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bananayuyu · 27 days ago

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Cabin Fever [part 5]

Pairing: Yunho x f reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 10.3k

Summary: While your day in the sun had been fun, you might be regretting the consequences today. Hongjoong finally apologizes to Seonghwa, and in the darkness of the late evening you and Yunho have a revealing conversation.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, mxm (Hongjoong and Seonghwa), oral m receiving, reader faints, voyeurism, fingering

A/n: Part 5 is finally here! This all ended up being longer than expected, so I didn't have space to include Woo/Ari/San/Woo's girlfriend stuff. It will be in the next part! (this series is gonna be at least 7 parts now, lord help me) I hope you all enjoy! <3

Linked here is my masterlist where you can find the previous parts. Again let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! (it will be now seven parts in total if everything goes to plan)

Taglist: @certifiedmoa @pautiny27 @luvbit3z @dawn-iscozy @artistic-rendition

@yeosangiess @drinkingrumandcocacola @smally97 @kierraperkins3 @newworldwritings

@peachyy-jooniee @lucid-galaxys-world @arigakittyo @staytinyroha @yoonjikim

Your head was pounding as you tried to open your eyes.

"Y/n," you hear Yunho whisper, his voice sounding distant. But you feel a hand on your cheek, and it must be his. You groan in response, your whole body aching, the muscles of you back snagging on each other as you try to move.

"Are you awake?" he asks, his voice still soft. All you can do is groan in response, shoving your head further into your pillow. "Are you hurting?" He brushes that hand along your cheek gently, feeling the tension in your jaw.

"Mm-hmm," you mumble into your pillow.

"I'm so sorry baby," he says, voice still as soft as silk. "You can sleep more, it's only nine." He kisses your forehead, tucking your comforter up to your chin. "Do you need anything?"

"No," you mumble again, trying to shake your head even though you can't move it.

"Ok, I'll let you get some more rest," he says, turning to exit the room, stopping a final moment to look back and see if your furrowed eyebrows have relaxed at all.

And suddenly you wake again, the room hotter and brighter. You hear laughter that must be coming from the living room; your forehead feels sticky with sweat and your mouth feels dry. Again when you try to move sharp pains shoot through your back, and you audibly call out, the pain so bad that you can't help it.

It was bound to be a bad morning. Those mornings you dreaded, especially when you knew you were due for one. Your body was hurting, not just because of the sunburn yesterday, or the residual cramps from your period, or anything else. It was all of the above, every event of the last week adding up to complete exhaustion, and your nervous system would be on fire for the whole day. There was nothing you could do once it got to this point but rest, and just like every other morning like this, anger greeted you sharply.

You inhaled, pushing out the air in a deep sigh. There was no was out of this but through, nothing more to be done. No Tylenol, no heating pads, no massages would help. You just had to rest, even though you were here, even though you knew the big hike was scheduled for today.

You finally pull the covers off of you, brushing the hair stuck to your face out of the way. Pushing through the pain you sit yourself up as carefully as you can, using the strength of your arms to protect your back. Your low back still screams in pain as you travel up, not letting up until you've readjusted your sitting position. With a deep breath you try to center yourself, try to focus your mind anywhere else but the pain in your joins and muscles. This was going to be a long day, you knew that. You just hoped everyone would leave you be.

As you make your way out of the room to the kitchen you're intercepted by Seonghwa, a look of concern on his face at the way you're hobbling.

"Are you okay honey?" he asks, moving his hand to rest it on your back. But you swat it away gently, pushing it back down to his side.

"I'm fine," you whisper; it's taking everything in you not to snap at him right now, which you really don't want to do in the middle of a cabin full of your friends.

"It's that bad today?" he asks, eyes soft as he looks you over. You only say those pesky two words when you're really, really feeling bad, when you just want to be left alone. He can read it all over, the way you're hobbling because your body hurts, the sunburn across your cheeks and nose and forehead, the frustration behind your eyes. "I'll tell everyone to leave you alone today, okay? And so you know, Yeosang and Jongho have already left, and Wooyoung's girlfriend Sammie is here now. And I think everyone is planning on going on the hike except me and Hongjoong, but we'll leave you alone, I promise. I think they're all gonna leave soon."

You just nod at his words, a quick smile gracing your lips to indicate your thanks. You are thankful for the information, for how easily he reads you and knows what you need. You don't want to be nasty with him ever, given how much he does for you. But in this state it's hard for you to be decent to anyone, even the people you love the most, because the anger that greets you is so severe it taints your every thought.

Thankfully the kitchen is empty, so you busy yourself with making some tea and avoid making eye contact with anyone. You can hear Seonghwa talking in the living room but he's hushed, and you don't feel like straining your ears; you honestly already know what he's saying. You're so thankful for it, you feel like you might cry on the spot, while staring through the tea kettle as the water starts to boil. You hear murmurs of understanding, or what you hope is understanding, because you really don't think you could deal with being bothered by anyone's unkindness right now. You pour the boiling water gently, the tea bag floating up, and you try to reach for the honey on the second shelf of the cabinet above you. But your back fires its rebuttal, a sharp pain preventing your arm from reaching it. Suddenly there's a hand above yours, a large, slim hand that brushes over yours, and the shock of pain that goes through you at the contact makes you jump back and stumble right into Yunho.

