnny.”

“you’re my favourite,” johnny smiles and looks at jeno and donghyuck. “you two are disappointing me.”

“i can live with that but not in jail,” donghyuck smirks.

“pussy,” jaehyun hums.

“sorry mr. in-n-out-from-jail,” donghyuck rolls his eyes.

mark chuckles. “that race it’s already mine. and the cops can suck my dick, they wish they were as fast as me.”

“my canadian boy right here is the shit,” johnny smiles.

(...)

the bright neon lights. the skimpy clothing worn by chasers. the many cars lined up.

it's another night in los angeles, and another night means another race.

mark breathes it in as he leans on his orange acura nsx. not a single scratch in sight on the top of the car. although he's working with a sponsor, he has his own gang known as death angels, because they’re risk takers, or most of them are.. he can hear the countless bickering of his gang, who are also his closest friends. donghyuck, jeno, and earphone yves, lucas, bickering about god knows what now. jeno and lucas are conversing about seeing some new people joining the race.

there's no doubt he probably owns the most showy and expensive car in the entire parking lot. until a brown haired girl, who he knows, motioned him to come over.

you.

"seems like you got a challenger," donghyuck murmurs.

"tsk, anyone can beat her. what's so special about her anyway?" mark says, annoyed.

yves clicks her tongue. "i wouldn't be so sure about it, babe."

you get off from your car, hair tied up, perfectly showing your features. your toned eyes are slightly covered with black eyeliner. wearing tight jeans, black t-shirt and a red leather jacket.

you look like you are meant to be there. not a chaser wanting attention, not a flag girl wanting to show herself off, but. tracer. the crowd don't bother you. you begin to slightly look around, and that's when you see mark. you and mark lock eyes, and with a strut, you walk with a confident walk over mark.

crossing your arms, showing off your figure, you take a breath, and open your mouth. "no shit you're here as well."

mark scoffs. "i'm a car racer, where else was i supposed to be?"

"junior leagues," you shrug and you hear one of his friends laugh.

mark stares at you and grins. "i challenge you to a race. simply, nobody else. that is if you are up for it."

the offer is rather simple.

an easy 10-second style race, just the two of you, nobody else.

you let out a breathy chuckle, nodding your head. "alright then, it's settled." you reply, standing up to his level, and leaning over his ear. "but don't be crying when you loose, sweetheart"

mark scoffs at that. "you're underestimating my ability right now, gorgeous." he says, poking his lips out in a seductive manner.

you laugh and he smiles.

you turn around for just a few seconds, yelling over to him words that are barely audible. “te veré al inicio de la línea,” (i'll see you at the starting lineyou say.

mark’s orange acura nsx is a perfect fit considering the late at night arrival they have been in. it’s his prized possession, obviously. he checks the side of his car, smirking to himself seeing the NOS lined up on the passenger seat. however, your white nissan gtr is a good contrast. no dent is seen on it, and the engines flare when you start it, earning an erupt from the spectators. fifteen thousand dollars are on the game, and you need that money.

you notice the flag-girl as one of the members of death angels. she wears a simple purple and black outfit: purple harem pants and a black bomber jacket, carefully showing her slightest laced bra. she looks good, there’s no denying it. and with that, she points at mark, starting his engines and giving a show for his car. then she points to you, and you’re wearing a smile on your face. your engines starting.

and time seems to stop when you hear words emit from her mouth. “go!”

mark and you immediately go and hit the accelerator at about the same time, so you two are neck and neck. you know your strategy, and mark knows his.

8 seconds left.

knowing this, mark uses his NOS, eating a prideful laugh and his back hitting the seat. but you have different plans. you wear a smug look, and let out a giggle. “the NOS he’s using will take a shorter time than it relatively should.” you think you yourself, and activate yours.

6 seconds left.

you fly back to your seat, seeing the crowd erupt in cheers. mark sees your white nissan catch up to him, and before he knows, you’re way ahead of him.

“shit!” he yells.

2 seconds.

and before he knows, you are at the finish line, turning your car around and creating a donut with it, earning praise from the crowd. marks ends up second, or last in this case. he gets out of the car with a scowl, and you make your way to him, with a smile on your face, and your hair is out of the ponytail you have been wearing.

“the NOS you used, doesn't take up as much time as normal NOS used. it was a bit too early,” you say, giving your hand out to him. he clicks his tongue, now slightly irritated to know the fact you're indeed right. marks gives you the money. “pass by the shop any time you want.”

“why would you want to help me anyways? we’re rivals now,” he cocks an eyebrow.

you sigh, when you are interrupted by the shouts of numerous spectators and blaring sirens.

“cops! cops!”

everything happens so fast. next thing you know, you are in the back of your car, hitting your foot on the accelerator and immediately rushing out of the area, keeping an eye out for cops in your view mirror. luckily, you don’t seem to spot many. but where you don’t look?

right in front of you.

bullets ricochet throughout the alley way, earning a slight flinch from you. you are scared. only a few times bullets have been in front of you. you quickly take out your silver handgun from out of your shirt, shooting at the cop, not enough to kill him, but it’s enough to get him to surrender.

“bullet proof vests don’t cover the legs, idiot,” you mumble, smirking ever so slightly. you turn a sharp left, going back to the place where you call home. a right. then left. another right. straight forward 2 miles, and there you are.

“ＳＵＨ　ＭＥＣＨＡＮＩＣＳ　ＡＮＤ　ＭＡＮＵＦＡＣＴＵＲＩＮＧ” is written in bold letters. you love this place, you and your brother practically grow up there. you make your way inside, after swiftly parking your car into your garage. the shop is somewhat connected to the house from behind, so you make your way out of the garage, locking the door swiftly, and arriving with 2 familiar faces.

“you had no business ruining mark’s race!” johnny stands in front of you. he’s angry.

“forget about that!” jaehyun stares at johnny and then at you. “you just returned like two hours ago and the cops are after you already? can you be more careful?”

“ah, br- sorry, half-brother, jaehyun. i appreciate the concern and all, but i got this covered, you know?” you reply and look at your brother. “and please, if you really cared about mark you would have recommended him a new NOS. his sucks.”

jaehyun presses his lips together. “it’s true. i’ve been telling you about that for weeks.”

johnny rolls his eyes. “it’s not my fault. the kid won’t change them.”

“well, then you should find a new guy because you won’t make much money with him.” you say and you take out your money. “and me? i am back, baby.”

jaehyun smirks. “then i guess beers are on you.”

“you guess right.”

(...)

mark rushes off in his car, having donghyuck joining him. he locks his gun, having his fingers on the trigger for any given moment. mark sighs out a stuttered breath, immediately hitting the accelerator and rushing out of the way. he has another tank full of NOS, that donghyuck simply swaps out, for mark to use at any moment.

“jeno and yves have made it back alright,” donghyuck tells him, while mark drives at an inhumane pace.

mark nods and takes the exit 12, driving to glendale. and after almost 25 minutes, they arrive at their warehouse. he parks his car next to jeno’s and they make their way inside.

“dude! that was fucking awesome!” jeno approaches him. “now i understand why the streets wouldn't shut up about her.”

yves rolls his eyes. “it was just lucky. she’s not that good.”

“then you wouldn't mind racing against her,” donghyuck hums.

“please, she’s nothing to me,” yves smirks.

“she got you mad,” mark walks to the kitchen. “she is something to you.”

“anyway,” jeno locks the door. “who sent those policemen? it’s weird, we have been using the same location for months,” jeno asks.

“someone was there. someone who’s purpose wasn’t to spectate or race, but to infliritrate,” mark sighs, adjusting his belt from his jeans.

“i’m wondering if suh is single,” donghyuck sits, ignoring the talk his friends are having.

“johnny or y/n?” mark mocks him.

“she doesn’t date,” yves sits next to him. “or that’s what i’ve heard.”

“since when you’re a fan of gossip?” jeno frowns.

“you don’t need to gossip, everyone talks about her and her tragic love life,” yves shrugs.

“so she wasn’t in jail?” donghyuck inquiries.

“i already told you she wasn’t in jail, smartass,” mark tosses him a beer.

“then where was she?” jeno sits in front of donghyuck.

yves slides a little on the couch. “you ever heard about nakamoto yuta?”

the three men shake their heads. yves rolls her eyes. “he used to work for the korean mafia and the yakuza doing what? i don’t know, but he was well known before we arrived here.”

“and what happened to him?” jeno asks.

“he messed with the wrong people, and he paid for his mistakes,” yves says. “they got him and killed him.”

“and how is he related to y/n?” mark rubs his chin with his index finger.

“they were together,” yves pulls out a box of cigarettes. “and days after his murder, she went away.”

jeno grimaces. “i would’ve done the same. it’s sad.”

“well, he’s dead and we can’t do shit to help her,” donghyuck stretches out his arms. “she’s hot.”

“dude,” jeno chuckles. “we were just talking about his dead boyfriend and you’re saying she’s hot?”

“donghyuck only uses his lower head,” yves mocks. “why are you even surprised?”

mark laughs and donghyuck rolls his eyes. “i’m gonna race against her again.”

“dude, you want to lose again?” jeno stares at him.

mark frowns. “a little bit of support?”

(...)

a few days later, you are working at your peace in call, the mechanic shop. you work with jungwoo, jaehyun, and johnny. jaehyun is an incredibly talented racer, that’s for sure, he was the one who taught you everything you know. johnny and jaehyun are practically always together.

they have been friends since high school, and he’s close with you as well, despite you going to a different school.

so, there you are currently stocking up the shelves and displays with certain kinds of replacements and NOS, to whoever needs them. you wear leather pants, along with a white turtleneck shirt. your hair is down.

“do you have everything locked? storage room too, jungwoo?” you ask the blond.

“yep! johnny is currently working on the new car by the way. he said the client wanted something old school, and because of this, he got inspiration from somewhere,” he informs.

you raise an eyebrow, handing jungwoo the remaining products form the shelves, and making your way inside the shop. you see a black haired man glancing at the shelves with NOS.

you approach him. “hi, welcome. can i help you?”

the man turns and he smiles at you.

mark lee.

you stop the urge of rolling your eyes. “and we see each other.”

“you told me i could pass by whenever i wanted to,” he shrugs. “

“that was me being nice because i beat you,” you smirk.

mark grins. “then i suppose i should go to the Fascinare’s shop? i heard they’re nicer.”

if you and johnny didn’t hate the Facinare you probably would’ve told him to go, but since they are your competition you couldn't afford losing a customer.

you sigh. “of course we can help you.” you fake a smile.

“that’s what i thought,” mark says. “how many days will it take?”

you take a look at his car. “up to 1 to 3 days.”

he nods. “fantastic. i’ll be looking forward to racing against you again then.”

you scoff, crossing your arms on your chest. “i can give your car all the NOS in this world and yet, you won’t beat me.”

“you were just lucky the other night, gorgeous,” he winks at you.

“maybe if you focus on racing instead of flirting you might beat me,” you grin.

mark chuckles and nods. “right. i’ll leave you my phone so you can give me a call when my baby is ready.”

“my god,” you hum. “be right back.”

you go behind the counter and grab a small notebook and a pen. you hand it to mark and write his number down. “i’ll be looking forward for that call.”

“hopefully it won't be me making it,” you smile falsely.

“alright. see you then,” marks says, exiting the shop. “don’t miss me much, gorgeous.”

you roll your eyes again, and smile lowering your head.

you then frown and shake your head.

#yuta x reader #yuta smut #yuta imagine #yuta nct #mark lee smut #mark lee imagine #mark lee x reader #mark lee nct #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct 127 x reader #mark lee #yuta nakamoto #nakamoto yuta

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spitpr1ncess · 3 years ago

Text

BRUISED BODIES CHAPTER 1 LEVI ACKERMAN X READER

(not my image)

“You’re too pretty for this, little girl” remarks your current company. You roll your eyes and have to hold in the audible sigh that almost escapes you. How many times you have heard the same drivel? If you were too pretty, they wouldn’t continue the silent abuse on your body, would they?

You’ve been a working girl since you barely had the ability to think for yourself. You were plucked from your poverty-stricken family with the promise of their debts being written off.

You aren’t special and your family don’t care about you, a lie you’d been telling yourself for twenty two long years. You are a slab of meat and a source of income, that’s all, and believing yourself to be more was a stupid mistake you’d learned not to make, assuming people actually cared about you had caused you more pain than any physical abuse you’d ever endured.

You’re snapped back to reality as a pair of hands paw clumsily at your breasts, you inhale and remind yourself that this is only a temporary situation, but until you figure out how, you must continue to appease the men that Jools sends your way.

Jools is like your older brother, if your older brother worked in a brothel and openly encouraged men to fuck his slightly younger sister. The two of you share an intimate relationship built on a strong foundation of sharing trauma, you know he means well.

Jools was taken around the same time you were, only, as he managed to flourish into a promising young man, he was favoured by boss, and thus, promoted. You and Jools have always seen eye to eye, his depressing background is in servicing men, just like yours and it’s how you built your relationship, why you share such a deep understanding of each other, such mutual respect. This doesn’t go unnoticed by the other girls, and as a mean result, ensures that you are on the less favourable end of their antics, often being the brunt of their absolute frustrations and jokes.

As head of appointments and bookings, alongside other things, he always tries to send you the easy ones, if Boss knew he favoured you, you’re sure Jools would be sacked, or worse, effective immediately. You’re eternally thankful that he chooses to throw you a bone, even if it doesn’t seem much to him, it means the world to you.

Your mindless wandering halts once again, as you make unfavourable eye contact with your unwelcome company, you notice he is grunting as he roughly palms his own erection with his bear-like hands, staring holes through you as he directs his dirty glare at your breasts. Without thinking you grasp his knees and push your elbows to meet, forcing your breasts to squash together in that specific way that the male gaze loves so much, accentuating their plumpness. You are the first to admit that although sex is something that is daily to you, you are a very sexual soul by nature. You love the affect you have on men, and how you can practically melt them down to nothingness in the palm of your soft hand. You’re certain it comes from the trauma that is deep rooted in your hunger for male validation

The man sat in front of you isn’t the smallest you’ve seen but he isn’t particularly well endowed either, weighing up your current circumstances, you decide to make the most of it. Standing up, you lick your lips and undo the tie to your virginal white skirt, allowing it to fall to the ground quietly. It crumples in a small pile and feverishly you step out of it, feigning nervousness. You take your willing participants bear-paw off his own erection and place is gently on the arm of his chair, straddling him, you centre yourself and gently lower down to allow your warmth to press against him. Instinctually, he grunts and pushes back, his actions clumsy and annoying yet you allow it, not wanting to anger him, the men you service are big businessmen and you know better than to piss one off. You have seen first-hand the damage they can and do cause. You let him believe he has control, you grind back and nuzzle into his neck, playing him like a game, inhaling, you pick up on cigarette smoke and some notable cologne brand, nothing out of the ordinary.

You kiss his neck, breathing over his ear, begging him to enter you, you are not stupid, the way you make men feel, like you are infatuated, like there is nothing else you need at that moment than them, always gets you tipped. And tips go straight to your pocket, and any tips that go straight to your pocket, go straight to your running-away-savings. As he clumsily lines up his erection, you lift yourself onto your elbow to assist him in his feeble attempt at entering you, you feel his tip pressed right up against you, simultaneously, you kiss him and sheath yourself entirely. It isn’t anything notable and is in fact somewhat disappointing, nevertheless, you continue to finish the job.

You inhale sharply to sell the fantasy. He grunts again, like some half dead animal, you cringe trying your hardest to not let on as you know that his tips will make the effort worth it. Like a wet dream he was having, you bounce yourself up and down, in and out, in and out, in and out. It isn’t long before you see his head fall back and he stiffens below you, he opens his mouth and grabs your ass, hard. You squeal as you feel his hot seed lacing your insides, you feign your own orgasm, making your legs shake as if you had to convince him like your life depended on it. He buys it; dirty talking you and asking various lewd and cringey questions that make you shudder, if it weren’t for you writhing on top of him, he might have picked up on it. You kiss him before finding your feet, passing him a napkin as he sheepishly cleans himself off, only now feeling shy and vulnerable. He stands and pulls his trousers up; buckling his belt quickly, he then reaches into his breast pocket, he pulls out a stack of fifties, he throws a couple on the floor by your feet. He is trying to regain his masculinity, uncomfortable about looking into your eyes, you used to let it upset you, only you are used to it, each man having the same reaction.

He leaves and you lock the door tight behind him, you tidy up, wiping the chair and cleaning away any fluid that may have made its way to places it doesn’t belong. You wander towards your bathroom; the wooden floor feels cold but welcome on your ever tired feet. You stare into the mirror; a few tears had escaped your eyes without your noticing, it was a pretty normal occurrence for you now.

You glance in the mirror and notice that she is foreign, the girl staring back. Her long brown hair pulled over one shoulder, bruises lacing her frail body, you gently trace a finger over her body and look down to see your body. It is like you are disconnected, her body has not been your body for a long time. You wipe your eyes and turn your shower on, you hop in as it is still running cold.

You inhale sharply. It hurts, and the excruciating pain is welcome, you allow your bare back to fall silently against the wall and slowly lower yourself. You protect your knees with your arms as you grasp them toward you and lay your head between the makeshift protection you have created. Loud sobs escape your lungs as if they'd been brewing for a century.

A long while passes and you don’t hear the door unlocking.

Jools lets himself in, he hears your measly sobs coming from the bathroom and heads toward them, he slides open the shower door, startled, you jump up and let out an ugly shriek, Jools looks at you, pathetic, slim, bruised and sobbing. His head falls to one side as you try to somewhat protect your modesty. Jools has seen everything you have, and you, him, yet it still feels embarrassing and intimate.

“Olive.”, his voice is cool, patient, and laced with a little sympathy, “What am I going to do with you?”, he steps into the shower, allowing his clothes to get sprayed with water, you turn to him and press your forehead to his.

“I am sorry Jools; my emotions are all over the place. I will be ready in ten minutes, just allow me to clean up”, your voice sounds tired and you let out a little sigh. Jools places a hand on your shoulder and gently turns you around. You have been each other’s comfort in such a long life of trauma and you know what is coming next, he picks up your shampoo and lathers some between his hands, he rubs his fingertips into your scalp, scrubbing the dirt of the day out of your hair.