"Fuck, sorry," you yelp, squirming away from him, your hand still buzzing with residual pangs of pain. Being touched when you feel this way, especially unexpectedly, is just so painful. It's like your body can't process anything, like your nerves are suddenly on the outside.

"No, I'm sorry," he says, fixing you with a look of pity at the way that you're cowering from him. It's involuntary; you don't even realize you're doing it. "I won't touch you again, I promise," he says, holding up his hands after he'd set down the honey on the counter.

You fix him with a look, your eyes hurting with the effort of focusing. You want to say, 'it's okay', you want to say so many things, but you can't help that you feel some sort of visceral fear of the man in front of you because of the pain he just inflicted. This had happened before, though not many times, and you wracked your memory for how you got over it then. Why couldn't you just run into his arms right now? How was it even possible that such a gentle touch could cause you such pain? He held your gaze too, arms still up in surrender, and you felt your chest squeeze.

Finally he relaxed a bit, his arms coming down to his sides. You hadn't moved to mix the honey into your tea so he does it for you, taking out the tea bag too, knowing you don't like your tea too strong. Gently he mixes it with a spoon, blowing on the top to help cool it down before setting down on the counter closer to where you're now frozen.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, now only a few feet away from you, his words falling down through the air from above.

"i'm fine," you respond, arms crossed and staring off into space.

"Do you think you'll faint today?" he asks.

"Probably," you mutter, shrugging your shoulders.

"Y/n," he sighs, wishing he could grab you.

"Please just leave me alone today," you sigh, covering your face with your hands.

"I know, I know," he replies, and faster than you expected he's left the kitchen, the room suddenly feeling colder without his presence.

You drop your hands and blink with wide eyes in his direction, watching his back as he mixes with everyone else in the living room. He sits himself down at the coffee table, tapping his hand nervously on the surface, listening intently to something Wooyoung is saying. And then his eyes catch on yours, and a wave a relief passes over you, so intense it might be the thing that makes you collapse. You snap your eyes away, finally grabbing your tea, taking a tiny sip to test the temperature. You wince at how hot it still is, pulling back to blow on it more. You can tell from the way everyone is talking that they're above to leave, and soon enough shoe laces are being tied and sunscreen is being applied. You feel yourself zoning out, the hot mug against your hands the only thing keeping you grounded, but you know where this is leading. Your body is exhausted, your chest feels funny, and your head is starting to fill with a fuzziness that's only getting stronger and stronger. You quickly set the mug on the counter again before crouching towards the ground, feeling the smooth tile against your palms, and then it's nothing.

"Y/n."

It's like the morning all over again, Yunho whispering your name. But this time you're even more exhausted. There's no way you're getting up from this position without help, unless you lay here for hours until your strength comes back. You groan, but it's more like a whimper, and a string of tears that must have built up in your eye suddenly fall down your cheek and on to the floor.

His hand comes to your cheek again, wiping away the tears. "I'm here." He says exactly what you've told him to say in these situations, and you just might die on the spot from how much it means to you. "I'm here too, honey," you hear Seonghwa say, somewhere above you. "But no one else, I told them all to leave. Well, Hongjoong is here, but he's in the living room. It's just us two in here with you."

You squeak in response, your brain not working at full capacity, but still able to register that you're safe and in the care of your two roommates. And at least your ability to touch another person without such severe pain is back, as it always is once you have your little fainting episodes. You really should have seen this coming given the way your body reacted to his touch earlier, because it's always a sign something bad's about to happen. But somehow you're still shocked every time that you end up on the ground, unconscious.

You reach your arm out feeling Yunho's bare knee, and grab onto it tightly, trying to fling yourself over in his direction but failing miserably.

"Woah, baby, careful." The words rush out of him, his head suddenly snapping up to meet Seonghwa's eyes, which have gone soft at the use of the pet name; and Yunho can't deny that he feels relief. He always did feel a sense of anxiety about Seonghwa's thoughts about him, and he sort of felt like he needed his approval, his confirmation that he was good enough for you. As quickly as his eyes moved up, they move back down to you, wrapping your arms into your chest and picking you up to cradle you in his lap. You both stay like that for a while, Yunho holding you like a baby while sat on the kitchen floor, Seonghwa standing nearby and watching your face intently for signs of how you were feeling. You were quiet for a while, once Yunho had grabbed you, but eventually your eyes blinked open and you squinted up, seeing the stubble lining the underside of Yunho's chin. You reached up and gently touched it with your pointer finger, giggling at the way he flinched away.

"She's awake," he sighs, looking down at you with watery eyes and a furrowed brow.

"What, was I out for a long time?" you ask, your voice quiet and scratchy.

"For you, yes," you hear Seonghwa say behind you, while Yunho nodded his head. You groan in response, shoving your face into Yunho's chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you mumble, holding onto Yunho's shoulders.

"Shh, it's okay," he coos in response, running the thumb of his hand holding your legs up and down.

"Please don't go on the hike," you whimper, your breaths becoming shorter, your body starting to shake a bit.

"Of course, I'm not leaving you," he responds, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. He's not going to even mention the fact that everyone else had already left, because he knows in this state you probably don't remember that Seonghwa told you that.

"Please Yuyu, please stay with me," you whimper again, like you didn't hear what he just said. And more incoherent things are spilling out of you too, your grip on his shoulder tightening. Your brain has turned down the path it does when you come to after fainting, so freaked out and scared over what's happened that you leave this plane of existence. You're tumbling down a dark alleyway, one that must lead to hell, or something like that, and around every corner is a monster jumping out to attack you, leaving you more battered and bruised the further you go, your physical body slowly torn apart as you finally can't walk anymore and collapse in a puddle of your own blood.

It's very dark, the place you go to. And only these two really know the truth of it. You've never even told your own parents.

"Y/n, baby, I'm here and I'm not gonna let you go, I promise," Yunho says, hoping he's breaking through into your nightmare, at least a little. "I'm gonna move us to the couch, okay?"

You just brace yourself against him, as you feel him reposition his legs so he can stand in one fluid motion, carrying you over to the couch where he sits himself down and cradles you close once again. Seonghwa grabs a blanket and wraps it around you both, running a hand through your hair and peering down at your face. You almost look peaceful, except for the death grip on Yunho's shoulders.

"You're gonna be okay," Seonghwa says, brushing your hair off your neck and rubbing gently in the way he knows helps you feel better. It takes a few minutes, but finally you start to come back down to earth, your hands moving off Yunho's shoulders so you can snuggle into him more. You blink your eyes open again, slowly and deliberately this time, and though your body is wracked with exhaustion, you're able to see where you are and hear your normal thoughts again.

"I love you both, I don't know what I'd do without you," you say, choking up on the last words as tears form in your eyes again.

"Oh, sweetie, we love you too. I'm sorry you feel so bad today," Seonghwa responds, grabbing your hand and sqeezing it reassuringly.

"We'll just stay here on the couch today," Yunho says, sighing with relief. You sound like you're almost back to normal again which is what he waits for every time you come back from a spell.

And that you do, while Seonghwa and Hongjoong cook up some food for you, the four of you sitting in near silence as you eat and relax. It feels so nice to be cuddled up together, just peacefully eating, and even though you obviously are needing their care they still don't question you now, about how you're feeling. They still leave you be, and it allows you to just rest, which is what you really need. Eventually Yunho puts on your favorite show, the one he's been meaning to watch with you for forever, and you sit yourself up in his lap, wrapping his arms around your hips.

That's how you stay while Seonghwa and Hongjoong clean up the dishes, Seonghwa bringing you another cup of water and making you drink. As you sip he looks like he's thinking hard, and it seems clear he wants to say something.

"What is it?" you ask, cocking your head to the side.

"Well, I was just thinking we should probably go to the hospital when we get back to town, just to have you checked out," he says, sighing.

"Hwa-" you stop yourself, feeling the anger again. "I know, you're right. We will." You're short with him, even though you keep any fire from affecting your tone.

"I know you don't want to hear it, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you, that was a long one. I'll shut up now," he says, smiling at you as he rose, walking his way back to the kitchen.

You and Yunho settle in, starting the next episode of your show, getting lost in it in just the way you had the first time you watched it.

"It's good, isn't it?" you ask him, smiling at just how quiet and concentrated he is.

"Yes, you were right," he sighs, making you laugh.

"I know it's a romance, but I knew you'd still like it," you respond, snuggling closer into him.

"You have good taste," he says, holding you close,

"I know," you say, and he chuckles. "I guess Seonghwa and Hongjoong didn't want to hang out with us," you add, making you both laugh.

"Yeah, I don't know where they went," Yunho responds. "Wait, what did that delivery guy bring them?" Yunho asks you, turning back to your show and feeing confused by the turn of events you'd both missed by talking. "I thought that was a pizza box?"

"Oh it was, but-"

You start to answer his question, but you're cut off by hearing conversation behind you, making you jump.

"Oh my god, that scared me," you laugh, relaxing momentarily before hearing it again. "Is that coming from the library?"

"I think so," Yunho responds, you both turning your attention that way, now realizing where your two friends have gone off to. You quickly grab the remote, pausing your show.

"Wait, bab-"

"Shh, I wanna hear," you say, placing a finger against Yunho's lips.

"You're so weird," he whispers, but he obliges, not making any more noise.

"No, no, I need to say it," you hear more clearly now, obviously Hongjoong's voice.

"Joongiee..."

It's quiet but unmistakably Seonghwa, making your eyes go wide. Not just the nickname, which you've never heard him or anyone use for Hongjoong before, but also the tone of his voice, the pleading nature of it.

"Oh my god," you whisper, turning to Yunho who's also looking surprised, you both fighting off a smile.

"Y/n, I-" Yunho starts, but your finger is on his lips again, silencing him.

***

Hongjoong had been different that morning; Seonghwa noticed it right away. He'd been a little different since the conversation you'd had with him two days prior, but this morning there was a noticeable change. It was in the way he held Seonghwa so tightly in the morning, the way he stared at him as they had their first cups of coffee. He was always intense with his staring, but this morning it was deep, it was piercing.