His touch is welcome, if not a little alien. It is rare these days that a pair of hands aren’t grabbing, pulling, pinching or pushing you around, you let out a long sigh, letting go of the anxiety and slowing your heart rate, you close your eyes and allow yourself to be cared for. By the time Jools finishes showering you he is soaked, you both step out into your bedroom. You pull on your skirt and replace your corset, a “uniform” as far as Boss is concerned. You hate it, making you feel vulnerable and cheap, you would rather slip on a t-shirt and shorts, or a loose dress.

Jools discarded all his clothes sans boxers and made himself comfortable on your bed as you were stood contemplating. You stare at him, with his light brown, almost ashy blonde hair. He is handsome, you have always thought this, you just never placed you two together, with him acting the “older brother” for all intents and purposes.

Jools breaks the silence, “Your four o’clock has cancelled, it’s what I came here to tell you” he pats the bed next to him and smiles “come and sit, unless you’re going somewhere”.

You pause momentarily before undoing your skirt again, you let it fall to the ground before reaching for a pair of linen shorts sat on your vanity, pulling them on, you take a few steps before collapsing on the bed next to Jools in complete exhaustion. “I’m tired of fucking the same men Jools” you remark.

“The same men, with the same predictable sex routines, the same sized cocks, the same moves. I’m bored. I’m climbing up the walls, Jools. Throw me a bigger bone, I’m begging you.”, You feel Jools eyes on your face, you let your head fall and meet his gaze. He snorts and pulls himself closer to you. You slide your body next to his and he drapes and arm over your waist.

Your foreheads touching, you lay in comfortable silence for a while. You close your eyes miss him protectively watching over you.

“I’m not sure what I can do for you Ol, unless you want me to fuck you myself. We don’t have much new clientele and any we do have seem like the abusive type, so I deliberately don’t send them your way.” he laughs. You ponder his first sentence, unable to tell if he was joking. You try your luck and shift your weight so you’re straddling him.

“Wh.. what the fuck are you doing Ol?”, You decide that he didn’t mean it, judging by his response. You begin to tickle his sides and he goes bright red before kicking you off, you land on the wooden floor with a loud bang.

“OW. That fucking hurt you fuck.” You stand up and cross your arms like a grumpy child. Jools looks at you and sticks out his tongue, you both pause, waiting for the other to break. It is you who laughs first, shortly followed by Jools who snorts, like a little pig. You can’t stay mad at him, he is so sweet, and you started it, after all.

“I was thinking Jools. If you have some time this afternoon, maybe we could go for a walk?” Your schedule was usually so full you don’t have time to visit outside. It was the beginning of the spring too, so everything was just starting bloom, it was one of the things that gave you a little peace and hope.

“I can’t Ol, I can’t leave the others unattended, in case anything happens, you know the rules” his voice holds a little sadness and disappointment, you can tell he’d like nothing more.

“Maybe I can open up a space for you this weekend? Then we can go out together?” Jools doesn’t work weekends; part of his promotion demands of course, but you did.

“Weekend rates are higher and I rea..” Jools cuts you off.

“I will charge one of your regulars more in the week; I’ll make it up for you, pleaaase?” he draws out.

You look at his face and the little boisterous glint in his eyes. You ruffle his hair like a little boy and laugh.

“Sure thing.”, You reply.

76 notes · View notes

star-lemonade · 3 years ago

Text

School reunion (1/3)

A.C.E Junhee x Reader

Cw: bulling, kinda angsty, Junhee is a sweet heart though

Rating: T (Series R)

Word count: 3.6 k

Summary: You hire someone to accompany you to your school reunion.

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. The laptop sat on the kitchen table and the page in the browser was taunting you. You stared at the screen from your spot against the kitchen counter. The empty boxes waited for you to fill in your information. Should I really do this?

You sighed and filled some water into the kettle just to delay having to make a decision. The other thing on the kitchen table was not better. It was an invitation to your school reunion. The reunion was scheduled for the Saturday of the following week at your old school. School. Even the address on the paper brought a bad taste to your mouth.

“You’re so ugly, who would ever date you?”

“I dare you to kiss her.”

“Yak not even for money”

You shuddered. No, no, there is no way I will go there alone. You sat down at the table and began to fill in the form. Name, address, phone and age. On the next page they asked about the occasion or event and you typed: school reunion.

Time? about 3 hours. I won’t stay there for too long.

Gender preference? Hmm I don’t actually care. ‘Don’t care’ was not an option, so you chose ‘man preferred’ over the ‘man only’, ‘woman preferred’ and ‘woman only’ options.

Age preferences? 25-35. I can’t show up there with an 18 year old.

Your finger hovered over the enter button. The shadow of your school days was still haunting you and made your hand heavier until you finally clicked check out.

You had officially rented a plus one for your school reunion.

A day after you had filled out the form you received a message from an unknown number.

“Hello, this is Junhee. I will accompany you to your school reunion next week. Would it be okay if I asked some questions so I can prepare?”

“Hi, Junhee. What do you want to know?”

“How should I introduce myself?”

You chewed on your lip. As you typed the next message your face felt warm.

“As my boyfriend.”

It felt so sad to ask this of a total stranger and you prayed he would not judge you for it. Please don’t question this, please don’t question this.

“How long have we been together?”

I guess that is a valid question someone could ask. You thought about it for a moment. It should not be too short but also not too long. The fact that you did know much about each other would make it not believable that you are together for years.

“A few months maybe?”

He asked a few more questions like “where and how did we meet?” (“at work while getting coffee”) and you answered them with whatever struck your mind.

“Okay. I think this is enough for me. Thank you!”

You sighed. This was actually more complicated than you had anticipated. At least now it felt real as opposed to just a scam to get money from people. Three dots appeared on your screen again.

“One last thing. This is also in the terms of service, but we all must remind our customers about this: I am not a hooker and you did not book sexual favours.”

Your face burned when you read that. Surely no one had asked for that before, had they?

“Of cause not, I just don’t want to go alo-”

Before you really thought about it, you had accidently pressed ‘send’ instead of backspace. Oh no. OH NO.

“Shit.”

My escort knows how pathetic I am. ‘As if he did not know before’ another part of you interjected. Your phone vibrated again.

“It’s okay, I will do my best to keep you company :)”

You did not know what to answer and just send:

“Thank you.”

As the reunion neared you found yourself thinking about it more. A sort of dread had settled in your chest. After all these years you would finally face your bullies. The people who had belittled you for not been pretty enough and made you believe that you could never find anyone who loved you. The worst thing was it seemed that they were right. You were single and you even had to hire someone… no. No, you would not let them get to you. The past years had been the happiest you had ever been. You had friends, even if they were not many, and you did well at your job. There was nothing not to be proud of. Even if you were single now, that did not mean you were unlovable. It just meant that you had not met a person that fit. You would walk in there, head held high and show those petty bitches you were not afraid of them anymore.

Your mood oscillated between confident and anxious for the whole week. You did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing you were still so affected by them, that their mere presence could make you stay away. No, you had to go. Like this you killed the time to the day of the reunion.

You had rented a dress from a rental service. It was not too fancy but you simply did not own that many dresses and the ones you had did not seem appropriate. Someone on the organizing committee had decided that nice dresses and suits were what they wanted to see. You had messaged Junhee to wear something appropriate for that dress code.

“In a few hours it’s over.”

Your mirror image was not convinced by this but it was all you could do now. Backing out last minute would make you look bad, even if you really wanted to. All of this seemed like a bad idea. What if they found out that you had hired someone to play your boyfriend? You would be the laughing stock of the whole school and this after you had not been in school for years. For a moment you considered just taking off the dress, putting on some sweaters and sitting down on the couch. Your phone made a noise. A new message had arrived.

“At 5 pm at the station, right?”

Junhee.

“Yes. See you there.”

As if it was mocking you, the sun shone from a bright blue sky. The people on the street smiled more than you had seen in some time. On the other hand it was maybe your imagination. Now that you were walking to what could be the worst night of your recent history, everyone seemed in a better state than you.

You arrived at the station.

“I’m wearing a red dress.”

Maybe the dress was a bit much. It had seemed like a good idea. Wearing red would make you stand out. Now, however, that was the opposite of what you wanted to do. Fading into the background, turning invisible and just straight up going back home was what you really wanted right now. The only thing that was that held you back was the thought of the money you had spent upfront for your plus one.

Two young women stopped next to you. One of them sat her backpack down and tried to stuff a paper bag into it.

“Should I help?”

Her friend watched her struggle with amusement. Despite her offer she did not help backpack girl but looked around instead.

You shifted your attention to your phone. Junhee had seen your message. Good. I hope he will be here soon. So we can get this over with.

“Jeez, I wish my boyfriend looked like that,” the girl said as her friend proclaimed: “I’m done. Let’s go.”

Backpack girl dragged her friend away. At least she had a boyfriend. It was not like you needed a man in your life but it would be nice sometimes. Next week I will try tinder. From past experience that was not likely but the thought alone seemed to pacify your mind for now. Getting a boyfriend was future-you’s problem. Present-you had to worry about that goddamn school reunion.

Someone said your name.

“Hmm?”

You were not sure which part shocked you the most: the crisp black suit that hugged the man’s body perfectly, the curly dark hair that looked straight out of a romcom, the beautiful lips and handsome face, the million dollar smile or the soft voice that said your name. It was hard to choose.

“Ehm?”

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Junhee.”

“ID please.”

You showed it to the sour faced student behind the supermarket counter. He nodded and you paid. Buying hard alcohol in broad daylight was highly suspicious but this situation called for it. You definitely could not do this sober. Junhee had sat down on a bench not too far from the supermarket. The black suit and white dress shirt fit him perfectly. It was as if watching a photo shoot for the next wedding catalog. Oh, this is a catastrophe. You unscrewed the bottle and took a good mouthful. The cheap alcohol burned in your mouth and all the way down. No one in their right mind would believe he is my boyfriend. It could not be more obvious that you had hired him. Junhee watched the cars go by. The sun made his hair seem more brown than black and the light breeze moved the soft locks. You took another gulp and stuffed the bottle in your handbag. Did I accidentally book a model? There had not been an option for that of course. I should have asked for a photo. You left the store and walked over to Junhee. Maybe I should just send him home and go drink at a bar.

When he saw you, Junhee stood up. His charming smile filled you with dread. This is a car crash waiting to happen.

“Did you get everything?”

You nodded. Soon the alcohol would hit your brain. Maybe then you would care less about everything. You could not bring yourself to send Junhee away. He had come here, looking sharp and you had paid money for him to be here. Your stinginess won against better judgment, so your only option was the original one: go to your old school.

It felt like there was a black cloud of doom that thickened as you got nearer. The bad experiences from the past made every step you took towards that hell hole more difficult. You wanted to run away.

“Can I take your hand?”

Junhee. You had almost forgotten about him. He had not said anything for the past ten minutes or so. Maybe he felt that now was not a good time to talk. You offered your hand. He interlaced his fingers with yours. It had been some time since you held someone’s hand and it made your heart beat faster. Or maybe it was the liquor.

You turned the corner and there it was. The building looked the same as in your memory. Whoever had the idea of starting the evening here before instead of going to a restaurant directly, did not have your gratitude. Walking through the front door stiffly, you clenched your hands. Your whole body was tense. You were ready to fight or flee at any second.

Voices were coming from the gym. Next to the open door stood a table. On it were pens and stickers. As you approached a woman came through the door and smiled at you. It was the most fake smile you had seen in some time.

“Welcome! Please make a name tag for yourself.”

She made a swiping gesture to the table. You let go of Junhee’s hand and wrote your name on a sticker. The woman watched Junhee as he made a tag for himself. You had never been the jealous type but right then wanted to claw her eyes out.

“Have fun.”

You almost felt her looking as you entered the gym. The hall was filled with bar tables groups had formed and all eyes were on you. At one of the empty tables you stopped.

“I will get something to drink. What do you want?”

You barely heard your own answer over the ringing in your ears. The ceiling had been decorated but it made the hall seem more shabby. As if the paper garlands were only there to hide the cracks in the grey concrete. You looked around.

They looked back at you from the other table, pointed and smirked at each other. Your bullies. They looked old. The ten years since graduation had carved lines into their faces but they tried to hide it by applying too much makeup.

You felt sick.

“Hey.”

A hand landed on your shoulder and you jerked. Junhee pulled back his hand. He studied your face.

“Do you want to leave?”

You looked up. Leave? Leaving meant giving up. They won if you left. No, no you were strong. Your hand strangled your purse. You would not run away from them. Junhee‘s brown eyes watched the tremor in your hand.

“Let’s go,” he whispered and took your hand. Your skin was cold and sweaty against his as Junhee dragged you out. You were so shocked, you did not even say anything until you had left through the front door.

“Stop!”

You ripped your hand free from his grasp.

“You should not stay there any longer.”

“That is not your call to make,” you snapped at him.

His face flushed.

“No, but it is the right one.”

Before you could talk back he continued in a calm tone: “You don’t care about any of those people and they don’t care about you.”

He waved his hands.

“I don't know what happened in the past but you are not here to meet some old friends.”

Your eyes burned. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s humiliating. You tried to blink the tears away but your vision blurred.

“Not here.”

Junhee grabbed your shoulder and led you away. The tears fogged your vision, so you just followed wherever he was going. Your feet moved on their own accord and you were thankful for it. Holding back an undignified sob took up all your mental capacity.

“Sit.”

You collapsed on the bench. There was nothing holding the tears back now. You looked like an idiot in front of everyone. Your bullies had seen you turn up with an escort only to run away the second they looked at you. And now you cried on a bench in front of said escort. How pathetic had your life become? You had not felt this bad since leaving school.

Get a grip. There was nothing to be done here. You did not feel better by telling yourself this, but at least one of these could be fixed. Try to stop crying.

You concentrated on a point on the ground. The concrete was cracked there and something green had started to push its way to the surface. Plants are amazing. They can even exist in these places.

Your eyes still burned and your nose was all clogged up, but you had stopped crying.

“I’m sorry, Junhee.”

You looked up. There was no one around. When did he leave? You sighed and your eyes burnt again. I guess it is just that kind of day. Going home sounded like a good idea but you could not bring yourself to get up. The weight of your sorrows kept you on the bench. You could not even blame Junhee for leaving either. Usually you were very composed and rarely had outbursts of any kind, but today was just not your day.

“Here.”

A bottle of water entered your field of view. Your gaze followed the arm that was holding it up until you met Junhee’s eyes. You took the bottle and almost cried again because he was still here. For better or worse he had not abandoned you on a bench.

The water was cold. It had clearly been in a fridge not too long ago.

“Thank you.”

Junhee sat down next to you and waited while you drank the water. This day, although it was not over, was already a train wreck. Very carefully Junhee asked: “Can we get something to eat?”

You nodded slowly. Food was not a bad idea. You had skipped lunch because you had not been hungry at the time.

“Sure.”

Junhee stood up and looked around, hands on his hips. He turned to you and asked in a hushed tone:

“Where do we have to go?”

There was nothing funny about it but you laughed anyway. Junhee looked like a lost puppy and when he saw you laughing, he pouted. Now this really was funny.

“The station is that way.”

Junhee looked at his phone. He took off his tie and pocketed it.

“Technically I’m free to go now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “We just got here and ordered food and you want to go?” was what you wanted to say but swallowed it. You were still embarrassed and grateful that Junhee was there with you. He had made dumb jokes all the way to your favorite restaurant. It was almost on the other end of town but it was the only place you wanted to be right now.

“So, you wanna leave?”

“Leave? No, no!”

He waved his hands frantically.

“I … meant I’m not here because of work now.”

The soju had painted Junhee’s cheeks a rosy red. It looked good on him.

“What do you do when you don’t do this?”

You gestured vaguely at you and him sitting together in your favorite restaurant. Surely it had to be model or something like that just based on what you had seen so far. Technically you were not supposed to ask personal questions but your contract was done. Technically.

“I’m a student. I study computer science, but I will graduate soon.”

He took a sip from his drink. That rang a bell in the back of your mind. Computer science? Someone was talking to me about that not long ago. Who was it?

The waiter came and set your food on the table. He opened the lid of the barbecue that was mounted in the table.

“Have a good meal.”

“Thank you.”

When you left the restaurant, the sun had set. You felt a little awkward. It had been nice spending time with Junhee even if you had been very distressed earlier. Before you could really think about it, the words fell from your mouth.

“Thank you for spending the day with me. It was nice.”

You did not look at him. It felt unnatural but you meant it and had to say it.

“It was nice for me too.”

Junhee’s hair was not as neat as earlier. The waves had flattened and the way he always combed it left it looking disheveled. His cheeks were flushed from the food and the drinks.

You were not sure what to say. “Goodbye for ever” seemed a bit odd.

“Good luck with your studies. See you around.”

“Goodbye.”

You left Junhee at the restaurant and walked home. It was not too far so you could walk. The night air was refreshing after the stuffy restaurant. It also cleared the dryness of your eyes and nose.

Your apartment was dark and empty. You took a quick shower, put on your pyjamas and went to bed. The day had been emotionally exhausting and you were drifting into the fuzzy precursor to sleep. Your mind drifted through some memories and thoughts but nothing was clear. It hit you. You were wide awake because your brain had found the answer to the question. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand. The light from the screen nearly blinded you.

John, a name he had chosen because none of his overseas clients could pronounce ‘Seungmin’, was the CTO of a company that had their offices in the same building as your company. Without thinking much about it you sent Junhee John’s number.

“He is looking for some computer science people. Maybe that’s something for you. Anyways good luck and best wishes.”

You tried not to think too much about that day. It still felt like a defeat even months later. You had run away from your bullies. They had looked at you and you had folded. It was a bitter memory. The logical part of you noted that it was not worth your time, that you should focus on the tasks at hand and live your life.

You spent time with your friends and on your hobbies. Indeed your spirits lifted slowly. The less time you spent ruminating about the past the more time you could spend on other things.

“Let’s get lunch. I’m starving.”

You agree with your colleague. You grabbed your phone and keys. Your colleague was already at the elevator and held open the door.

Two floors down the elevator stopped and the door opened.

“Hey!”

John and some of his staff entered. You waved and smiled. John was a man in late 40 or early 50s, you had never asked, but he gave off the youthful energy of someone who loved his job. A ‘ding!’ announced the closing of the doors but John jammed his leg and arm between it.