"What?" Seonghwa asked, the first words they spoke to each other that day. They both were early risers, strangely, given that they both often stayed up late too. They were always groggy first thing in the morning, needing caffeine to help their brains fully come awake. These mornings on the trip had been quiet, usually, especially given that everyone else was usually asleep and they didn't want to bother anyone. It had been peaceful having this quiet time together; almost domestic, in a way.

"Do you still want to go on the hike today?" Hongjoong asked. Everyone had planned to hike the trail that started at the falls today. It snaked up the side of the cliff, steep with several switchbacks, before ending up at the top, a clearing perfectly placed to look down across the forest and over the lake and cabin. The trail was actually much longer, continuing down into the mountain range behind the cliff, going on for almost ten miles before ending at a small trail head on the highway that ran through the back of the mountains. Occasionally people started from there, the view over the falls their end destination. None of you had ever gone that way, though it had been discussed occasionally that it would be a fun idea. You all walked from this side, which aside from the large vertical climb meant the hike was only about a mile and a half. Last year you had even been able to join and experience the cool air that rested up there, standing so close to the edge that Yunho pulled you back and wouldn't let go until you all headed back down again.

"It doesn't sound like you want to," Seonghwa replied, smiling at him.

"Well, I don't know," Hongjoong said, running a hand through his hair.

"Are you not feeling well?" Seonghwa asked, eyeing him. Now Hongjoong looked away, struggling to maintain the eye contact. He was always confident until his feelings were affected, and that look of concern he'd just received had his insides spinning.

"No no, it's not that," he replied, breathing deep to steady himself. "I was wondering if we could stay back, while everyone leaves, so I can talk to you. About something, um, important."

"That doesn't sound scary at all," Seonghwa responded, an unsure look on his face.

"It's not scary, I promise," Hongjoong sighed, finally look back up and meeting Seonghwa's gaze with pleading eyes.

"I'm was kidding, Joongie. Of course we can stay." The use of the nickname makes Hongjoong's stomach spin even more, the one he only uses when they're alone, just the two of them. Seonghwa's hand comes over to grab Hongjoong's, squeezing it in that way he loves to do when he wants to reassure someone.

Your spell that morning had changed plans, ever so slightly, and when Hongjoong watched Yunho and Seonghwa sit with you in the kitchen, as those minutes drew on, he had so many feelings. As much as he worried that he wouldn't have the opportunity to talk to Hwa anymore, he couldn't stop watching him with awe while he took care of you, the way he so intently watched you as you jerked around in your unconscious state, his quiet and reassuring words to Yunho. His head spun with worry for you, when it seemed both Seonghwa and Yunho were surprised at how long it was lasting. When you finally woke, his heart was nearly pounding with adoration at Seonghwa's kind words to you, and almost every bit of hesitation crumbled away. He knew what he had to do now, what was right.

He was thankful that as they cleaned dishes after lunch, Seonghwa whispered to him, "let's go to the library." You and Yunho were so engrossed in what you were watching that they were pretty sure you didn't even notice them moving, quietly walking around the back of the couch and through the open door, closing it but leaving it slightly ajar to avoid making noise.

"I didn't feel like going outside, it's too hot today," Seonghwa starts, turning around and standing awkwardly in front of one of the bookcases.

"I agree," Hongjoong sighs, across from him, his hands held behind his back as he stares.

"What are you doing? Come here," Seonghwa holds out his hand, and Hongjoong takes it, hesitantly. "What's gotten into you?"

"What do you mean?" Hongjoong replies, but the words feel bad coming out of his mouth, because he knows he must be acting strange with everything flying trough his head the way it is.

"You seem, deep in thought," Seonghwa answers, grabbing his other hand now too.

"I'm very easy to read, huh?"

"Yeah," Seonghwa replies with a nod. "I can always tell when you're upset, or when you're happy. But I never know why."

"Cause I never tell you," Hongjoong responds. It's a statement, he's not asking anything, not looking for a response. Seonghwa can tell and keeps his mouth shut, their eyes locked together in an intense stare down.

"I'm going to stop being like that, or at least, I'm gonna try," Hongjoong continues, holding onto Seonghwa's hands tightly. "I- I need to tell you this. I don't know how you'll feel but, I need to tell you." His heart rate is rising, so strong that Seonghwa can feel it through his palms.

"You need to take a deep breath," Seonghwa says, breathing in and out slowly to try to calm his own nerves. Hongjoong does too, moving his hands to Seonghwa's hips, steading them both against the bookshelf behind.

"I had this conversation, with y/n, two days ago. After you know, I kind of fought with Yunho, that stupid morning, remember?" Seognhwa nodded his head, eyes still trained on Hongjoong's. "She said a lot of things that made me, uh, reconsider, I guess, how I've been dealing with things. She just... made me think a lot. And made me realize that I've been such an asshole to you."

"Hongjoong..." Seonghwa trials off, not even sure what to say in response to what he's just heard.

"I'm really avoidant, of my feelings, I'm really good at just pushing them aside and doing whatever I think I should. With a lot of my life I've been able to just deal with things that way. But you've always made me feel things that I couldn't push down, and god that's always scared me, so much. I was telling y/n, the other day, I- I had this experience with my dad, where we saw that magazine cover you did, your first major cover for that makeup line. Me and my dad, and my mom too, we saw it in a corner store by their old house, and my dad said such nasty things about all of you on that cover. I'm positive he had no idea it was you. It made me so sick, and I thought I was moving past his homophobic views and the affect it had on me, but his comments that day sent me right back to the person I was when I was a kid, that person who was afraid of him. I- I want you, so badly I want to be with you, I fucking love you, but you deserve so much more than me, you deserve to be with someone who's family will accept you and and treat you with the kindness you deserve, the kindness you give everyone around you every day. I- I'm not good enough for you, and I know that, I'm still so uncomfortable with my sexuality and so uncomfortable with myself and just- I- I still can't help selfishly wishing that you want to be with me too, because, fuck, no one makes me feel the way you do."

A silence hangs in the air as Seonghwa still stares, the beginning of tears forming in his eyes. Seeing it sends chills through Hongjoong, because as sensitive and caring as Hwa was, he was't often one to cry.

"I'm so sorry, about everything. I know I said last year that we'd talk again, we'd figure out what this thing was between us, but every time I sat down to text you or call you I couldn't do it. I was too afraid, too scared of what might happen if I really did start dating you. And that was so fucking stupid of me, listening to that fear. I fucked up, I know I did. I don't think I can express with words how much I regret it, Hwa, seriously..."

"Joongie, you don't need to say all that. You don't need to be so hard on yourself," Seonghwa replies, his heart aching at just how harsh Hongjoong was being to himself.

"No, no, I need to say it," Hongjoong replies, his hands moving up to Seonghwa's waist, grabbing him possessively.

"Joongie," Seonghwa whines, the pressure from his hands intoxicating. Hongjoong's lips are on his in a moment, gentle as they brush over his.

"I need you to understand that I know I've been an asshole," Hongjoong sighs through a ragged breath as he pulls back for a moment. "And that I know you've been nothing but patient with me, which is more than I deserve."

"You do deserve it, though. Stop saying that, stop being so mean to yourself," Seonghwa replies, pouting. They're kissing again, and it is so soft and so sweet, but filled with want, too.

"Wait, Joongie." Seonghwa puts his hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, pushing him back for a moment. "Are you sure you want to be with me? Is that what you're saying?"

"One hundred-thousand percent, I'm sure," Hongjoong replies, his eyes looking deep into Seonghwa's. "But I understand if you don't want to, after all this time, and everything that's happened. I still remember what you said that night at Ari's birthday, I know we were really drunk that night but I... I never forgot what you said."

Seonghwa sighs deeply, stricken back to that complicated, crazy night four years ago. I know you'll never actually date me, Hongjoong, but I can't stop dreaming that you'll change your mind one day. By the time you do I'll probably not even want you anymore. That was what he said, in the drunk haze he was in, Hongjoong kissing him and making him angry all over again, his frustration spilling out of his mouth, along with the shots he'd been taking. It was a mortifying, telling night, and he regretted what he'd said for months, knowing that even if it was how he truly felt, he could never understand what is was like to be Hongjoong and have parents so unaccepting.

"I'm a lot more mature now, than I was then," Seonghwa sighs, his hands resting gently on Hongjoong's shoulders.

"You were already mature, then," Hongjoong shakes his head. "And you were right, you know. You were always right. I'm- I hope this doesn't sound bad, but, I'm shocked you waited for me."

"Well I didn't, really," Seonghwa laughs, looking away bashfully.

"No, I know. I just mean, I'm surprised you're still giving me a chance now."

"I can't help it," Seonghwa replies. Hongjoong looks at him quizzically, waiting for more of an explanation. "No one makes me feel like you do, Joongie. I'm sure I would have still given you the chance even if you waited till we were in the nursing home together."

"You're too good for this world," Hongjoong replies, kissing Seonghwa deeply this time, his whole body tingling with just how perfect the man in front of him is making him feel. Now he feels stupid for being worried about this conversation, because of course he should have known Seonghwa would react this way. That moment at that party all those years ago was the only time he'd said anything like that; since then, for years they'd hooked up, and not an unkind word left his lips. It really, truly didn't seem fair to Hongjoong; he had a debt to pay, and he was determined to make things right going forward. He digs his hands into Seonghwa's waist further, his tongue sliding into Seonghwa's mouth and feeling the soft warmth of his tongue. He pulls back to suck on his lower lip, Seonghwa's sweet lip gloss making his full lips delectable. Hongjoong groans at the taste, making Seonghwa moan in response and involuntarily buck his hips into the air, his body alight with feelings of warmth and neediness.

"Fuck, you're so fucking pretty," Hongjoong says as he pulls back, looking at the man in front of him, his lips glistening and his long bangs falling into his face. They're both still wearing their pajamas; Seonghwa's are a dark blue matching set of shorts and a button up top, with light blue edging. Hongjoong runs his hands underneath the shirt, feeling Seonghwa's stomach and chest and the heat that's seeping through his skin. Already a noticeable tent is forming in his shorts, just from the few kisses and touches, the air electric between them as it always is. But now there's also an added layer of anticipation, because this wasn't planned and Seonghwa has no idea where this is headed.