“Hurry up, newbie! We can’t have you starve on the first day!”

Steps echoed in the hallway and the newbie flew into the tight space. The young man had dark hair and wore round glasses. With the dark blue sweater and the jeans he gave off the youthful vibe of a university student. He was very handsome and your face burnt.

Junhee.

#wkcnet #noonasinnetwork #Junhee x reader #Junhee smut #A.C.E smut #a.c.e x reader #kpop x reader #a.c.e fanfic #A.C.E fics #kpop fanfic #non idol au #star writing #queue for the lemonade stand

33 notes · View notes

7wanderingpaws · 4 years ago

Text

Captain Bucheon 03

Warnings: strong language

Word count: 5.9K

story masterlist masterlist

tags: @wooya1224 @to-all-the-stories-i-love @jennxx3 @realllllrica

<-- Previous - Next -->

Third: Saving is Caring

“Lee Nari!”

Someone was shouting your name but you couldn't tell who exactly because the entire corridor you were residing on - the forsaken fifth floor, also the top floor of the building without an elevator - was flooded with girls. They were rushing to the opposite direction you were heading to, and you frowned deeply at anyone who made even the slightest brush against you - or your chest.

“Come to room number 501!” they shouted again.

“As if,” you scoffed to yourself and dodged one hand that was about to land on your breast.

“Aish, I was gonna try if they were actually real,” you heard the girl whine but her voice got quickly blocked out by exciting squeals.

Finally managing to land in your room, you basically kicked the door open, pissed, to find Yuyeon preparing in front of her make-up mirror. Her eyes were shining and she seemed way too happy.

“What the hell is happening out there?” you grumbled, slamming the door shut with your foot to isolate yourself from the annoying squeals. “It looks like a sect or something.” You dropped your bag in the corner and threw yourself on the bed, needing the relief in your tired muscles.

Running had been taking its toll on you the past weeks, let alone your job was tiring mentally, as well. There hadn't been any slip-ups or issues anymore like last time for which you were eternally thankful. That one time - yeah, you weren't sure you could deal with that again.

“You are coming toooo!” squealed Yuyeon as well and was fast to drop the blusher on her messy table before standing and jumping over to your bed, making you fly up on the mattress too.

You whined again and tried to kick her off your bed but she climbed over you and wiggled her eyebrows at you, a cheeky glint leaving an unease in your tummy.

“We-” she leaned into your ear, “are going to watch porn.”

You gasped and pushed her off of you, pink rising up to your cheeks. “What? Are you nuts? Why would you watch-”

“C'mon, Nari,” giggled Yuyeon, sitting up properly to let you sit up as well. Her shirt slid off her shoulder and her bra strap was showing which made you reach up to bring the shirt back to its original place. “I know you've already experienced it all but-”

This time, a horrified gasp left your mouth and you were fast to shut her up with a: “I haven't experienced those things at all!”

She frowned, pouting. “But you made out with Baekhyun and you said he touched you-”

Your head was starting to spin as you shook it so violently. “No, no, no, don't bring that up. He stopped when he found out I'm a virgin and it doesn't even matter!!”

“But Nari, he is a grown up male that knows eeeeeverything there is to know about, you know, sex, and he was hot and -”

“Yuyeon, please,” you begged, hiding your face behind your palms. You felt attacked at the memories of you and Baekhyun being all touchy. “It isn't that exciting,” you tried but you knew it was a terrible, terrible lie.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “You don't have to come if you don't want to but it will be fun with all the girls. We can talk about boys and men and, I dunno, just enjoy.”

You pursed your lips, not so sure. A good rest was what you needed, NOT temptation. Let alone, you wouldn't be able to get Baekhyun out of your mind were you to watch stuff like that. When you were about to speak up, Yuyeon added:

“You know, ever since stuff happened, we didn't really go out like that anymore… I kind of miss fooling around with you and just going against the rules - although now we can't do it since we are old enough to be naughty, but despite that I just miss doing cheeky stuff with my bestie.”

It was heart-warming to see Yuyeon be honest with you. Even the fact that she mentioned Baekhyun was a step forward for neither of you mentioned him unless necessary. Yuyeon was tiptoeing around you for one year in order to give you time to get over the mess that the mentioned male did to you and then she grew accustomed to your indifference towards your surroundings. You didn't talk about it and she didn't want to pry too much, always listening to bits of your thoughts here and there.

Yuyeon didn't feel guilty for mentioning Baekhyun's name; if anything, she hoped that you got over it and wouldn't react to him too much. For her, of course, Baekhyun was still on the “hated people” side like Chul. But he was also your ex and you were talking about girl stuff. Exciting stuff. Mature stuff. Baekhyun's name had to be mentioned for he was the whole package in the past.

“I know, and I'm sorry about that,” you murmured, averting your gaze. Her knees were bent, her skin showing as her shorts had ridden up. “We should start getting back on the track, right?”

The corners of Yuyeon's lip lifted in a small, encouraging smile. “Yes. So how about starting with the porn?”

You laughed out loud, smacking her thigh loudly, making her wince. “Okay, okay, just because it's you!”

“No, it's 'cause you are super curious as well!” she said, sticking her tongue out at you. “How it's all done and stuff.” She was growing red in her face, but her blush looked pretty and made her even more youthful. It made you grin wider and you shook your head at her and also stuck your tongue out, playing the silly one.

“You talk too much! Go finish your make-up, you're friggin ugly,” you rolled your eyes in mock and climbed off your bed, ready to change into more comfortable clothes.

When her slap landed on your butt, you abruptly turned around, glaring at her but both of you eventually giggled. Yes, this will be the best way to get your mind off stuff and hopefully have a good girls' night.

The room 501 was crammed with girls and pink and magazines and make-up and perfumes and smartphones with instagrams open. They were all chatting excitedly while one of the girls, you presumed the person living in this room, was behind her laptop, searching the websites that already screamed porn.

Both you and Yuyeon plopped down on the bed, shimmying yourselves between two girls who immediately took you in, wanting to socialize. That part was a little painful on your side as you weren't looking for new friends; especially not the ones who kept commenting on your chest and choice of clothing.

“Isn't it hard to run for you?”

“Don't people stare a lot?”

“Has anyone touched without asking?”

“How do you buy your bras? Korea is full of A cups and B cups are already considered huge anyway!”

You sighed and ensured the very concerned girl that you were able to get the cup of your size just fine - though, only in a few shops that were designed for ladies that were more blessed. You definitely couldn't just walk into any shop of your liking.

“Okay, girls, it's about to start!” shouted one and smashed the space on her keyboard, starting the forsaken video.

Everyone went silent right away, almost waiting with bated breaths for what was about to go down.

With a small frown, you were focusing on the small story they were trying to fool you with, immediately presenting a beautiful woman with blue eyes, of course. The man, though, wasn't a catch at all - not for you, at least. Some girls' eyes sparkled at the sight of the main male character and the way he was tanned and incredibly muscly.

“He looks like he could crash her bones,” whispered eagerly Yuyeon into your ear while not tearing her eyes away from the screen.

You hummed; the more it went on the more distrubed you started to feel. It was all incredibly bizarre and their love story was faced paced.

Founding yourself zoning out and blocking out the scenes that quickly grew heated and, well, disturbing to you, you spotted a calendar of models on the desk. It wasn't too far and you grabbed it quickly, not wanting to be in the line of vision of other girls who were literally drooling while hiding their faces behind their hands at the rated scenes.

Taking the calendar, you listed through what seemed like an endless amount of sexy pictures of firefighters in Bucheon. Just as expected, they were either shirtless or pants-less or both. Thank God they had underwear. You didn’t deny it; they were so handsome it almost seemed questionable. What were they like in real life? Were they really as passionate about their work as it said on the calendar? And, more importantly, were they really as handsome as the pictures were portraying them to be?

You kept listing through the pages, sometimes stopping to read. When you spotted a familiar face though, you almost fainted. On it, the month of May, was none other than Baekhyun. A black leather jacket was on him, underneath he was shirtless with his dark blue ripped jeans low on his hips, red supreme underwear poking out to tease the eager eye. The way they were hugging his thighs had a strong effect on you. As he had his thumb (the one with the mole on it) causally hooked in the belt loop hole, it brought your attention to the thin, and what looked like very veiny, skin that disappeared in the underwear. He had lean muscle that wouldn’t intimidate a girl. In fact, it would affect her heavily. You noticed a few more moles on his abdomen, the ripped muscles making the skin on it exceptionally tight. Saliva collected in your mouth and you quickly swallowed, averting your gaze to the upper part of his face. His hair was styled like a rock star’s with a comma hanging over his forehead, his dark eyes glaring at the camera, charcoal black eyeliner making them seem deadly. His lips were parted ever so slightly, scarcely revealing his front teeth, and your gaze hooked on them just a little while longer than they should have. You remembered the moments he would bite them. When he would lick them. When he would smile with them; or kiss you with them. He looked stunningly hot and dangerous. You couldn’t believe you once had this man to yourself.

You had heart palpitations.

Slapping Yuyeon’s arm, you tried to get her attention. You needed to vent, otherwise you’d suffocate. Yuyeon was too preoccupied with the disturbing video playing which was why the girl sitting on your other side spoke up excitedly into your ear:

“Oh my god, that’s the captain of the police, Byun Baekhyun! My oldest brother went to the same school with him.” She stared at the picture. “He is so fucking hot.” She was basically salivating over the picture. With her words, you felt something move within you. What it was you weren’t sure, but you didn’t like it. It made your chest tighten up and your mood dampen. “There are many hot guys in that calendar but Baekhyun has his own charm. I’d go for him any minute.”

Not sparing any more time with the picture, you harshly turned over the page, revealing a mediocre looking police officer. He was very handsome, thanks to plastic surgery, but after seeing Baekhyun, all the males seemed dull and boring. Despite your wild thoughts, you muttered: “He’s okay, I guess.”

She nudged you with her elbow. “C‘mon, I can see the redness in your cheeks,” she giggled and just in that moment there was a loud moan coming from the laptop. You felt yourself burning up even more and you squirmed on the bed, warmth pooling in your belly. These feelings were so foreign to you.

“You’re friends with Oh Sehun, right?” She was adamant about talking to you. So you nodded in response. “Well, he is good friends with Baekhyun. Yeonhee, the one who lives in this room, got the calendar from him. She likes Sehun but I feel like she has secondary intentions. If she could get Baekhyun she would not hesitate to go after him,” she giggled into your ear just when another moan resembled the room.

You sighed. “Sehun is a good guy, you know?” you muttered to her and looked at her huge eyes, the way they seemed dilated. “I hope you can tell her not to toy with him.” You looked back down, now a doctor on the cover. A doctor?! “Or else she will deal with me and that won’t be nice.”

The girl went silent. Maybe you came off as rude but you didn’t have many friends; nor were you looking for more. So if someone played with someone that belonged to you, they could rest assured you wouldn’t let it slip. “Do you perhaps know Baekhyun?”

And there it went again. Silently, you cursed your luck. This man seemed to be everywhere you went and mentioned by anyone you talked to recently. You never realized just what power Baekhyun had over this city. Realizing you probably took more time to answer, you quickly shrugged your shoulders. “Just a little bit. He is quite older than us so I doubt he has interest in us, kids.” It hurt to say, but you knew it was the closest to the truth. Baekhyun made the age difference between him and you crystal clear and even used it as a barrier between the two of you. Even though he wanted you, it was a crucial reason for him to stop moving forward with you. Or more like, he wanted to take things slow. You scoffed out loud.

“Well, I guess he just hasn't met the right one. The young ones are always better than the older ones. The older guys are just too afraid to admit it,” she told you and leaned further away, most probably wanting to end the conversation. She must have noticed your defensive, indifferent position and figured she wouldn't get a juicy talk with you.

That was fine by you. Because right now your head was so full of him; you couldn’t produce a single comprehensive sentence without giving yourself away. You so wished to meet him again and talk to him. You so wished things would have gone differently between the two of you.

There were now harsh pantings in the background and you groaned inwardly. You slapped Yuyeon’s thigh to finally get her attention. At the impact, she jumped up and glared at you. “I’m leaving,” you mouthed, not wanting to wait for her reply, but she stopped you abruptly.

“Are you okay?” she whispered in your ear, but the disturbing noises were blocking out each of her words.

You only managed to nod quickly before scooting off the bed and, while ignoring the curious stares of the other girls, you quickly made your way out, desperately searching for fresh air that would hopefully help you clear your foggy mind.

Once out in the corridor, you inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the feelings in your body. How could you become so easily affected by a simple picture? It was the stupid background noise, added your brain and you rolled your eyes. You needed to let out your frustration and even though it was hard to believe, you decided you would make good use of it.

You would go running. For the first time. By yourself.

When you reached the running track, the main headlights of the field were already turned off, throwing the space into a darkness lit up by surrounding street lamps. That was good enough, as you seeked some kind of hiding. Deciding to pour your frustrations into your challenge in jogging, you padded over to the running field, feeling the ground softer under your running shoes. There was a group of boys wrapping up a football game while a lone man, a student, was making laps, unbothered by the minimal lighting.Without paying anymore attention to your surroundings, you slowly increased your walking into a light jog, not wanting to strain yourself too much.

Your hair was flowing behind you in a high ponytail while the remnants of winter were biting into your skin, making your cheeks and nose red. You tried to focus on your breathing, wanting to make sure you wouldn't mess it up and therefore increase your stamina but it was fruitless as your mind immediately wandered off to the picture of Baekhyun in that calendar. It effectively quickened your heartbeat and you grew warm all over your body.

After two laps though, you became quickly tired and out of breath, your lungs on fire. There was an uncomfortable, sharp feeling in your side, the pain dull but making moving difficult nonetheless. The man who had been running the whole time without stopping didn't seem to break a single sweat the whole time.

“Oh, isn't that Lee?” you heard the boys talking to each other as they finally managed to clear up the field.

“The one with the boobs?”

You were fast to roll your eyes, angry tears burning up in your eyes at their careless words. Screw them all. Instead of staying on the field, you went inside the gym next to the field to get some water and try to calm down. Even though it was cold outside, a cold drink would hopefully help quieten the small rage inside of you. People like those were the ones you despised. They didn’t know anything about you and, naturally, you didn’t know anything about them. Yet, you were constantly under their scrutiny and sexualized in more than one way.

“Idiots,” you murmured to yourself, your skin heating up at the change of temperature once you entered the small building.

As you were filling up your bottle with the cold water, you heard the jerks entering the gym as well. They were laughing and joking amongst each other, their throaty laughs reaching your sensitive ears.

Cursing under your breath, you finished filling the bottle and turned to leave, just to stand face to face with all of them. They were grouped up on you, smirking.

Without sparing them another glance, you moved to walk around them but someone grabbed your arm, yanking you backwards, your back hitting the wall next to the water filter. It took you off guard and you managed to hit your head, too, and you scrunched up your face, hissing. “You piece of shit,” you spat angrily, your rage growing more when you noticed the dude’s hungry eyes on your chest.

“You surely are feisty! We heard so much from the seniors about you,” one of them spoke up, his eyes barely visible as they were shaped like slits, thin like pupils of a cat in broad daylight. “We all know you like to go against the rules.” A round of snickers resonated the otherwise empty space and you felt your heartbeat pick up in fear.

“Okay,” was your blunt answer and you once again wanted to step aside but the same jerk grabbed your arm, bringing you back. You gritted your teeth.

“You ain’t leaving just yet, little kitten,” he murmured darkly and this time, you felt like you wouldn’t be able to escape. “We won’t do anything bad. Just give us a little show of what you’re hiding underneath that hoodie of yours.”

If someone was living in your body right now, they’d know in an instant something terrible was happening, for your legs were shaking like a jelly, becoming one with the asphalt and therefore making you unable to move. Despite that, you scoffed, stubbornly insisting on showing your confident side. Those idiots wanted a reaction from you, but you wouldn’t give in. “Then turn on some porn. Though I’m not sure you’re ready to see that either with your tiny, premature, out-of-control dicks,” you said in a levelled voice, cutting each word off to emphasize the meaning so that their small brains would understand. “You ain’t shit,” you added when you saw some dudes growing red.

“You little bitch-“

There was an unexpected shadow that swooshed past and just in that second, too many things happened at the same time; a familiar scent hitting your nose; a sound of skin slapping skin reverberated the empty space followed by a groan. “She said to leave her, so respect a lady’s wish,” a low growl reached your ears and you almost fainted when you spotted short blonde hair and a handsome profile. Even from the side you could detect he was glaring, a stern gaze bringing out his authority and dominance that would make anyone quiver and render into submission. “Just a tip for the future if you want to get your dick wet,” added mockingly Baekhyun. He was staring down the group of young students for a little longer, surprisingly none of them making a fuss, before Baekhyun looked down at you, your shocked expression making your eyes much bigger than they usually were. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait as he started to walk ahead, only a couple of steps later looking behind his shoulder to double check whether you were following him or not.

Your legs had a mind on their own when they moved after Baekhyun, but your heart was beating crazily fast, the unexpected presence of the only male who was able to make you speechless and make you go crazy at the same time still stunning you. Why was he there? How did he know where you were? Oh, was it because you wished to meet him again? If so, then you wished all your wishes would become true this fast.

He led you outside of the gym, the annoyed voices of the boys barely reaching you now that they were out of ear shot. Cold air hit the dried sweat on your skin, making you shiver. Baekhyun stopped abruptly when he reached the track again and turned to look at you with an unreadable gaze. His heavy breathing was condensing into small puffs, his nose a little red. The chilly air biting his cheeks made his eyes water. You couldn’t stop staring at him and at the way he looked in that moment.

“You should-“

“Thank you,” you muttered at the same time as he spoke up.

Both of you went quiet right away and awkwardness creeped into the space between the two of you. Growing red, you averted your gaze, looking at the ground and hoping your wild heart beat would calm down.

“You should have been more careful,” he finally told you quietly, ignoring your word of gratefulness. There was a slight scolding undertone in his voice. “Those jerks are little kids who think with their dicks.”

You grew even more red at his words. Baekhyun must have heard their stupid request. Your throat restricted and your heart once again started to beat loudly. “I would have been okay,” you insisted. “But thank you anyway.” You meant it. You really did.