"You always take care of everyone else, let me take care of you for once," Hongjoong says, reaching his hand down to feel over Seonghwa's hardening cock, moving in and kissing his neck slowly, sucking harshly on the delicate skin he finds.

"Joong, joongie, ahh," Seonghwa moans, his legs already feeling like jello. "Please don't mark me up, my photo shoot-"

"Shit, I forgot, sorry," Hongjoong says as he pulls his lips of his neck, licking a long stripe up the abused skin and chuckling at the adorable moan that left Seonghwa's lips when he did. "I wish I could leave marks all over you," he groans, kissing down Seonghwa's neck to his collar bone, his hand still rubbing Seonghwa over his shorts. They're both hard now, Seonghwa straining against Hongjoong's hand as the pressure builds deliciously. Finally Hongjoong reaches into his shorts, the skin to skin contact sending shivers of pleasure up Seonghwa's spine, making him moan pathetically. At this point Hongjoong is positive you and Yunho have heard, even with your show playing. But he can't find it in himself to care, because he needs to accomplish his goal, taking care of Seonghwa, and it's all he can think of. He spits into his hand some more, rubbing it up and down Seonghwa's shaft to finally start stroking him hard, starting slow but keeping the pressure tight. Seonghwa's a writhing mess in front of him, his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he feels nothing but Hongjoong's hand, his own hands anchoring him as they hold onto Hongjoong's shoulders.

"That feel good?" Joong asks him, making him whine and nod in response, his mouth now hanging open. "You're the most perfect thing to exist," Hongjoong continues, watching Seonghwa with adoration and amazement. It's in these moments he can't believe he's here, that this man in front of him likes this as much as he does. This beautiful creature, like someone out of his fantasies, placed on earth here in front of him to make all his dreams come true. He kisses Seonghwa's cheek, whispering 'you're so perfect' in his ear, before dropping to his knees and pulling down Seonghwa's shorts slowly. When he finally pulls Seonghwa's cock eye level with him he sees how hard it is, already leaking slightly front the tip. He reaches his mouth up and swipes his tongue over the bead of precum, making Seonghwa's hips jolt at the contact, his head fuzzy from the change in position. This isn't a position they're in often, Hongjoong servicing Seonghwa like this, and it makes Seonghwa's heart break to think Hongjoong is doing this cause he thinks he has to.

"Joongie, ahh, you don't have to," he whispers between moans, his hands trapped behind his back.

"No, I need this," Hongjoong replies, his tone gravelly and domineering, and suddenly it all makes sense to Seonghwa again. It's in this way that Hongjoong is forgiving himself, showing himself that he can put his pride aside and do something nice for Seonghwa. "I need you to cum down my throat," he says, his breathing picking up as he licks a long stripe up the bottom of Seonghwa's shaft, making him shutter with pleasure. He moves his lips to suck on the head, slowly working his hand up and down the shaft again, looking up to see Seonghwa's blissed out face, his jaw hanging open and his eyes squeezed shut. He continues sucking hard, his mouth pulling off with an audible pop, and then he licks up the entire length of his cock again before enveloping it fully in his mouth, reaching back to his throat and threatening to make him gag.

"Fuck, Joongie, it feels so good," Seonghwa whines above him, his eyes still closed as he focuses entirely on the feeling of Hongjoong's warm mouth around him. Hongjoong can only groan in response, his head moving in swift motions now as he works Seonghwa up, feeling his cock getting harder and harder with every stroke. Seonghwa's hands come to rest in his hair, gently pulling on the strands more in an act of love, than anything, but it drives Joong crazy to be finally in this position. He felt like he'd taken so much from the man above him, not just over the last year but over the entire time they'd known one another, and it felt so good to finally be repaying him. His jaw was cramping slightly and his breathing was feeling difficult, but it didn't matter in this moment as he looked up to see Seonghwa's face again, Seonghwa so obviously lost in everything that he was feeling. But there was a tenseness about his hips, about the way he was holding them back against the shelf behind him.

"Hwa, baby, please come in my mouth. Don't hold back," Hongjoong says, taking a break to catch his breath briefly, his hand still working Seonghwa's length. "Look at me," he says, Seonghwa's eyes finally opening and falling on Hongjoong's messy face and blown pupils. "Baby, stop holding back," he says again before diving in, pulling himself onto Seonghwa by his hips, this time going so deep that he actually gags.

"Ahh, fuck," Seonghwa moans, holding onto Hongjoong's hair now for dear life, his orgasm ready to wash over him any moment. It's Hongjoong who is being so harsh with himself, again, forcing himself to take it down his throat repeatedly for the sake of Seonghwa's pleasure. Seonghwa is almost holding him back by his hair now, not wanting him to get hurt. But he can't deny how hot it is to see Hongjoong like this, so desperate to please and to make up for everything. Despite the patience and kindness, Seonghwa had been pissed at him for years, at least a little. And Hongjoong just looked so perfect like this, his cock lost in his mouth and his hair messy from Seonghwa's hands, and suddenly it was all too much. Seonghwa's moans suddenly stutter as he comes down Hongjoong's throat, just as he'd asked, Hongjoong groaning at the feeling of his warm load filling his mouth. He works hard to swallow it all, sucking on Seonghwa's tip to finish the job and making Seonghwa gasp at the overstimulation.

"Thank you," Hongjoong says through ragged breaths, standing to kiss Seonghwa again and hold him close. Seonghwa whimpers into his mouth, still coming down from his high, his body electric with pleasure and feelings much deeper, too.

"You taste so good," Hongjoong mumbles in his ear, making him giggle in slight embarrassment, shoving his face in Hongjoong's shoulder. They stay locked together in their tight embrace for minutes, Seonghwa's breaths finally slowing to a more normal pace.

***

Sat on Yunho's lap, you can't deny how hot it is to overhear everything. Your body completely betrayed how you felt; your hips moving against Yunho's rhythmically, making him start to get hard himself. When Yunho finally snaked his hands into your shorts he found your cunt wet and open for him, two fingers slipping inside you with ease.

"Fuck, Yunho," you whispered, your hands coming to brace you against him, holding down on his arm in a way you didn't realize was restricting his movement.

"Is it too much?" he responds, the soft sound brushing past your ear and making you shiver.

"No just, go slow," you huff out, your head lolling against his shoulder as you relax into the feeling. Yunho does as you've asked, his fingers thrusting in and out of you slowly, gently, and giving the perfect amount of pressure to your aching cunt. You hadn't realized yourself how wet you were, how worked up you'd gotten. Gently you moved your hips in tandem with him, your breaths whiney and fast and making Yunho's head spin.

"You like listening to them too, not just watching," he says with a slight chuckle, and if it weren't for the fingers deep inside of you making your whole body slack with pleasure, you'd punch him in the shoulder.

"Yunhooo," you whine, his teasing building everything up even more. You can hear how wet you are now, the sounds coming from under the blanket making their way to your ears despite the layers of fabric in between. It's building, hearing Seonghwa's beautiful cries of pleasure, your mind racing with a million different ideas of what might be happening in that other room, and the way Yunho's palm is now rubbing against your clit while his fingers work you open is making your legs start to shake.

"Breathe baby," he reminds you, your body tensing up and forgetting to as your pleasure builds. He keeps his hand steady, knowing he's found the perfect spot from the way your body is reacting.

Suddenly you both hear something outside, something that sounds like comfortable conversation and Wooyoung's unmistakable laugh, and Yunho's hand pauses. You can feel he's about to pull his hand away, just in the millisecond your brain registers his muscles begin to twitch, and you reach out your own hand to grab his wrist and stop him from moving.

"Don't stop, please, I'm so close," you whisper, tipping your head back to make eye contact with him through the tips of your eyelashes. He just looks at you with so much adoration, starting up his rhythmic movements once again, adding even more pressure to your clit as he feels you rubbing against him. You keep your eye contact, both of you locked together in this unexpected moment of lust, and soon you're coming on his fingers, your legs shaking as your pussy throbs hard. Your own hand still hasn't left his wrist, and you use it to pull him away from you when it feels like too much, his hand snaking back up out of your shorts just in time for Wooyoung to pop his head through the back door, followed quickly by the woman who must be his new girlfriend.

You all make sudden eye contact, the look on your face one of embarrassment as you come down from your orgasm in the presence of company.

"What are you two up to?" Wooyoung laughs, making his way to his backpack on the floor.

"We, we're watching..." your words get lost in your throat when you look at the TV and see the show paused, which he can obviously see himself.

"Mmhm, sure," he responds, chuckling again.

"Woo, shut the fuck up!" you cry, laughing yourself at the embarrassment, and at the way Wooyoung has turned the tables on you. You liked it much better when you were the one making fun of him, not the other way around.

"Y/n, this is my girlfriend Sammie," Wooyoung says as he stands up, gesturing in her direction.

"Hi, it's nice to meet you," you say, trying to keep your giggles at bay. Thankfully she too finds the situation amusing, and laughs along with you.

"It's nice to meet you too. I hope you're feeling okay," she responds, her eyes kind as she looks in your direction, her whole being emanating a warm, caring energy. She's obviously older than the rest of you; she has that put together air about her, her clothes and glasses and haircut all crisp and sharp. But it isn't intimidating, and she doesn't seem cold. If anything, the put together nature of her is more comforting, like if anything went wrong she'd be able to help you.

"I'm a little better, I guess. I'm conscious," you chuckle, smiling. "Thank you for asking."

"Of course," she replies, nodding at you, smiling too. "You two are very cute together, by the way," she adds.

"Thank you," you smile, shyly turning your head away and snuggling into Yunho. His wet fingers are still resting on your stomach, underneath the blanket covering you both, and the reminder of what you'd just done makes you feel a little giddy. Just then the rest of the pack of hikers enters through the back door, and soon the cabin returns to the low hum of conversation that always accompanies the group of you together. Eventually Yunho sneaks off to clean his hand, coming back to carry you to bed after you'd finished your dinner, making you drink another tall glass of water to make sure you're hydrated. By then the sun is setting, the lights in the living room off as the group that's staying up enjoys a spooky movie, while you and Yunho retire for an early night, one you desperately need given your physical state today.