Baekhyun saw you averting your gaze again and he took the time to observe you. You were still too young, but he definitely noted the way your facial features matured, with each passing year turning you into more of a grown woman while leaving the teen girl behind. Your hair was long and it seemed you lost some weight in your cheeks. He couldn’t imagine how much of a hard time you were having the whole time he wasn't by your side. And then you had perverts following you around.

He cursed mentally, hating the simplest idea of anyone imaging you in a more mature way than you let on to a plain eye. Those bastards should have been thankful he didn’t actually use fists as he so wished. Because when they asked you to undress, he swore white spots of anger were blinding him, his emotions a wild hurricane of rage and hatred. The only thing moving him forward was to protect you even though you would have hated it.

“Just be careful next time,” he added gently, his features softening.

You looked up at him upon detecting the tone of his voice. “What are you even doing here?” Just then you took notice of his outfit and you recognized it. He was the person running when you arrived. He had been here the entire time, but you were swimming in sweet obliviousness. And just like that, the picture of him in the calendar popped up in your mind, making you avert your eyes right away. Heat pinked your cheeks which Baekhyun mistook for the coldness biting your cheeks.

“I come here to run,” he told you in a somber voice. “And we also work out here with Sehun so if you think I followed you here, you’re wrong.”

“I didn’t think you followed me here,” you retorted, wanting to roll your eyes.

“Well, on the contrary, I didn’t know you run too,” he said, a hint of tease present in his voice, though he didn’t smile. Showing his relief of you communicating with him could be a strategic bad step on his side.

You sighed at the mention of running and the reason behind it. “I’m doing a race at the festival so I have to practice. I’m not enjoying it and I’m not doing it out of my own will.”

“Then why would you do it if you don’t want to do it?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Because I’m in the student council,” you replied almost in a whine. “They asked me and I couldn’t say no!” You threw your arms around, making it sound like a big deal. And for you, it was a big deal. You didn’t like how you were easily pushed around.

Baekhyun nodded, a small smile stretching his lips when he saw your comprehension. Sweet university life. “You must be very liked by everyone.”

You froze at that. That wasn’t true. How would you tell your ex the reason everyone was all over you was because you had huge tits and you were friends with Chul? “It’s not like that…”

Baekhyun nodded, noting your discomfort but deciding against questioning it. He didn’t think he was anywhere near the position to stick his nose into your business. For all he knew, he’d scare you away like that time in the bar but, frankly, he didn’t even utter a single word that night to give you a reason for your abrupt fleeing.

“So you run here often, huh,” he heard you say and then saw you shuffling your feet, the small stones of the track field rustling under them.

“Yeah, I do,” he replied almost breathily. There was an upcoming question hanging in the air but he already forbade himself to hope.

You bit your lip harshly, bringing Baekhyun’s attention to the action. You were gnawing on it and you felt your body and mind betraying you. You were supposed to be mad at him. You despised this man standing in front of you so why was your heart beating frantically and, at his gentle tone, butterflies fluttering in your tummy? You felt warm just by his presence. He saved you. Yes, he didn’t even touch you, didn’t even take your hand like they do it in the movie. However, you witnessed the rage, the anger, the hatred, the need to fight but going against it so as not to cause problems. He cared about you, and he was still mature about it.

“Okay. Well, then, I guess I’ll see you around,” you muttered eventually, causing Baekhyun to deflate invisibly. An eager question cut through his mind: and when do you come to run here? I don’t like that you run here alone.

“Where do you stay? I’ll take you home,” he spoke up casually.

“I live in the dorms, it’s no biggie,” you shrugged just when the group of boys flooded out of the gym, spotting you and Baekhyun. They were noisy once again and immediately took advantage of the situation when they shouted:

“If it isn’t the love birds! We thought you’d be home and fucking her by now but guess who didn’t get their dick wet now?” They laughed in unison, finding their words funny and mocking.

You pulled a disgusted face, though you reddened in embarrassment at their words, and looked up at Baekhyun who was glaring at them again. “Come, I’ll walk you to your dorms,” he muttered so that only you could hear and this time, he took a hold of your hand, his skin soft and a little dry in your sweaty palm. You were shocked at how quickly your hand clasped around his.

Cat calls reached the both of you as the boys approached you. “Woohoo, they are about to do it-“

Baekhyun was fast. Before you realized the warmth of his hand leaving yours, you heard a loud snap, his fist landing with the dude’s face. You squealed, covering your mouth in shock and just like that, Baekhyun had professionally put the lad down, having both his arms locked behind his back. It vastly made you remember when he did a similar move with your brother in his office at the police station, and chills ran down your spine.

Right. Baekhyun first arrested you, and then your brother who was still in jail until now. Baekhyun lied to you to get closer to you. Right. Right, right, right.

“Don’t ever even imagine her in your filthy mind,” Baekhyun’s voice thundered through the space. It kept growing more distant as you realized the hasty steps you were making backwards before you turned around and started speed walking out of the field and towards the dorms. Angry tears blocked out your vision and you quickly tried to rub your eyes, annoyed that you always let your tough stance sway whenever he was around. He dared to be kind to you. He dared to be soft to you. He dared to-

“Nari! Wait!”

Baekhyun was jogging towards you and your breath hitched in your throat, hearing his fast approaching steps. “Nari!”

Sooner than later he caught your wrist and wanted to stop you but you surprised him. You were now far off the field, not a single soul around. Your palm landed on his cheek and Baekhyun’s face snapped to his right side. “I hate you!” You shouted shakily, more tears spilling down your cheeks, the snot out of your nose. You were a mess. “I hate everything you put me through, Byun Baekhyun! You lied to me! Why did you lie to me?! I loved you!” You shouted again, and squeezed your eyes shut.

Baekhyun slowly turned his head back, your slap still stinging on his cheek. His eyes were wide but he knew exactly what was happening. “C’mon. Don’t hold back. Let it out. Hit me again,” he encouraged in a low tone that made you frustrated even more.

You were breathing raggedly and pushed him in the chest, making him stumble backwards. He could have easily fought you, he could easily stand still, not budging under you, but he let you. He knew you needed this to finally let go of your suppressed feelings and, hopefully, of the heavy past he made you go through. “You fucking liar! You fooled me, played with me, made me dream of something beautiful just for you to crash it! You ruined my family! I hate you! I hate you so much! You make me go crazy with hatred!!!”

Another strong push. He was surprised at how strong you actually were; when emotions spoke, people could be either extremely vulnerable or extremely strong. You seemed to be the opposite, for speaking up about your emotions made you scarily strong. “I hate that you made an idiot out of me! You fooled me and I trusted you the whole time! You locked up my brother! You did it in front of my eyes!! As if I didn’t matter shit to you! You were so fast to let me go when you thought I’m the criminal! That was all my worth to you!” you hiccuped, more cries taking over you as the painful memories kept swimming in front of your eyes, making you relive the emotions, the scenes. Those memories were blinding you and Baekhyun just let you open the Pandora box. You were breaking down.

It hit you too, that you never talked about your feelings. You couldn’t talk for a long while after being in shock at the events, and then you became one with ignorance towards your own emotions.

You took a deep breath and pushed him again just for you to lose your strength that was fueled by deep anger. Baekhyun couldn’t even pretend to step back. Your palms were still, pressing against his sturdy chest but you couldn’t make him move anymore. You were crying now, your voice shaking and your eyes still squeezed shut. “What did I do to deserve this… when all I did was love you honestly, purely,” you wailed, your voice sounding almost like a wolf’s howl in the empty streets of the campus. “I was just seventeen…”

Baekhyun was quiet the whole time, emotions of guilt eating him away just like they had been for the past year. His own heart was in pain and he knew how hurt you were but seeing you like this made his heart split into two. You were a complete, utter mess.

You didn’t know how much time passed without any of you speaking. The only thing you grew to realize was that you were in a tight embrace, the arms of your ex-lover protectively around you as his palm was drawing soothing circles into your back. His breathing seemed much more steady compared to yours, his scent filling your senses with comfort and familiarity you had been looking for ever since you met him a year ago. Your nose was on fire from crying, skin harshly clashing with the cold night air, but Baekhyun's presence made everything seem bearable. Even if it was just for a few minutes that you could pretend all was okay.

Squirming a bit, you moved away from him and he was fast to drop his arms, not wanting to upset you more. Your hand came up to wipe the tears and snot away, not caring you probably looked very un-ladylike in front of your eternal crush. “Leave.” You told him and turned around, heading towards the direction of your dorms. Your head was pounding, making you groan gently at the discomfort.

“Nari, wait,” he tried, making a step after you with a reached out hand but you turned your head as you walked, dismissing him with a single glance.

“I don’t want to listen right now.”

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A/N: sorry it took me a while to update. I hope some people were waiting and looking forward to this chapter even though it took me time ❤️ let me know your thoughts please? ^^

#exowritersnet #baekhyun fanfiction #baekhyun #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun scenario #exo fanfiction #baekhyun angst #baekhyun smut #baekhyun fanfic #exo #CB #mywritings

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tomuras-doormat · 4 years ago

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Subordinate - Tomura Shigaraki X F!Reader

Wow, ok. Sorry for the lack of work. This story and the Overhaul story have been rewritten multiple times and I haven’t had the motivation to continue writing them for awhile, hence why they took WAY longer than expected.

Word Count: 1.6K Warnings: Uh, just kinda sad?

You and Dabi had finally come home from an exhausting mission. It wasn’t a hard one, just annoying. If you thought about it, it was more like an errand that Shigaraki wanted you guys to do. Based on the game titled “Stardew Valley” that was in your hands, it was clearly just some dumb errand. Looking at the bar you saw Shigaraki talking to one of the new recruits, something about a mission for all the rookies.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have a little crush on your scary boss. Maybe it’s because he screams “danger” that you’re attracted to him, but whatever it is you still like him. Love him? You’re not all too sure yourself how strongly you feel about him. You walk over to the man you call boss and hand him the game. You may not be able to see his face, but from the way he immediately stopped the conversation with the new girl you could tell he was excited. With a quick nod to you and a “we’ll finish this conversation later” to the girl, Shigaraki was off to his room to play his new game. “Later” to Shigaraki means days, so Shigaraki will probably be in his room for a couple days, maybe even a week, only stepping out to get food or use the bathroom. Which means you won’t be able to see him either unless he asks you into his room. The last person who stepped into his room when he was on his FNaF kick, well, you don’t talk about it.

You and Dabi shared a glance, a mutual understanding that had both of you heading to the bar and asking Kurogiri for a shot of vodka. “I can’t believe the boss tricked us into getting him a stupid game” said the raven haired man. You smiled and let out a small chuckle. “I mean he did make it seem like it would be dangerous. Either he was having fun with us or he was afraid we’d say no if he asked us to get him a game.” Kurogiri set the shot glasses in front of both of you. You and Dabi shared a little toast to your stupid completed errand and downed your drinks. Dabi asked Kurogiri for another shot, you weren’t too big on drinking so you said your goodnight to Dabi and headed to your room. You were one of the lucky ones who had their own room and you were thankful for that. Even though the walls are thin, you at least have a space for yourself that you can escape to and relax.

You closed your door and walked over to your bed to put your pajamas on. Nothing too flashy, just a pair of fuzzy pants and an oversized tee shirt. Another plus of not sharing a room, you could wear whatever you wanted. You flopped onto your bed and looked up at your dirty ceiling. You’ve tried to clean it before, but nothing ever works. Like the stains are permanent and it’s super unflattering. You may be a villain, but that doesn’t mean you want your room to be dirty. Alas your ceiling has been your greatest challenge with your room. Laying on your bed, you let out a sigh and closed your eyes. The whole Shigaraki issue was starting to bother you, how much did you like him? Did you just admire him or do you actually love the guy? What would happen if you told him you loved him? What would he even say? Lot’s of questions ran through your mind, but as more questions came you found yourself getting even more tired and eventually you were fast asleep.

When morning came you felt even tired than you did before you went to bed. Maybe all that thinking messed up your sleep. You rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes and changed into your usual clothes, brushed your hair out and headed out to the bar. You’d been wearing the same outfit for as long as you could remember, maybe it’s time to get a new one, or at least some different clothing items to add to your closet. Looking around the bar you saw no signs of your fearless leader, so you told the next best person. “Hey Dabi, I’m gonna head out, I’ll be back later.” you said as you put your shoes on. Dabi nodded, “Be back before 9 so we can have our traditional shot.” You laughed at his request and nodded. You put on a mask and hat and headed out the door. You’re not exactly a “famous” villain, but it doesn’t hurt to be a little cautious. Even though you were just out yesterday, it felt next to go out and nod have to complete some mission; or errand.

You didn’t have much cash on you, in fact all your money was just coins that you’ve picked up off the street. After 3 whole days of just searching for loose change you managed to get about $120 out of quarters and dimes. Of course you never told Dabi because he’d probably steal it on you.

Walking down the side walk gave you a peaceful atmosphere to think in. Maybe you could find an answer to your struggling feelings on how you felt about your boss. Boss. He’s your boss, does he even want a relationship? Would he even want a relationship with a subordinate? The man only seems interested in destroying the Hero Society, he probably hasn’t even thought of having a girlfriend.

You walked into the clothing store still with the questions flying into your mind. All unanswered questions. You shook your head a bit and started to walk around the store. Everything was relatively cheap so you could possibly get 8 or 9 items. Maybe even some small accessories. Would Shigaraki like you if you dressed more feminine? Maybe if you wore a little makeup? You sighed as you looked at the dress, even more questions you didn’t have an answer to. You looked through the sizes to see if they even had your size, most stores usually didn’t have it, but what can you expect for shopping in a nearly abandoned part of town. You smiled as you found your correct size and put it over your arm. It was a pretty dress so even if Shigaraki didn’t like it you could just wear it for yourself for when you go out. You walked around the store for a bit longer and ended up finding a couple shirts, jeans and a pair of leggings. You even found a necklace that would match with the dress! After buying the items, you asked the store clerk if you could change into the dress. The questions will be left unanswered unless you make an attempt to have them answered, so when you get back to the base you’re going to “confess” to your boss. Is it still a confession if you’re not certain on your own feelings?

You looked at yourself in the mirror and smiled a bit. The shoes clearly didn’t match but it’s not like you wear your shoes in the base anyways. For once you actually look like, a girl. You had been wearing such dark and tattered clothes for so long, you’re happy that you actually look feminine. Feminine. You blushed at the thought and looked away from the mirror. You really did have a crush on Shigaraki.

You had some extra money so you decided to buy some snacks for Shigaraki, maybe it’ll score you bonus points by giving him his favorite snacks. You held the bag tightly as you made your way back to the base, ecstatic to get back and finally confess to the man who has been running through your mind the past couple days. Will he be flustered? Will he be expressionless as always? Either way it didn’t bother you, that stone cold annoyed look made you like him even more. You liked your fearless leader; Tomura Shigaraki.

You took your mask off as you made your way up to the abandoned bar. How should you say it to him? Should you be blunt or try to give him hints? Shigaraki probably doesn’t have any experience with girls so hints might not work. You smiled at all the possibilities as you walked into the bar, taking your shoes and hat off you looked up to see Dabi on the couch. Your smile immediately vanished when you were met with Shigaraki and that girl he was talking to yesterday making out. You were frozen, was this really happening? Why? She just joined last week. You bit your lip and quickly walked past them, heading to your room. You stopped and looked down at the bag in your hand, looking at all the snacks that you had bought. You smiled a bit and hung the bag on Shigarki’s door handle, you wouldn’t eat them anyways so it’d be a waste. You made your way into your room and closed the door behind you. “It’s ok, you were just confused on your feelings is all, it’s not either of their faults..” you said quietly. Your eyes started to fill with tears as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Did you really think this dress would win him over? It’s an ugly pattern, it has a couple holes in it and it doesn’t even flatter your body. You slide down your door and pull your knees to your chest. At least you can still be his subordinate. Taking orders from him as you watch him fall in love with someone else.

Because why would he like you?

#tomura shigaraki #Tomura Shigaraki x Reader but not?

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aquaticstyles · 4 years ago

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from the dining table

I know I said I was posting at 7, but I finished earlier than expected :) 5k inspired by the song we all know and love, From the Dining Table. Hope you all enjoy reading! I really liked how this one turned out. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!!!

“Whatcha doin' out here by yourself?"

You nearly jump out of your skin and send the wine sloshing in your glass splashing onto the freshly cut grass at the sound of his voice.

You hoped—you prayed that you could get through the night without running into him. You were here to celebrate your good friend and her new husband, not re-open old scars. Yet here he is, right in front of you, dressed to the nines in all black, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist, chestnut locks styled haphazardly and intentionally all at once, new, foreign stubble on his upper lip and jaw making him that much more ruggedly handsome, chest hair peeking through the opened buttons of his shirt, and a white rose clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

He looks good. He looks really good, and you would like to die.

You would very much like to bury yourself in a hole.

He seems so familiar, traces of an old lover lost in the gold flecks of his eyes, but you don't know him, at least not anymore. He's a stranger now, an array of old photographs and journal clippings scattered throughout your memory. He went from being your person, to a person--from being the one person you could talk to for hours upon hours tangled in the sheets, the moonlight from the open curtains dancing upon miles and miles of bare skin, without ever growing tired, to the one person that sucks every word out of you, leaving you speechless, an awkward shell of the confident woman you used to be around him.

You would have followed him anywhere, blind, heart thumping beneath your chest, relying solely on his palm in yours to guide you through the dark—to the ends of the earth, tiptoes over the edge, ready and willing to plummet thousands of feet downward.

The breeze that floats through the air and brushes against your arm adds more goosebumps to the ones already present due to the man next to you. Everything around you is calm—the ocean to your right, waves slowly reeling in and releasing back against the shoreline, the sun setting in the horizon, creating warm hues of tangerine and pomegranate in the sky and sparkling on the endless canvas of blue below, the palm trees rustling gently, the soft chatter of guests behind you in the distance. Outside, there's a whirlwind of serenity, but inside, there's a hurricane crashing against your rib cage.

"Oh, I, um, had a phone call," you confess. You barely got the day off to come to the wedding, and your phone has been buzzing nonstop with work emails, texts, and voicemails.

Yes, you had to take a phone call, but you also needed a minute. A minute for yourself. A minute to reflect, on both past and future.

A minute to inhale--his palm in yours, your cheek pressed against his chest, his temple resting on top of your head, swaying slowly in the kitchen, Frank Sinatra's 'One For My Baby' echoing softly, pulling you closer to him if possible, hushed whispers of "I love you" from two hearts beating in unison.

A minute to exhale--love letters, broken promises, his (your) favorite t-shirt, borrowed books, his handwriting still in the margins, tokens of his thoughts, postcards, one for each new city he inhabited while he way away from you for months on end, pearls, a Frank Sinatra vinyl, your ring stretched and bent from his pinky, anything and everything that was part of him, tucked away in a cardboard box in your attic, collecting dust.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous; they're supposed to remind you of just how amazing life can be, particularly when it's spent with someone you love, but you can't help but feel lonelier than ever.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you wanted with him.

"Still always working," sparkles dance in those eyes of his, morphing every coherent thought in your head to mush. It's criminal how relaxed he is. It's almost as if you're old friends catching up, as if all of the history between the two of you simply no longer exists. He's smirking at you, making your insides turn to jelly and your brain slosh around in your skull. He seems entirely unfazed as he strolls closer to you, the whiskey in his glass barely moving from how slow he progresses. He's honey, the golden sugar dripping lazily from a swarming hive.

You look good. You look really good. And he notices.

His eyes trail from the very tip top of your head, to your cherry red toenails, and you immediately shrink in on yourself. He studies your appearance, long locks of hair he used to comb his fingers through flowing in the slight breeze and cascading down your back, thin straps holding up the loose, silky fabric of your sundress, heart-shaped lips glistening, coated in your favorite lip gloss (He thinks the longer he stares, the more he can taste them again—the more he can feel the sticky substance transferred on his own lips, remnants of your sparkles imprinted on him), freckled cheeks paired with a rosy nose, results from a sunburn (You're tanner than he last saw you. Has your skin always been this golden?), a new tattoo on your inner right forearm, a compass, so minute that one would have to be staring to notice (Which he was, and he did).

Then he sees it.

That all-too-familiar gold band wrapped around your right middle finger, catching the light reflecting from the white wine in your glass.

The ring he gave you.

The one he saw in Japan and had to buy because it had you written all over it. The one he left on his pillow in your shared bed, waiting for you once you had successfully stretched and rubbed the sleep from your eyes while he was off to an early studio session. The one he had engraved, "H.S." on the inside of, a little piece of him always with you. The last token of him you couldn't bring yourself to rid of, a time capsule from a past love.

As soon as you realize he's spotted it, your grip on the glass in your hand tightens. Harry's eyes immediately snap back to yours—after all this time, you still wore the ring. Why were you still wearing the ring?

In a desperate attempt to distract Harry from asking that question you knew was swimming around in his mind, you clear your throat, "Still always working," you force a tight-lipped smile and rock on your heels, "that and you know I'm no good at dancing." You nod your head to the crowded dance floor alive with couples drunk off the mini bar behind the two of you.

Harry's hard expression softens, accompanied by a dimple as memories of your horrible dancing come flooding back. He releases a warm chuckle, one you haven't heard in ages that echoes in your eardrums longer than you would have liked, "Can't argue with that, 'member you almost broke m'big toe a couple times." His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip from his glass, the amber liquid gliding down his throat with a faint burn.

The space between the two of you progressively decreases as he moves closer and closer, until suddenly his shoulder is only a couple inches away, daring to brush against yours. You're both facing the ocean now, backs towards the roaring crowd. You close your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore easing the anxiety coasting through your veins. You inhale slowly, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing against your cheekbones, cooling off the nervous heat Harry has caused. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Harry turns his head and watches you with your eyes fluttered closed, admiring your side profile up close with no shame, because how could he not? He hasn't seen you in person for over a year—it's like he's seeing you for the first time again. He fights the urge to tuck a stay piece of hair behind your hair, something he would have done without thinking if things hadn't gone completely downhill. He wants to memorize how you look in this moment, the exact position of every eyelash, the exact angle of the slope of your nose, just in case he has to go another 12 months without seeing you again. But boy, he wants to see you again. And again.

You keep your eyes closed, your lips turning upwards in a faint smirk, "I saw you at Target the other day," you open your eyes and turn to look at Harry, only to find him already fully fixated on you. Has he been staring at you this whole time? "Rolling stone? That's big."

He grins at your flustered look of shock; he was caught, but he's not embarrassed at all, not trying in the slightest to hide how much you have captivated his attention, "Uh yeah," Jesus, your eyes are beautiful. Your eyes didn't look this beautiful when you were together. Did you do something to your eyes? No, that's impossible. Is that a new piercing in your ear? You hate needles. Did you pierce it yourself? What else has changed about you? Harry, focus. What did you say again? Oh, yeah, Rolling Stone. "Doesn't do well for my narcissism though."

"Hmm... I can imagine," you take a sip of wine, returning your eyes back to the horizon, this time focusing on a pack of seagulls gliding through orange creamsicle skies. You can't stare into his eyes for too long without thinking of everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Each time you look into his eyes, it's like reliving every conversation you ever had. His words, a gallon of feathers poured on top of you, soft tufts brushing against your skin. His words, a gallon of daggers poured on top of you, sharp metal piercing your skin.

Silence overwhelms the two of you—filling the void of words needed and wanted to be said.

Harry clears his throat and finally looks in front of him to the breathtaking sunset melting into the skyline, almost as breathtaking as you. Taking a big gulp of his whiskey, he prepares himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. He has to ask, because you're here, in person, live in stereo, and when will he have an opportunity like this again? This question has been swimming in his brain for months; it's been eating him alive, the unknown mystery of the situation. He's dying to know if you've heard that one song.

"Have yeh listened to the album?"

He chose the absolute worst time to ask this question, right when you were taking a sip from your glass. You nearly choke on the liquid sliding down your throat, erupting into a coughing fit as soon as you get a breath of air. Harry's eyes widen, immediately angling his body towards yours, a look of alarm flashing across his features. You hunch over, sending cough after cough into your free hand. A warm palm rests on your back between your shoulder blades, causing goosebumps to rise, and as soon as he's about to ask if you're okay, you wave your hand, brushing off your near-death experience. You cough one last time, your raspy voice hesitantly admitting, "Um yes, I have."

Harry furrows his eyebrows, analyzing your face to make sure you're actually okay and before he can stop it from happening, he's rubbing small circles into your back. He hovers his body slightly over yours as you cough one last time into your elbow. You mouth "I'm good" inaudibly and send him a thumbs up. You finally straighten back up, brushing your hair out of your face and blinking slowly a couple times, God, that was embarrassing, way to keep it cool.

When your posture returns to its natural state, and his palm on your back is no longer appropriate, Harry removes his hand and pushes it into his pocket. He silently curses himself for not grabbing intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your palm once—that was something he would always do when you were together. It was his thing. When you would be out shopping and the paps would show up inconveniently out of nowhere, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he's sorry, before dropping it. When you would be eating dinner at your parents, laughing about who knows what, his knee brushing yours underneath the table, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he loves you, before dropping it.

Silence returns again and you're both back to your original positions overlooking the sea. Bass thumping, "cheers!", clinking, birds chirping, leaves rustling, waves crashing, heavy breathing, congratulations, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!", his rings tapping against his glass, the soles of your shoes crunching the grass, heart pounding.

The loudest silence breaks, "Figured one day you'd at least g'me a call back."

If you weren't sure if that last track was really about you, you were completely certain now. Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me you're sorry too. For the first time since he's been in your presence this evening, you regain a sense of confidence, your nervous jitters diminishing with your next statement.

"I didn't have anything to apologize for."

And you didn't. Not when he was the one that left, when he was the one that decided he didn't want to love you anymore, when he was the one that chose his life over the both of yours. It hurt. It still does. So why would you call him and tell him that you're sorry too? Sorry for what? Loving him too much? Because you loved him too much. He was the love of your life, the man you wanted to marry, the man you wanted to be the father of your children, the man that completely and utterly captured your heart and sewed it together with his own. But he left. And you had to figure out how to live without him, how to do the dishes when he wasn't drying, how to dance when it wasn't his records playing in the background, how to kiss when it wasn't his lips that were folded over yours, how to love again when it wasn't him that you were loving. You had to do it all. Alone. Pick up the pieces he scattered, put them back together, and super glue them.

Then he put out his debut album. And suddenly he was everywhere, from magazines, to billboards, to tv shows, to recommended YouTube videos, to Instagram, to twitter, to even Facebook, there he was again, closer to you than he had been in months, yet still light years away. And all of those pieces you super glued? Yeah, they became completely undone again, and it didn't help that you decided to actually listen to his album. It was one thing to see him everywhere, but to hear him again, hear that voice that once felt like home, it ruined you.

That song ruined you.

You remember the day that song was inspired from, every single detail.

You had a particularly busy day at work, and you decided to have a spa night. A bubble bath, a bottle of rosé, a face mask, a couple bath bombs, and a pizza was exactly what the doctor prescribed. You had just stepped out of your steamy wonderland, your body covered in your favorite, fluffy robe, soapy suds still clinging to damp skin, completely content in your cotton bubble and slightly buzzed from the glasses of wine you consumed. It was nearly 3 in the morning, and you just sat down at your vanity to apply your various lotions and serums when the phone rang.

Who on earth is calling you this late at night?

You shuffled your slippered-feet to your bedside table, glancing over to see something you never thought you'd see again.

His name.

Harry Styles

Flashing on your screen.

Nearly giving you a heart attack.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening, mouth hanging open, breathing halting, heart beat slowing and thumping louder than ever in your ears. It felt like the entire world was put on pause, every car on the busy street outside your apartment stopped, traffic lights stuck on red, clouds frozen in place in the sky, every form of life on hold. You miss the call, not that you could have answered anyways; you were completely and utterly paralyzed.

Another notification: Harry Styles Voicemail.

Then you're breathing again, quick, sharp puffs of air in and out. Are you dreaming? You squint your eyes shut tightly and pinch your wrist. This has to be a dream. You open your eyes, the same notification illuminating your screen. You're not dreaming.

God presses play on the world, your surroundings slowly returning back to their normal pace around you, your bubble bursting as you frantically pull your phone from its charger, typing in in your passcode at the speed of light and going straight to the neon green cube on your dock. A shaky thumb taps on the voicemail, hitting the speaker button. There are a couple seconds of static, and for a moment you think maybe it was an accident, a butt-dial, a complete misunderstanding. Please let this be an accident.

Key word: moment.

Because as soon as you think you can forget about this, go back to your nightly routine, and have a peaceful sleep, his voice is booming through the speakers, and you're paralyzed again.

"Um... Hi, it's Harry," the ghost of the man you used to know lets out a nervous laugh, "But you knew that didn't yeh? Probably why you didn't answer..." there's silence, two seconds, five seconds, eight. "I'm in Japan. It's noon here, and m'drunk, alone in my hotel room," his voice is deep, raspy, tired. "'Member that ring I gave you? I'm stayin' a couple blocks away from that shop. Y'loved that ring. Think tha' was the last good thing I did."

Your eyes shift to your right hand, the one that's not death-gripping your phone, the one that holds the piece of metal he's referring to. A lump grows in the back of your throat, and suddenly it's becoming harder to stand. You collapse on the edge of your bed and gulp. Tears pool uncontrollably in your eyes, falling onto the robe that now feels like pinecones suffocating you.

"I saw Mark befo' I left. Ran into him at the grocery store," Mark, your co-worker, your friend. Mark didn't tell you he saw Harry. Why didn't he tell you he saw Harry? Why is Harry talking about Mark? Why did Harry call you? Why did Harry leave you a voicemail? "I asked him how you were, and he said you were fine. Are you fine?" No. "Cause I'm not. M'not fine at all."

You shut your eyes in pain, wincing at his words. Waterfalls flood from your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that this is affecting you so much. You hate that he still has a hold on you. You wished you could not care; you wished you could simply say "fuck you forever" and forget him. It's been 6 months since the breakup, and you want more than anything to move on and forget him.

"Love I-" You bite your tongue at the pet name, almost drawing blood. When was the last time he called you that? 'Love'—the equivalent of a knife plunging into your chest again and again. "I fucked up... and I miss you." And again. "God, I miss you so much." And again. "And m'sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." And again. "Th'worst thing I ever did was what I did to you."

You're fully sobbing at this point, your phone thrown across the other end of your bed, his voice slightly muffled by your duvet. Your hands are tangled in your hair, elbows resting on your knee caps, shoulders shaking as you hiccup, wave after wave of his words hitting you. Little do you know, Harry is on the other end of the world doing the exact same thing—hands pulling his hair, hunched over on the edge of his grand suite's expensive mattress, an almost empty bottle of whiskey to his right, tears staining the carpet beneath him.

"And I know this is late. M'a fuckin' idiot for not saying it until now. I just..." He breathes out a sigh, and you pinch your eyes shut even tighter. No, he's drunk. He doesn't mean it. He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't fall for it; you've been doing fine. You're fine... right? "I needed yeh to hear that. Need you to know I'm so sorry for hurting you. I did th'one thing I swore I'd never do."

Relaxing your grip on the roots of your hair, you sit up at his words, the words you have waited to hear him say for six months. Why don't they sweep you off your feet like you imagined? Why don't you feel different? You had thought about this moment over and over, the moment he would finally own up to his mistakes, finally apologize for all the shit he put you through. You imagined him showing up to your doorstep with a dozen sunflowers, your favorite, a speech prepared on how much he still loves you and how much he is sorry for everything. After, you would launch into his open arms, sinking back into his quicksand, enveloped in his love all over again. Everything would fall back into place; you would be whole again. What you didn't expect was a drunken voicemail, making you want to crumble inside yourself until all that is left is a pile of bones, useless. It felt as if there was a surprise epilogue to your joint ending—you were experiencing the break up all over again. What was supposed to give you life, hope was slowly taking it away each second the voicemail continued.

"I'm dying, love." Me too. "Can I still call you that?" No. "M'dying without you. Just... Please call me. Please let me show you how sorry I am. Need to hear y'voice. I'm so sorry. Call me."

His voicemail remains in your phone. You never called him back. You've lost count of the times your finger hovered over his contact name, nearly jumping into the deep end, just for you to take one step backwards on the diving board. One particular night, after taking another step back, you decided to write down everything you wanted to say, everything you wished you knock on his door and scream at him until you lost your voice—all of the heartache, the sorrow, the stress, the hope, the anxiety, every single emotion you felt since it ended. You wrote twenty-two pages. They're now hidden in your bedside table, addressed and stamped, never sent. Harry didn't call you again; that was the last time you heard from him, over a year ago now.

Silence welcomes itself again. Comfortable silence is so overrated.

Shoulder brushing against yours, Harry stands still, digesting your last words. I didn't have anything to apologize for. There was a time when he would have completely disagreed with that statement, clearly, given the lyrics to his last track on his debut album. Then, he would have argued that both of you had dipped your toe in your downfall, each equally responsible for how things crumbled apart. Now, however, he sees how it was him that was in the wrong. He was the one afraid of the commitment you wanted from him—part of him could never fully love you like he wanted to. A couple hundred therapy sessions later, he's sorted his shit out, and he sees just how much shit he put you through, as if someone had sat him down in a theatre, showing him your love story from your perspective. You don't owe him an apology; you were perfect, always giving him your all, every single drop, every single ounce of your love from an endless fountain. He was the one that left. Hewas the one that broke you into small, jagged pieces.

But he's selfish. He still misses you so much. He misses your hand encased in his, your laugh at his terrible jokes, your lips on his cheek, your faint snores that only erupt on Friday nights after a hard week at work, your face buried in his neck, chest on top of his and legs entangled in his on the couch, your finger poking his dimple, your face scrunched in concentration as you painted his nails, your records playing in his house (the ones you said he had to borrow, but if he scratched them, he was a dead man), your hugs (the way you would make him feel itty bitty in your embrace, enveloping him into your open arms after he was away for too long), your mind, always alive and itching for those deep conversations that always arise at midnight in his bed.

That's why he came to the wedding in the first place. He was originally booked to shoot a music video, but he quickly cancelled at the possibility of seeing you here. And that's why when he finally spotted you, off in the distance, speaking into your phone away from the buzzing reception, he knew he had to talk to you. He didn't care if it re-opened closed wounds; he was selfish and he had to talk to you. He missed you.

"Listen-"

"I-" Harry speaks up at the same time you do, beginnings of sentences clashing together. Your eyes meet again, shoulders turned towards each other now. He grins, bunny teeth making an appearance at the mishap regardless of the obvious tension that has invaded the air between the two of you. You envy that trait, his ability to make any situation comfortable and relaxed despite its origin. "You first."

"No, um you go," you mumble out awkwardly, finishing off the remnants of wine in your glass in a rather large gulp to ease the nerves. You know Harry, sometimes better than he knows himself, and you know that he would have never approached you if he didn't have some motive on his own. You had to shut this down—there was no way you could go down this road with him again, not when just this conversation was enough to ruffle your feathers, making you feel like a traitor in your own body, someone you don't even know.

"How 'bout we both go?" There's a cheeky look in his eye, and if you look hard enough you could see a tinge of excitement, hopefulness, "On th'count of three?"

Not daring to quirk upwards, your lips remain straight, and you nod.

"One," You can do it. Just tell him you want to basically forget he exists. "Two," You can do it. Just tell her you still love her. "Three."

Two similar heartbeats.

"I still love you-" Sweet sugar crystals, an honest confession from candy land.

"I think it's best if we don't see each other again." An exploding cannon, sinking his battle ship.

Two entirely different headspaces.

The next morning, you wake up with a massive headache, one that was undoubtedly brewing as you cried yourself to sleep the night prior (it might also have to do with the entire bottle of wine you consumed as soon as you slipped off your heels in your apartment).

You notice it's technically no longer morning when you check your phone, squinting in pain at the sudden brightness, the numbers 1:25 yelling back at you. Thank god it's Saturday; you haven't had a hangover of this intensity since college and there is no way you could possibly go to work like this.

Slowly slipping out of the warmth of your numerous weighted blankets, your socked feet hit the plush carpet, and you bend down and open the bottom drawer of your bedside table. Tied up in a pink bow are four envelopes, addressed and stamped, waiting to be delivered to the man whose hopes you crushed. You reached for the stack, running your fingers along the edges, reading over his name, tracing the letters with your fingertips.

With the letters firm in your grasp, you rush to your front door, making sure to slip on your robe; you don't want anyone to drive by you putting these letters in your mailbox in nothing but a t-shirt and undies, after all.

You're finally doing it, diving into the crystal-clear water that was once forever still. You're going to mail all twenty-two pages, every emotion. This is it, the last period to the epilogue, the ending of this book, the closure the both of you so desperately need.

As you reach for the handle, you pause, noticing the one thing you nearly forgot about—that gold band. You slip the piece of metal off your finger, observing his initials engraved on the inside for the last time. Untying the bow holding the envelopes together, you slide the ring onto one end of the cotton-candy colored ribbon and retie the knot, the ring now attached. Inhale, one moment to reflect. Exhale, one moment to say your final goodbye. You swing open the door, and right before you can make another move, something stops you. Looking down at your doorstep, a bittersweet smile breaks out across your face. He was saying goodbye too.

A dozen sunflowers.

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pasteljeon · 5 years ago

Text

don’t need ur love (m)

❥ pairing: ot7/reader

❥ warnings: some vague descriptions of sex, just really angsty sorry :(

❥ based on this prompt: bts being in a relationship with y/n but then slowly all of them fell out of love with her and with another girl. from @/armyforlifelove :”)

❥ summary: four lessons on love.

❥ notes: exams are finally over so i’m super excited to share my upcoming projects soon <3 i hope you enjoy this little ficlet and lmk what you think!

One. Love is fickle.

There is not one boy, there are seven.

“Jimin, I’m not angry. I don’t blame you. You don’t feel the same for me anymore. I accept that. I can’t do anything about it, and I’m not going to sink down and beg you to love me. I know my own worth. I am worth loving, I am worth being cherished and treasured.” You give his cheek one last fond pat, smiling lopsidedly as you pick up the handle of your suitcase.

His lips are downturned, eyebrows pinched and body stiff.

They watch with mirroring expressions of guilt and sorrow as you give the place a final, lingering sweep. But there is also relief and gratitude. You have never been the petty type, never been vindictive. You have always been the mature one, the fun one, the level-headed one.

You say, “Thank you for the memories. I’ll see you around.”

Jimin opens his mouth, like he’s ready to apologize again, but all that comes out is an uncertain, “You too.”

The penthouse is the same as always, clothes scattered on couches and loveseats and hung over the dining table chairs. Yeontan’s toys lying in a pile next to his little bed. Your mug, your clothes, your books and papers, they’re all gone. It’s like you were never here.

The door shuts quietly.

You fall in love in summer.

They pluck you from the crowd, these gorgeous boys, and they carve a space in your heart and fill it with them, until your chest feels so full and warm.

You’re happy for a long time. Winters pass. Spring blooms, so lovely and sweet and it makes your nose itch. They’re soft and kind and their touch is reverent, sometimes bold and daring and always loving.

Then it stops.

He’s distant, shifty-eyed and avoids you like the plague. Slowly, they all become just as detached. And you realize.

Time’s up.

He cries and cries and begs for forgiveness, he buries his face in your stomach and his hands are shaky and cold. He’s sorry, he sobs. He’s sorry he fell in love with someone else.

Yeah, you think. You’re sorry too, because you could have saved yourself from it if you’d only looked hard enough.

Taehyung is the only one that stays with you that night. You send Jimin away, too anguished and defeated to comfort him.

He’s the last one, the one whose heart still flutters when he talks to you, touches you. But you know. You know that eventually, he will leave too.

He kisses your tears away and he holds you close, murmuring sweet nothings until you finally fall into fitful sleep, and his stomach hurts, hurts so much with the way you’re curled into him, so small and fragile, clutching at his shirt as your eyes flicker with whatever dream you’re having.

And he swears he’ll never let you go, never betray you.

“It didn’t break me. How could it? I loved them so much, yes, but this isn’t the end. It’s not the be all end all. It can’t be. I believe that there’s more out there.” You stare into the dark contents of your drink, your reflection rippling across the surface as you trace the handle absently.

The person across from you watches you with a startlingly intense gaze, fingers crossed as they lean in, arms braced on the table.

“It was like … there was a bullet to my heart and a hole in my chest, and sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night drowning in anguish and tears burning in my eyes and cheeks wet. Sometimes it’s a struggle to breathe when I think of them, when I do something that reminds me so vividly of them.”

Two. Love is painful.

There were seven boys, now there is only one.

You press your forehead against his. Your voice is soft, your breath is warm and your words are sweet. He thinks he’s dying. Your ache is palpable, your grief burns, lighting a dull pain travels, throbbing and expanding, at the base of his spine.

“It’s weird because it’s not like you wake up one day with this sudden revelation that you’ve fallen out of love. It happens slowly, over a period of time, when the things you did before and the things you liked about your partner no longer holds the same charm. Suddenly, the small things that had made you fall so hard for them are annoying. Their laugh is too loud, too ugly. They leave their utensils in the sink, they forget to separate the lights with the darks They look … ordinary. Just like everyone else you pass on the street. Suddenly, they’re just … somebody. Just not somebody to you.”

“It’s okay, Taehyung. You loved me, and that was enough.”

He sobs out a garble that sounds like your name. He puts a hand over his face, shame and guilt overwhelming him like a tide that threatens to choke the life out of him completely.

You pry them away gently, and you kiss him. It’s wet and uncoordinated, lips slick and salty with your mingled tears.

You stumble into the bedroom, and he presses you against the mattress, hands heavy and hot as he makes love to you one last time. He pours everything into it, everything you’ve been through together, everything he feels for you. Slowly, slowly, because he’s saying goodbye. For real this time, because he can never look back without this weight of failure and guilt.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he chants, like a broken record, he sears the movement of his lips into your skin and you bear the scar even as you close the chapter for good.

Three. Love changes you.

“But then it starts to fade. The hurt, it lessens with every day that passes. The tightness in your chest loosens and the world starts to regain some of its colour, your body begins to stomach more, your taste buds remind you that food can taste brilliant.”

You find retain old habits and find new hobbies. You reconnect with old friends, make new ones. You go out for dinner, drinks, dessert, the movies, to their houses for barbeque, the skating rink, rollerblading, the occasional club. Not all at once, never in quick succession, but you go when called, go when you ask.

You are reminded that you still have a life outside of the all-consuming romance.

You learn how to draw the perfect wing, you shop, you redecorate, you work, and at the end of the year, you take a two-week vacation to travel somewhere new. You take pictures, write stories, finish your thesis and you graduate.

You enjoy your life.

You still see them, on billboards, TV shows, concerts, YouTube videos, articles, your friends buzz with news about them, at first hesitantly and apologetically, now eagerly and excitedly.

You are proud of them, of where they’ve come, where they are, who they are and what they’ve accomplished. They are an inspiration, legends, and you are grateful to have shared a part of your life with them, to have been born in the same era as them, because this universe makes no mistakes.

And you move on.

You are living.

Four. Love is worth it.

It is worth every tear, the anger and sorrow, the loss and the sacrifice.

And sometimes, the world works in mysterious ways.

Sometimes, you go full circle, only to end up where you should have been from the very beginning.

“Is it too late, have we been through too much, have I lost you? Is it unfair for me to ask if we could start again? The moment you left, I knew … I knew I’d given up something good. Something beautiful and I wasn’t ready to commit, couldn’t see all that I had in front of me. I was foolish, I was … a coward.” He reaches out to touch your hand gingerly, barely a graze, gauging your expression. You don’t move, and he curls his fingers over your palm.

“I thought … I thought that it was natural for me to follow, I thought I felt something for her, but I was wrong, I was so wrong. God, you have no idea how much I hated myself for hurting you like that. I … I love you, I have loved you all this time, and I miss you. I miss your smile, your laugh, the way you hold me, the way you touch me, the way you can comfort me with just your presence. I miss the way you loved me. I missed … you. I miss the colour of your soul.”

“So, I was wondering. If it isn’t too late, if we haven’t been through too much, if I haven’t lost all of you yet, would it be fair to ask you to start over again with me?” His warmth is familiar, his eyes are a burnished gold and the truth is, you are strangers. So much time has passed, he looks a ghost from the past, he talks like him, walks like him, still hates bitter things like him, but he’s not him anymore. You know this because his expression is wiser, he has looked in the mirror and found himself and he is ready to try again. To do better, to dare to become someone better.

But is it too late? Are you ready for the risk of your heart being broken all over again?

Isn’t life a game of risk and reward?

You squeeze his hand gently. “I would like that.”

Taehyung beams. His smile is still boxy, his jaw line sharper, silky hair permed, and it flops over his forehead. He looks older, is older. He pushes the black locks back and strokes his thumb over your knuckles. He’s more comfortable in his own skin, you think his chest is wider, shoulders broader.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

#smutcentralnet #ksmutclub #btsghostie #jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #ot7 x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #namjoon x reader #jin x reader #taehyung smut #ggukienet #poly bts #bts angst #taehyung angst

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slasherholic · 5 years ago

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request: Now my friend, what if we got another drunk Michael but the reader gave a shot at snuggling against drunk Mikey boi?

synopsis: Michael gets himself drunk off his ass. You take advantage. This is technically an epilogue to this nasty little piece right here, but reading it is not required (or recommended LOL)

warnings: mentions of abuse, reader has a female body, angst with a helping of fluff

All the Way Down | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The concept of mercy, you think, as Michael’s bloodied fingers alight again on your skin, dragging up the front of your tender throat, drawing another unsteady, shuddering breath from your lips, can go fuck itself—because compared to last weekend, Michael’s play tonight has been dreadfully merciful.

Evening has fallen. The suburbs are quiet. The sky outside burns a brilliant orange and the light that drowns your bedroom is blistering. You sit entangled between Michael’s legs like a statue overgrown by vines. Since the sun began to set, he hasn’t allowed you to move an inch from his lap.

You do not want to look ahead at your reflection in your standing bedroom mirror. You do not want to glimpse your naked body or your tired eyes or the ugly reality of Michael’s markings, and though it seems a stupid thing to be grateful for, you are grateful your eyes do not have the option of straying anywhere but the ceiling; Michael’s busy hands are making sure of it.

His fingers clamped around your jaw force your chin upward at a painful angle. He traverses the flesh of your neck tirelessly, exploring your throat like territory he has yet to claim—as if he hasn’t done so a hundred times over already. The lazy sweeping of his calloused fingers across your skin stings like salt in an open wound, and you grit your teeth tightly together to keep the whimpers from escaping. They dribble out anyway.

You hate that sound. You hate that it is coming out of you. Most nights you wouldn’t dare try to stop your wounded little noises, but right now, it doesn’t matter. Because Michael isn’t trying to hurt you.

You know the ache in your jaw would be a splitting pain were that the case, a shocking sensation, unbearable. You know the disobedient tears escaping your squeezed-shut lids would not be trickling down your cheeks in such bitter silence.

Michael’s invading fingers do not poke and prod so much as sweep lightly over your rawed skin, tracing back and forth along the rope markings worn into your flesh like divots into soil. Cruelty is not his intent—he’s just being curious.

You blink softly as another set of tears slips down your face, and think to yourself that there does not exist a better feeling in the world than when Michael is holding you, and not being cruel.

And you are seized up stiffer than a corpse against his chest despite it.

His closeness is suffocating. His dangerous body presses in all around. His heat against your spine is a smothering inferno, and pin-pricks that feel very much like ants crawl all up and down your naked body, across your arms and legs and breasts, compelling you to break away from the raging fire that is Michael. Your instincts scream at you to writhe, to thrash, to struggle, to fight him.

You don’t. You wouldn’t dare. Because a struggle is not what he is after right now—a struggle might cost you your life. Michael’s presence alone is not what you fear; rather, it is the dreadful, heart-stopping state of his sobriety.

Or his tragic lack thereof.

He reeks of alcohol. His slow exhales sweep across your cheeks and invade your nostrils, hot and sour, grossly-sweet. The dark hunger in his eyes, that familiar coldness you have grown so accustomed to, has dulled as though buried. What brief glances you have dared to exchange with him in the mirror have not had the usual effect of halting your racing thoughts in their tracks nor frozen you like a deer caught in the headlights. What you see in his languid stare instead is unfocus, a dullness that borders on shocking. Michael is not just drunk; he’s shit-faced.

And now you find yourself captured in the arms of a man who could kill you with as little thought and effort as one squashes a bug on the sidewalk—and any lingering shred of self-control that existed in his primal mind has just been stolen away by a pint of alcohol.

Your evening Mimosa was what had done him in.

The bottle of champagne had been an impulse buy at the store; a tempting offer that you were in no position to refuse. The intrusive thoughts flared up anyway as you set the bottle down in your cart, eager to hound you—Champagne? Really? Tonight of all nights?

You swept them eagerly under the rug. This was to be no celebration, no commemoration of having survived another seven days of Michael. The opposite could not be truer. It was a Saturday evening, and college is shit, and you wanted nothing more than to get drunk off your ass and forget where and who and what you are for a while.

The pitcher had sat filled to the brim on the counter. The phone rang in the hallway, then. Your mother was on the other line.

You stayed on the phone with her while she talked herself to tears. She told you all sorts of things which, in truth, you only vaguely remember—you hadn’t been very present. You think she was calling to congratulate you. To tell you that she’s proud of the person you’ve grown up to be. She mentioned your schooling, and that had you crying, too, because college is no longer something you can be proud of. It hasn’t been for a long, long time. It is just an excuse to get away from Michael for a while.

Never had you come closer to spilling your awful, dirty little secret than during that phone call. How sickeningly easy it would have been to interrupt your mother’s praise and to let the messy truth about the monster in your house trickle out.

You maintained your fragile composure until your mother hung up the phone. The moment the line went dead you went back into the kitchen to chug and chug and chug.

Your heart plummeted. The pitcher was gone. Where it had gone was hardly a mystery.

You sprinted up the stairs by twos. You snatched your keys from your purse in your bedroom. You had nearly made it to the front door, and then Michael had ambushed you from the downstairs broom closet, and it was over. You’ve been his lap accessory ever since.

Your soft sobbing has long since waned, the runaway tears drying into salty stains on your cheeks. Now is not the time for crying; now is the time to be still and silent and to pretend with all your muster that you are an oversized doll, lifeless, incapable of hurt. You know that if you do something to excite Michael’s violence in this state—if you make him want to hurt you—you will lose your life.

Beneath you, Michael shifts his weight clumsily, tucking one leg under his body, as if the stiffness from the floor has just now crept into his bones. At some point his coveralls had fallen away from his shoulders to pool around his waist. As he tosses you in his lap you snatch up handfuls of the loose fabric, bracing against him.

He’s hard again, you realize, as the heat of his arousal sheathed in your body pulls out and away, leaving you uncomfortably empty. His cock is hot and velvety between your slickened thighs, the throbbing head of it poking and prodding at your cool skin as he realigns himself with your hole, doing so with obvious difficulty. A little sound escapes you when he pushes in again—the stretch of him is unusually forgiving. You slide easily back down his length, glued once more to the skin of his bare pelvis, stuffed full of him.

Michael’s second unintentional mercy is that the sex tonight had been everything but painful; your mimosa had turned the act into a sluggish, lazy crawl.

He had all but collapsed onto your bed, content to let gravity drag you right down on top of him. You had waited against his chest for minutes, breathless, shuddering at the breeze sweeping across your bare nipples, as he struggled to solve the puzzle of how to get his coveralls down past his hips. Upon his rediscovery of the missing piece—his zipper—the rest of the picture fell into place.

His hot hands clasped beneath your armpits to lift and lower you onto his waiting cock. He filled you at a languid, merciful pace. You had shuddered and heaved and braced for pain as he eased himself into you again, again, again. The stretch was snug but never splitting; the dreaded pain never arrived. Relaxing around Michael’s cock became all-too natural, and when he spilled himself inside of you, it was more than not-painful. It was tight and close and warm, warm, warm. It was good.

The goodness made you cry.

The tears might have been gratitude, or relief, or joy, if only Michael was sober, and not tremendously shit-faced. Instead they were just tears. For all his tenderness, you had only the alcohol to thank.

Michael had migrated from the bed to the floor soon after, and there his inspection of your body began. His hands have been all up and down your skin since—but his cock hasn’t left its place inside you.

For better or for worse, you suspect you no longer register in Michael’s numbed mind as a living thing; not as prey, not as a toy. You are simply a hole. Tight and wet and warm. He wouldn’t rather stick his cock in any other hole, and he most certainly doesn’t plan on leaving this one anytime soon.

Your thoughts snap back to the present as Michael’s hand comes suddenly free from your jaw. His hot fingers disappear from your neck, and they don’t return. The ghost of his careless pressure still lingers, an ache that penetrates deep into your cheeks; but it is far from the worst ache Michael has ever given you. You bear it in silence.

He grabs you around your waist. You feel his core muscles tightening up against your stomach, his thighs stiffening beneath your bottom, and you know before he does it that he is going to try to stand. Your heels dig against the small of his back. You capture desperate handfuls of his shirt.

It doesn’t feel right to touch him this way. It doesn’t feel natural. It doesn’t feel allowed. Even so, Michael’s hands don’t leave their place around your waist—he makes no effort to stop your advances. His solid chest is a more familiar resting place than any pillow and you settle into it with a hesitancy that gives way to utter uncaring. Thudding up through layers of deadly muscle throbs his dark heart, pounding against your cheek, rhythmic as a metronome, hideously soothing.

It occurs to you that you could stop that beating heart tonight.

On any other night you would not have dreamt it; but Michael slipped up. You can be free of him. Your life is still salvageable.

Only half believing it, you promise yourself that if you are given a chance, you will kill Michael before the sun comes up.

You marvel at how efficiently the alcohol has sucked away all his deadly grace as he staggers to his feet. Planting a hand on the corner of your dresser to steady himself, he begins to shuck his sagging coveralls the rest of the way down his legs with one foot, leaving him naked from the waist down. The coveralls slump into a heap on the ground. You utter a little cry when he nearly trips on them.

You hope that Michael will carry you to bed now. You hope he will collapse onto the mattress and pin you hopelessly beneath his body. You hope that he will not give you the chance to take his life. As he teeters past the bed, your hope droops. As he steps out into the hallway, it withers and dies. The nightmare charges down its tracks with no end in sight.

When Michael begins to descend the stairs it occurs to you that he is most likely going to stumble and fall and break both of your necks. You turn your face into his chest. You shut your eyes. You pray that it will happen.

By the cruelest of mercies, it does not.

He sways off the final step and rights himself on steady ground, and you are still alive to feel his forceful hands absently groping and kneading the flesh of your hips, his steamy breath beating down against your scalp. You are still alive to fulfill your promise to yourself.

He turns sharply into the downstairs hallway, away from the front door, and the relief now churning in your gut is just as cold and sickening as the anticipation had been. He’s not going to try and take you somewhere—he’s just hungry.

In the kitchen, Michael snacks with no regard for how you still cling to his chest. When wrappers litter the tile you suspect you’ve been forgotten. You peek over his shoulder as he finishes, watching the cold air billowing out from your open fridge as he begins a wobbly zig-zag in the vague direction of your couch.

Michael melts into the cushions. The couch may as well be on fire with the quickness you draw back your legs to avoid being crushed by his weight. He settles, his breaths filling out his frame deep as ever, even deeper. Your eyes are squeezed shut tight; You can’t look at him. You are afraid to look at him. You’re afraid that you will see something other than the cold, unfeeling face of your monster, that you will see something passive and unassuming and human, and then you won’t be able to do it. You won’t be able to kill him.

Michael’s heart thrums away beneath your cheek, utterly unassuming, unaware that its timer is ticking down, down, down.

The friction of your legs shifting against him seems to remind him of you all at once. He is quick to restrain your waist again. The back-and-forth effort of his cock rocking between your legs is sluggish and absent. He fucks you slowly, and it is good.

Michael’s thrusting slows to a lazy pistoning and then stops altogether, his tremendous heat spilling deep inside your core for the second time tonight. With his release, his powerful body softens like clay beneath you. You mold easily against his form. A minute passes, then two, then three—then more than you can keep track of. Michael’s cum oozes between your thighs and makes a mess on his own lap, but if he is aware of the wetness he is no longer present enough to care.

You open your eyes for the first time in a long time. You peer up at Michael’s face. His dark lashes are pressed shut now, drawn together gently in a delicate balance that you suspect might be offset by something as faint as a draft. He is not asleep.

You can change that.

Your right arm is numb and tingly from disuse as you reach up for Michael’s neck. You bury your hand delicately between the couch cushion and his nape. Your nails meet the base of his neck to stroke and knead between his curls which fit like rings around your fingers. You pet Michael like you love him.

What remains of Michael’s alertness dissolves into your tender touch.

His eyes twitch beneath their lids as you trace his scalp. Your breath catches in anticipation of those icy eyes snapping open, latching onto your face with a penetrative stare. Michael’s eyes are hypnotic in the most draining way. His fixed gaze reminds you of your place in the universe; of how tragically far down the food chain you sit. It would perhaps be humbling, if it were not so terrifying.

You are not surprised by your dry eyes as you pet Michael. You had not been expecting any tears, and you still don’t. Not even as it occurs to you that this will be the last time you ever touch him. Not even when you repeat those words in your brain. Not even when they become the syllables on your chapped lips.

Even when you are mouthing your unheard goodbyes to Michael, you find that you have no tears to cry for him.

You try anyway.

You dry heave silently against his sternum for a time. You gasp and shudder. If not for Michael, then for yourself.

The tears do not come out.

Soon, Michael’s head tilts back against the couch.

And his rosy lips part faintly, gently,

and you know that he’s asleep.

You test how deeply. You cautiously snap in his ear—and are met with no reaction. You clap this time, waiting for his eyes to snap open and focus on you dully. Still nothing. The alcohol has claimed him.

Some tiny thought sears through your mind; it’s time.

You slide cautiously off his thighs. Your brain is running on automatic now.

You go into the kitchen. You retrieve a knife and come back. You stand over Michael’s head, gripping the handle with both fists, hovering the blade over his perfectly bared neck, preparing to plunge it swiftly downwards. Your mind is racing. Your hands are quaking. You could put an end to so much suffering here and now; you could spare so many lives from the disaster that is Michael. He would be gone within a minute. He probably wouldn’t even feel it—not while he’s like this. It would be a quicker, easier, and more merciful death than he deserves, and it is a nicer thought than the image of what they’ll do to him when he gets caught, which just by having thought, you fear you might be sick.

You have the power to put Michael down gently tonight. You can do it. You can. You just have to want it.

You recall the ghost of his fingers sweeping across your rawed neck and you tell yourself you want it. You take a deep breath in and out and find that your body aches deeply, bruised and sore all over, and not just from last week. The months of weathering the calamity that is Michael seem to weigh on you all at once. You shudder and shake and tell yourself you want it. You heave and gasp silently. The knife in your hands trembles so hard that you fear you will drop it and wake him.

You want it; you want it like you have never wanted anything. You didn't know what hate was until Michael choked and sliced and squeezed his way into your life and smothered your mind and took yourself from you. You want him gone. You want him out. You want him dead.

Your dangerous fantasy runs rampant for ten more heedless seconds.

Then, with a silent wheeze, you double over and sob quietly into the upholstery.

You could never kill Michael. You could never. The desire to do so is an invasive, unwanted menace. You despise him down to your marrow; but your sick yearning for him is rooted even deeper than bone.

With trembling hands you return the knife to its block in the kitchen. Sinking back down into his lap is a risky endeavor, and you do it anyway, slowly, with the utmost of care. Michael does not wake. You press your face against his chest and grab greedy handfuls of his shirt and heave big wet sobs into his pectoral. You are not going to hurt Michael. You are going to punish his slip-up with just the opposite.

You are going to shower his body with affection in all the ways that would get you bloodily murdered during his conscious moments.

As your eyes roam openly over Michael’s sleeping form, you decide that his exposed skin humanizes him in an uncomfortable way. You do not consciously associate his coveralls with his illusionary identity as something predatory, as something more than human, but the association is there nonetheless. The coveralls cover his skin like the mask covers his face. Neither conceal Michael’s truest nature—both expose him for what he is.

For such a predator to shuck away his coverings and bare his human skin seems almost slanderous to you, a poetic injustice, a violation of the natural order of things, a disturbing display of humanity which he has no business dabbling in.

And what you think does not matter. Here is your monster: Half-naked. Drunk off his ass. Woefully vulnerable. It is a grotesquely human fate, one he wears like an ill-fitting coat. You despise how humanity looks on Michael.

And you despise how quick you are to drink it all in.

The tears linger in your eyes as you reach for his neck and envelop as much of its thick circumference as you are able. Your thumb settles lightly over the bulge of his Adam’s apple. As he draws breath, swallowing against your hand, his cartilage bobbing beneath your fingers, you shudder. Michael’s neck is not a place you are allowed to touch. To do so is to flip your dynamic of predator and prey on its axis—to do so is to upset the balance of nature itself.

You explore his throat as eagerly as he had done yours.

Michael’s pulse pounds against your fingers like an animal determined to break free of its cage. Powerful, unstoppable. You feel foolish for even having considered trying. You let it throb against your hand for a time, hypnotized by the fact of his living, his warmth, his momentary vulnerability, his sheer existence.

You become braver, then. Your second hand moves to join the first, and you cup Michael’s neck with a tenderness that he has never offered you. He is gone, you tell yourself, buried in sleep, and you need not fear him. You can have your way with him.

With this confidence you begin to knead Michael’s shoulders. Your touch is slow and your squeezing is careful. You move from his clavicle to his bicep, working your thumb over the knots wherever you encounter them with the deftness of a potter. You gauge Michael’s reaction as you work; you wait for that flicker of awareness on his restful face that would halt your massage in its tracks. Instead, his head slumps deeper into the couch cushions. His eyes roll beneath their lids, but his awareness never comes. He is entirely yours.

You touch Michael everywhere. His shoulders, his chest, his obliques, his naked thighs. He is sore in many places; you can always tell where because his lips part slightly in response, exposing his glinting teeth for an instant, then falling into restfulness again as you ease the knots of tension away. You know that you are playing with the hottest fire as you massage Michael without his permission. You are also too far along to quit.

As you bundle up greedy handfuls of his worn undershirt, rolling it slowly up and over his hips, over his ribs, his pectorals, you know your curiosity is reaching stupid heights. Come down now, you tell yourself, before you plummet and splat on the sidewalk; in other words, before Michael wakes up and strangles you into unliving.

Then your eyes glue to his exposed torso and your rational thoughts are swept away like a paper boat in a flood.

Rarely have you seen Michael naked. Even when you tempt him into the shower he does not bother to strip, finding it fit instead to unzip himself down to his cock and drench his coveralls until they sit slick against his muscles, hinting at his form—but not revealing it in its entirety.

It occurs to you that Michael is beautiful.

You allow your gaze to linger on the wide muscles of his torso before pressing your hands flat against his steadily rising abdomen, shuddering at his too-warm skin, drinking in his strength and power with your fingertips. You note a few things about his body to satiate your curiosity; his belly button goes in instead of out. His dark pubic hair is as curly as the hair atop his head. And he has more scars than you had ever noticed.

The ones littering his arms and abdomen and chest are glossy and round and pink and you know, somehow, without knowing for sure, that they are bullet wounds. You feel around the perimeter of one rubbery scar on his oblique, and think, this gun did not stop him—this did not put him in the ground. It did not even take him off his feet for long enough to be captured and contained. What Michael is will never be contained; not by walls, and not by bullets. He will follow his dark instinct until he breathes his last.

The thought has tears springing to your eyes all over again. Michael is hardly human; and yet, he is bitterly so. He is nature’s harsh truth. Michael, you muse, is the part of humanity that we have stuffed deep down over countless millennia and denied a voice. He is a force of uncivilized, wild, primal nature. He is the inevitability of the Earth. When the rest of us are gone, he is what will prevail.

You decide all at once that you would like to know what it is like to hug Michael. And now your head is tilting forward to rest against his sternum, and you are wrapping your arms around his thick middle, and without really thinking about it you are hugging him, as tight as a lover, and though you know he’s worlds away from that, you can pretend.

Michael’s chest grows and shrinks against your embrace. You hug him until he begins to shift agitatedly against the couch, until you can feel his muscles twitching at your confinement, eager to break free, eager even in his unwaking to regain control. You don’t press your luck. Your arms come undone and you let go of his body.

When you pull away from him, your heart stops.

His eyes are open. Staring at you.

You woke him up.

His face is dull and blank, as blank as an empty canvas, completely unreadable. You shiver. In just a moment his gaze will fix on your face and harden like steel, and that dark hunger will creep back into his features, and his suffocating intensity will roll over you like a thundercloud. You wait for Michael to see you.

He blinks like a cat. Watching, considering. But not acting.

Panic spikes your pulse as his hands come suddenly up from the couch. He grips your arms just below your shoulders. You exhale unsteadily, trying and failing to keep your breathing even. You know better than to hope and yet you can’t help yourself; please don’t hurt me, you beg him wordlessly. Please don’t ruin me this time.

Moisture pricks at your eyes as his fingers tighten around your skin, holding you fast.

Your world pitches sideways as he rolls side-down into the couch and for a moment you are breathless. His startling strength is the only thing not subdued by the alcohol—he sweeps you right down with him.

The claustrophobia is immediate. Behind you, Michael’s head comes to settle on the armrest, and you realize all at once that you are sandwiched now, crowded between the couch cushions and the bulk of his body, crushed against him. His method of restraining you is incredibly escape-proof. He will suffocate you this way.

You breathe and breathe, your ribcage rising and falling snugly against his arm. You suck in air and wait for the precious commodity to run out.

It never does. To your utter dismay, to your sweet relief, you have been spared a little pocket of breathing room between the armrest and the couch cushion.

Michael’s fingers wrap suddenly around your throat. Your heart beats loudly in your ears. When he doesn’t squeeze, you realize that he is not going to hurt you. He only means to hold you. The gesture is a possessive one: you are his, and you are not going anywhere.

Michael does not move after that, and soon he is gone again. You listen to his thumping pulse for a while. You feel his breath, and his heat, and his weight. You know with all your being that your life is not in any danger tonight.

Your eyes droop. Soon, you follow him down, down, down.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #Slashers #slasher x reader #horror #writing #fanfiction #reader insert

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personasintro · 5 years ago

Text

My Tiny Secret | 10; Weirdness

𝑴𝒚 𝑻𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆 | 10; Weirdness

⏤𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔; Pretty face doesn’t make it up for an ugly personality. And Kim Seokjin is the perfect proof of that.

⏤𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: seokjin x reader

⏤𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: angst, smut

⏤𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: toxic relationship, mistress au, strong language

⏤> 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒙

It's six in the evening, sharp, as Seokjin calls it a night. The black suit that's thrown over his chair ever since this morning is another reminder that he's been stuck in his office for the whole day. He can't even feel hunger from how his stomach shrank from the lack of food.

He shuts down his laptop with a loud click before he slides his long arms into the holes of his fancy suit. There's a soft knock on the door and without waiting for his response, it's already pushed open.

“Hey, you already going?”

The sound of his friend's, but most recently a new partner, resounds in the empty office and it's like a bomb to Seokjin's ears. He's been accompanied with silence for the whole day, going over some papers that his assistant has pilled on his desk. It's his fault that he wants to be included in everything. He's the CEO after all.

Except occasional calls, he barely talked to anyone today. His head was buried in stack of papers and the bright screen of his laptop so much, that his eyes sting with occasional headache coming and leaving every few minutes. Maybe that's why he feels so irritated by everything.

It's supposed to sound as a joke, Namjoon teasing his friend once he sees it's only six in the evening. Seokjin usually leaves around nine or ten. But Seokjin doesn't crack a smile, not that his friend ever expected him to.

“Yeah,” he blinks, feeling how dry his eyes has become. “I need to run some errands.” he says, mentally cringing how it sounded coming from his mouth and ignores Namjoon's taken back gaze.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Seokjin asks with a mutter in his voice, not even paying a proper attention to him while he grabs his phone from the desk.

He doesn't know what comes over him, but he checks for any notification from you. You surely didn't forget, did you?

“I was having a meeting.” Namjoon answers, watching his friend grabbing his belongings in an awful rush.

“What?” Seokjin scoffs with chuckle, giving his friend a doubting look. “Your meeting ended three hours ago.”

Of course, he knows. It's no surprise for Namjoon that Seokjin knows about it, despite of him being hidden in the office since this morning.

“We were discussing important things about our contract with your assistant.”

For a second, Seokjin feels as if he made a mistake for sending his assistant to have a meeting with his friend.

“Please, refrain from flirting with my assistant while you're in the company.” Seokjin tells him, sending a glare at his friend's flushed face at the oblivious. Well, it's not like he tried to hide it that much.

“What's with the rush?”

Seokjin stops in his tracks, a cold sweat dripping down his neck for some reason.

“Is your wife waiting for you?”

Namjoon wiggles his brows in teasing manner, completely ignored by Seokjin who scratches his chin.

“Yeah, now get out of here. Go home.” he tells his friend, who is completely used to his attitude and only grins at him in response.

He got her phone number, he's pleased and ready to go home.

And so is Seokjin, but the difference is that he's only ready to go however, he's not going home.

The hallway and the same set of doors in it is very familiar to him, despite of him not being here for a week. He chose this apartment building and the apartment itself by himself. The key to it is well hidden in the pocket of his slacks, and it almost burn against his skin as he thinks about it. It's not right and he contemplated what to do, until he knocks on the front door and all his thoughts disappear.

He almost thinks you're not going to answer, and he pathetically stands in front of the door growing embarrassed that someone might see him. Even his fingers twitch alongside his body and he complements of using that key, invading your privacy. But then you open the door with slightly widened eyes, your hair slightly disheveled as you hug the material of your robe closer to yourself.

“Seokjin?” you ask quietly, suddenly awake of the sight of a tall man standing in front of you. “I thought you wouldn't come.” you tell him as you open the door wider for him, turning around with flushed cheeks.

He barely pays you any attention as he takes off his shoes, putting it nicely to your almost empty cupboard.

It's weird not seeing the huge amount of Hoseok's sneakers there. But rather than dwell on that thought, you nervously hug yourself even more considering your appearance right now.

“I texted you.” he points out and you vaguely remember his text he sent you this morning.

It was something along the lines “I want to visit Yoojin tonight”, no please as usual.

“I know, I just thought you wouldn't come.” you mutter quietly under your breath, walking to the living room with Seokjin trailing behind you.

“You look like shit.” he comments out loud and you can't even muster a glare at him from the tiredness that makes your muscles ache.

You sit onto the soft spot on your couch, closing your eyes for a brief moment. “Yeah, thanks,” you say ironically, rolling your eyes. “I haven't slept the whole night. Yoojin was being cranky, I think his tummy hurt.”

Seokjin spares you a glance, seeing you rub your eyes and yawn right after. He notices how swollen your whole face is and even catches a look at the bags under your eyes.

“Where is he?” he asks looking around.

You don't seem to be offended by his ignorance towards you, you've learnt not to expect some empathy from him long time ago.

“He's sleeping.” you swallow that small 'finally' that threatened to escape.

You'd feel as a bad mother if you even said it out loud, but it's true. He's never been this cranky ever before, you barely slept and managed to take a nap just an half an hour ago. If it wasn't for Seokjin's knocks, you'd still be sound asleep.

“Has he never cried before?” he asks dumbfounded, confusion crossing over his features.

It annoys you, because he'll never understand the struggles you had to overcome as a mother. From your birth to sleepless nights while your body was, still is, recovering from Yoojin's birth. You'd never admit it out loud, especially to Hoseok, but it's way harder to live alone with a baby.

“He did,” you breathe out. “But we always took turns with Hobi.”

The nickname freely leaves your mouth, and you don't give it that much thought because you sure miss him too much. Despite of him calling and face-timing you every night, it still gets lonely without him by your side. You always knew how much he has helped you, way before Yoojin was born, but this only reminds you of it even more.

“I can watch over him,” he speaks out, jaw locked in place as you look at him with stunned look. “You should take some rest.”

It sure is a hell of a surprise, hearing that suggestion to even come out of his mouth. He never even was all alone with Yoojin, you were always there to make sure he holds him right and it's not like Seokjin wanted it otherwise. He always asked if he's holding him right. On the other hand, are you really confident about leaving him alone? You can't help yourself but doubt him and it looks like he can see right through you, speaking out.

“I'm not going to kidnap him, if that's what you're worried about.” he raises his brow at you, letting you know that yes, he knows what you were thinking about.

“T-that's not- what- I wasn't--” you stutter over your words, covering your face with your face as you exhale with a tired sigh.

“It's okay,” he cuts you off, waving his hand as he takes off his suit off revealing the dress shirt underneath it.

It's almost weird seeing him wearing his usual attire. Seeing him with hoodie and jeans seemed much cleaner these days.

“Go take some rest.” he tells you, feeling annoyed that you still have doubts clearly written all over your face.

“Okay,” you whisper. “He's in his prim since I couldn't make him to fall sleep, that was the only thing that helped. I'll take him to a guest room and leave the room open, so you can hear him if he starts to cry.” you tell him and he nods along, fishing his phone out as he stares at the screen.

That's your cue to go to your bedroom, taking the pram and glancing at Yoojin who peacefully sleeps. As you walk out of the bedroom, Seokjin is standing in the living room and once he hears you coming, he walks to you. You stop, trying to hide the surprise on your face. Something feels weird.

“I just want to see him.” he whispers under his breath, glancing at Yoojin whose soft breaths can be heard.

He lightly coughs, walking back to the couch and you slowly place the prim into the guest room. When you come back, Seokjin turned on tv, volume so low that you can barely hear it and you wonder if he did it on purpose. Overthinking is a huge part of you whenever you stress over something, and that something is the father of your child right now. He seems almost comfortable, too comfortable, on the couch as he looks at the screen. He glances at you, or more like glares at you when he sees you standing there silently watching him.

The weirdness in the room is more than unfamiliar, and you don't know whether you welcome it or not. It's obviously something new and you wonder when it ever stops. Every time he comes to visit, there are new feelings around the both of you.

“I made some fried rice, there's not much in the fridge, didn't have enough time to buy something but uh, there are some leftovers. So feel free to eat, if you're hungry, of course.”

He silently watches you as you ramble, fiddling with the hem of your thin robe that feels so small underneath his dark eyes he stares at you with.

“Thanks.”

Did he just say thanks?

Turning around, you silently shut the door and quickly scurry to the comfort of your bed. It only takes a few relaxed breaths and you're out, finally getting some rest. Behind the doors, there is Seokjin standing up and aiming straight to the kitchen finding the leftovers on the stove. There is a lot of it and he doesn't bother to take out plate, eating it right of the pan and he moans at the home cooked meal on his tongue.

It's been a long fucking time since he tasted home cooked meal.

taglist: @kpopyandere @btsxarii @nostalgicstudyblr @rkivemagic @0minabean0 @ughtear @queensavage1245 @choppe96 @mtgforall @jalexa83 @euphoriugh @baekimseokjin @quirkyanya @ladyartemesia @seoulazzyy @sinstae (comment on the most recent chapter to be added)

#bts smut #bts angst #kim seokjin smut #seokjin angst #seokjin scenario #seokjin drabble #bts drabble #bts request #bts au #bts fluff #seokjin x reader #personasintro

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chocolatequeennk · 4 years ago

Text

The Lucky Jumper

At a famous winter festival, a special jumper gives the Doctor and Rose the push they need to move their relationship forward.

For @doctorroseprompts 31 Days of Ficmas. This is Day 19: Ugly Christmas Jumper.

AO3 | FF.NET

Rose ran alongside the Doctor, trying to match his stride with her much shorter legs. It wasn’t easy to do that while she also watched out for slick patches of ice or snow on the pavement.

“Where are we going again?” she asked as they turned a corner. The only thing he’d told her before he’d pulled her out of the TARDIS was to put a warm coat on over her short-sleeved shirt.

“The Venusian Frost Fair!”

Rose scanned the street, taking in the festive banners hanging from the lampposts and the lights in the shop windows. “Like the ones they had on the Thames back in the 1800s?”

“Bigger! Oh, you won’t believe this winter festival—it covers multiple holidays and lasts all winter long. Cocoa and cider and wine and the best biscuits in the universe.”

“In the universe?” Rose laughed.

The Doctor stopped walking and looked down at her, his expression completely serious. “In the universe, Rose,” he said solemnly. “And I should know. I’ve checked.”

She laughed again. “All right, the best biscuits in the universe, according to the expert.”

“That’s right.”

As they got closer to the festival grounds, Rose noticed that more and more people seemed to be wearing… She blinked. “Doctor?”

“Yes, Rose?”

“Why is everyone wearing ugly Christmas jumpers?”

She rocked back on her heels and watched him take it in. He looked first in one direction, then his head swivelled and he checked the other direction.

Finally, he scratched at the back of his neck. “Um… maybe there was a contest today?” he suggested.

Rose pursed her lips. “Or maybe there’s a dress code you don’t know about?” she suggested, filling in the blanks. It had happened so many times before, she didn’t even know why she was surprised.

“It’s possible,” the Doctor allowed.

Rose sighed and held on tighter to his hand as they approached the festival gates. Experience told her that strange things sometimes happened when they showed up out of dress code. If they were going to be summarily ejected from the planet, she wasn’t going to let him out of her sight.

“Hi!” the Doctor said brightly. He handed a credit stick to the gate attendant. “Two all day tickets, please.”

The attendant smiled brightly. “Hi! Oh, a couple’s pass?”

She turned and dug in a box on the table behind her, and the Doctor and Rose exchanged a slightly confused glance.

“Yes…” the Doctor said, slightly hesitant.

The girl spun back around with something in her hands. “Brilliant. The best way to experience the Venusian Frost Fair is with a partner.”

She scanned a tag and handed the soft thing in her hands over to them. Then she scanned a single ticket and stamped both their hands.

“All set!”

Rose took the lump of fabric, afraid she knew what it was. She frowned when she realised there was only one garment on the table, however.

“What…” she muttered as she shook it out.

The jumper was extra wide with two neck holes. Rose stared at it for several moments, trying to work out what it was.

“How are we supposed to put this on? And… why is there only one?”

The attendant frowned. “It’s a couple’s jumper,” she explained. “You both put it on. One of you puts your left arm through the left armhole and the other uses the right.”

Rose looked at the jumper, then at the Doctor, then back at the jumper. “But… we can’t put this on over our jackets,” she said, hoping that would suffice.

The girl looked very confused now. “That’s why we have the coat check, just there,” she said, pointing to the very next tent. “The jumper will keep you warm enough without your coats. Holiday jumpers are a tradition at the Venusian Frost Festival. I would have expected you to know that.”

Rose glared at the Doctor. “Well, maybe if someone read the guide book, we would have been prepared.” She turned back and smiled at the girl. “I don’t suppose you have any… er, one person jumpers?”

The girl shook her head. “If you buy a couple’s ticket, you get the couple’s jumper. That’s how it works.”

The line of people behind them started to grumble, and Rose was near panic. There was no way she could share a jumper with the Doctor. Nearly every time they hugged, she had to remind herself not to turn her head and kiss his neck. If they were literally sharing an article of clothing, it would be…

She pressed her lips to hold back a whimper. It would be so good it would be bad. Because until the Doctor made it clear he was willing to act on whatever was between them, Rose wouldn’t.

The Doctor took the jumper and guided her towards the gates. “We understand,” he promised the attendant. “We might not have been prepared, but we’re always willing to follow along with the rules.”

“Since when do you follow the rules?” Rose groused.

The Doctor looked down at her. Rose’s cheeks were red and she refused to look at him. The rosy cheeks might have been from the cold, but not looking at him was a bit… weird.

“Since when do you argue with the rules?” he asked, throwing it back at her. “It’s just a jumper. Come on, we can do it!”

Rose crossed her arms over the chest. “I don’t think so,” she said stubbornly. “I am not going to put that on.”

The Doctor looked at it. He couldn’t see what was so objectionable. Actually, as far as ugly Christmas jumpers went, this one was practically pretty. Reindeer frolicked across a white and black background in a classic Fair Isle pattern. The two neck holes and two yokes made it look a little different, but really.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked finally. Rose pressed her lips together and he pouted. “Come on, please? I’ve always wanted to go to this festival and I’ve never gotten here at the right time. It’s a little hard to have a Frost Fair in the middle of summer, you know?”

Rose looked up at him, and he gave her his best smile. “So, since we’re here and it’s actually winter, I just… please? Wear the jumper, for me?”

She looked at the jumper, then at him, then back at the jumper. The Doctor held his breath, but she finally rolled her eyes and nodded.

“All right,” she agreed grudgingly. “But I want you to acknowledge that I protested. Later, if… Well, just remember that you insisted.”

He held his hand to his chest. “Scout’s honour,” he pledged. “Not that I was ever a Scout, or even a boy—not a human boy, at least. But I do have honour!”

Finally, Rose laughed. “You’ve got something,” she agreed, nudging him in the ribs. “Come on, let’s get this jumper on.”

They stepped into the coat check tent and handed their jackets over. The Doctor put the ticket in his trouser pocket and his sonic screwdriver in the other pocket. Then he held up the jumper.

“Oh.” He looked at it, then at the two women running the coat check. “How exactly are we supposed to get this on?” he asked.

They laughed, and one of the ladies came around the table. “First, you need to decide who’s on the right and who’s on the left. Are either of you left handed?”

The Doctor raised his hand. “Ambidextrous, actually,” he boasted. “Anything I can do with my right hand, I can do just as easily with my left.”

Rose made a weird choking sound, and he looked down at her. But she just smiled and took the right half of the sweater. “That works,” she said.

“You’re luckier than most couples. There’s usually one person left struggling all day,” the attendant said. “Now, as for putting it on. It’s best to put it on together,” she counselled. “If you each sort of slide your hand into your sleeve…”

She paused while the Doctor and Rose obeyed.

“And then pull the jumper up so you can tuck your head under the hem. The awkward part is getting your head through the neck opening, but…”

The Doctor grunted as he tugged the jumper awkwardly over his upper body. “Who came up with these things?” he grumbled. “Ow! Rose, watch your elbow!”

“Oi, don’t tell me to watch my elbows, you bloody alien,” she shot back. “You just smacked me in the eye. I’m gonna have a shiner when we get home.”

The Doctor heard something that sounded like the attendant was stifling her laughter. He quickly tugged and finally got his head through the neck hole and looked at her. As suspected, she had her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though the laughter in her eyes told a different story. “It’s just always so much fun to see people put the couple’s jumper on for the first time.”

Rose’s head popped through the other neck hole. “I can imagine,” she said dryly. She took the tag for their coats and put it in her pocket. “Come on, Doctor. We’ve got a festival to explore.”

As they left the coat check, the Doctor automatically laced his fingers through Rose’s. Holding her hand felt a little different tonight, but he didn’t cotton onto why until Rose hissed and yanked her hand back.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she muttered under her breath.

The Doctor felt his neck get hot. That… that was why it had felt different. He swallowed. Rose’s bare arm… Well, he’d touched her bare arm before, anytime they held hands when she was wearing a short sleeved shirt. But usually…

“Right, yes, sorry.” The Doctor tugged on his ear and then pointed towards the contest. “Hot chocolate?” he asked, feebly.

Rose rolled her eyes and nodded, and they started walking again. Only now the Doctor was excruciatingly aware of how close they were. They were always close, but they weren’t always wearing the same clothes.

Well. They’d never done this before, actually. The wearing the same sweater thing. The walking side by side so closely that he could feel Rose’s chest expand as she inhaled thing. The feeling her bare skin against his with every step they took thing.

Oh. This had been a bad idea. A very bad idea.

He looked around desperately for some kind of distraction. A cheery, candy cane striped booth caught his eye. “Ooh, come on Rose! There’s a hot chocolate stand over there! And then maybe we can go ice skating.”

The Doctor veered off to the left so quickly that Rose stumbled a little following him. She put her arm out for balance and ended up bracing herself against the Doctor’s back.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she righted herself.

“No, that was my fault,” the Doctor said. “This is a bit like a three-legged race, isn’t it?”

His cheerful comparison eased the knots in Rose’s stomach. “A bit, yeah.”

He pointed to the booth on the opposite side of the green. “That’s where we’re going.”

The walk was much smoother with both of them knowing the destination. Ten minutes later, an attendant was handing them two steaming mugs of cocoa, piled high with whipped cream.

Rose tried to sip her cocoa as they left the booth and nearly spilled half of it down her front when the Doctor moved his arm at the same time, jostling her. “Stop,” she said forcefully.

“What is it?”

“We need to sit down if we’re going to drink this one-handed.”

He looked from his mug to hers, then met her gaze. “Ah. Good point.” He nodded at the pavilion only a few metres away. “Let’s find a table, shall we?”

They reached the pavilion without further incident, but sitting down to enjoy their drinks proved to be another obstacle. The only seating available was several long benches at wooden tables. The awkward dance they had to go through in order to sit down without spilling their drinks or accidentally groping each other would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

Rose started tapping her toes while drinking her cocoa. The awkwardness—she refused to call it sexual tension—was almost unbearable. And the silence that had fallen between them was only making it worse.

On the other side of the seating area, she saw another couple eating biscuits. The best biscuits in the universe, she remembered.

“Hang on,” she said, looking up at the Doctor. “How do you know these are the best biscuits in the universe if you’ve never been here before?”

“Oh, they’re famous around the galaxy.” He tried to wave his right arm like he normally would to emphasise his point, and his hand brushed over her stomach.

Rose sucked in a breath, and watched in fascination as a dull red crept up his neck. “Blimey, this is harder than I thought it would be,” he muttered.

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she had tried to warn him, but before she could say anything, a horn blared from across the green.

Rose peered over at the official looking person standing on a platform. “Attention!” they said through a bull horn. “The morning snowball fight will be starting in five minutes. If you are interested, please make your way to the park.”

The Doctor looked over at Rose. “Snowball fight?” It sounded like exactly what they needed to handle some of the… tension vibrating between them.

“Snowball fight,” she agreed.

Together, they scooted away from the table, bumping into each other multiple times along the way. Dozens of people were streaming out of shops and food tents, and they followed along, soon reaching the park.

The Doctor spotted someone else in the vest that marked official festival employees. “So how does this work?” he asked. “Are there teams? Rules?”

The woman smiled, and the glint in her eyes made the expression rather sharklike. “No teams. No rules. You’re in until you decide to quit. The last person standing wins.”

She took a tool that looked a little like a long-handled ice cream scoop out of her large bag. “You’ll need these, since you’re one-handed.” She dragged it along the ground, scooping up snow. Then she pressed the button at the top of the handle and the scoop closed briefly, revealing a perfectly formed snowball when it opened again.

With a flick of the wrist, she spun the tool around and flung the snowball at a nearby tree. Then she handed the scoop to Rose and got another one for the Doctor. “Any questions?”

“Brilliant,” the Doctor enthused. He hadn’t even considered how they would manage a snowball fight with each of them only having one hand free. Well, since these bloody jumpers are apparently a tradition, it makes sense that they have a solution ready.

“We need to come up with a strategy,” he murmured to Rose as they walked into the park. “If we want to be the last ones standing…”

“I see a snowbank over there behind those trees.” Rose pointed off to the left. “We could make a fort of some kind in there.”

A snowball soared through the air, hitting Rose in the knee as she finished the sentence. Without a word, the Doctor and Rose both scooped up snow and flung snowballs off in opposite directions.

A flurry of snowballs flew in all directions across the park after that. The Doctor ducked and ran for the bank Rose had found, pulling her along with him. They stopped behind each tree to fire more snowy missiles at their opponents, but didn’t wait to see if any of them made their mark.

They were making their way across the top of a hill when the Doctor heard a snowball whistling through the air in his direction. He ducked instinctively, and as he did, his foot slipped.

He wobbled for a moment, but then Rose bumped him and his balance shifted. “Watch out!” he warned her, pulling her into his arms as they fell.

The Doctor’s shout was Rose’s only warning, and she still didn’t realise they were about to fall when he wrapped her in his arms. “What are you doing?” she asked, and then she felt gravity pulling her down.

At least snow is soft, she thought as they rolled down the hill. She wrapped both her arms around the Doctor and held on for the ride.

When they finally stopped at the bottom of the hill, the Doctor was resting on top of her. “Are you all right?”

The Doctor sounded as breathless as Rose felt. She nodded, and despite her best efforts, her gaze dropped to his lips.

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely as she wrenched her gaze back up to meet his eyes again. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

The Doctor shifted his weight over her, and Rose bit her lip to hold back a moan.

“I’m fine. I mean, I say I’m fine, but I feel like my hearts are going a little fast and somehow I can’t breathe.”

Rose slid her arm around the Doctor’s waist and watched his eyelids flutter closed. “Yeah, me too,” she whispered.

The Doctor’s eyes opened and he studied her carefully. “Which part?” he asked. “Being fine, or the… other things?”

She smiled, letting the tip of her tongue peek through from behind her teeth. When the Doctor’s gaze settled there, Rose curled her fingers into his side and tugged him down on top of her.

“Other things,” she murmured. Their faces were only inches apart now, and the anticipation was killing her. “Doctor…”

He sighed. “Yes.”

And then, finally, his lips settled on hers. Rose moaned into the kiss, and his tongue slid into her mouth.

Her hand slid up through the neckline of the jumper to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. The Doctor nipped her lip in retaliation, and Rose scraped her nails over his scalp.

“Rose,” he whispered, his breath hot against her lips.

“Been waiting for this forever,” she mumbled.

“Mmm… so have I. I just wasn’t sure you did.”

Rose opened her eyes. “You mean… We’ve both been waiting for the other to make a move?”

The Doctor rocked back slightly and tugged on his ear. “Ah… apparently?” He slowly got to his feet, helping Rose up as he went. He winked at her. “And all it took was a little push from a lucky jumper.”

#ficandchips #ten x rose #fic by Nancy #doctorroseprompts #31 days of ficmas #ugly jumper #snowball fight #first kiss #this was so much fun to write you guys #when i got the idea i was like... oh. oh yes #yes this must happen #it took almost two months to finish which is... something #but here it is!#cq's fic: the lucky jumper

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