***

In the darkness of the night, your head tucked into a pillow and against Yunho's chest, Yunho surprises you by speaking.

"I have a question for you," he starts, voice low with sleepiness.

"Hmm?" you respond, snuggling closer to him, your mind fuzzy and about to surrender to sleep.

"Okay let me preface this by saying, I don't want you to think I'm making fun of you. I am genuinely curious about this," he says, and you groan in irritation, not wanting him to continue. "Baby, it's not mean, I swear. I just noticed that, well, you like watching or overhearing other people have sex, don't you?"

"Yunho," you sigh, pulling his arms tight against you despite your annoyance.

"I'm not- I don't mean to bring up our senior trip again, more just what I've observed on this trip," he says, holding you tight to try and reassure you. "You do like it, right?"

"Uh, obviously," you sigh, your cheeks warming with self consciousness. You know he knows that already, and you're not really sure why he's making you say it.

"Baby, that's really hot," he says, shocking you.

"It is?" you ask.

"Yes, it is."

"But, why?" you ask, squirming ever so slightly in his embrace.

"Cause it just is, baby. It's just hot that you, have certain sexual fantasies I guess, that aren't totally average," he replies. "I like that."

His words send waves of feeling through you, feelings that you can't really describe except to say that it feels like relief, or like a locked away box inside is finally open and free. Your head spins for a moment, thinking of your recent interactions with him, and you can't help but ask the question.

"Did you read my book, the morning before we left for this trip?" you ask, and all you feel in response is Yunho's chest rise and fall, as he takes in a breath and promptly lets it out. "You did! I knew it," you laugh, smiling into the pillow. "Well, what did you think?"

"I didn't get far, baby, I only read the introduction," he replies.

"Have you ever read any of my other books?" you venture.

"Yes?" he responds, a little surprised you're asking.

"Yunho!" you respond, mouth agape.

"You left that faerie book in my room last month, did you not want me to read it??" he asks.

"Wait, that's where it is?" you ask, having thought for the last few weeks that you'd lost it somehow on your way to work, or misplaced it so badly in your room that you were never going to find it.

"That wasn't on purpose?" he asks.

"No, on my god," you laugh, hands coming up to cover your face for a second. "You read it?"

"Um, yes, yes I did," he replies.

"The whole thing?" you ask, genuinely shocked.

"Yes, y/n, I thought you wanted me to," he sighs.

"Oh my god, that's funny," you chuckle. "Well, what did you think of that one?" you ask, tone full of amusement.

"You're into some freaky shit, girl," he replies, and you're laughing so loud that you're probably being heard in the living room.

"Maybe I am," you say, burying your face in your pillow. "I can't fucking believe you read it."

"Me neither," Yunho says, his cheeks pink with embarrassment now, too. "How did you even, discover that you liked that kind of thing?"

"Um, one of my friends in high school, she was reading this book about like an alien planet, it was this weird dystopian sort of world where humans had made contact with aliens and they'd keep humans as slaves sometimes, and anyway, it got very smutty. She would tell me about it in P.E. and said I should read it. I was pretty disgusted by the idea at first and didn't take her up the offer for a while, but when I finally did I ended up really liking it, honestly, as fucked up as it was. And from then on, well, I just look for stuff online that sounds like it'll be good. It's pretty easy to find if you know where to look."

"Wow," Yunho replies, eyes open in the dark room. "Who was it?"

"Huh?"

"I mean that girl, what friend of yours? We went to high school together, remember?"

"I omitted that information on purpose, dummy. She made me promise then that I'd never tell anyone about that book she showed me. I can't break that, even if it's been like ten years," you reply.

"I guess I'll just have to guess, then," he says. "Was it Ari?"

"No, of course not," you say, rolling your eyes. "Don't keep guessing, I mean it," you say, gently elbowing him in the ribs. In retaliation he starts tickling you, his hand snaking under your arm and hitting you where it's worst.

"Yunho, ah, stop!" you shriek, his large frame on top of you in seconds and pinning you down as you try to fight back, flailing your legs and arms with very little strength. It's not there today, after passing out this morning, and Yunho's realizes and immediately stops himself, remembering you're in a bad state and knowing he shouldn't be messing around with you like this.

"Sorry, I'll stop," he says before planting a kiss on your cheek, tucking himself up behind you again.

And just when your brain is getting fuzzy again, when you think you're about to finally fall asleep, he speaks again.

"How did you discover you like watching people fuck?" he asks. You laugh at how matter of fact it is.

"I- uh, well, it was several things, I guess," you start. "It's kind of- it's a long story," you say, sighing because his question has just sparked a memory that was so buried, and you weren't ready for how it made you feel to be playing in your mind again.

"I'm all ears," he says, adjusting himself to get even more comfortable.

"Yunho," you sigh.

"I'm just curious baby, I promise I won't judge you," he says.

"It's not that," you say, sucking in a breath.

"What is it, then?" he asks.

"I- I saw something at Ari's eighteenth birthday party," you say, the words stumbling a bit as they exit your mouth. You hope he'll catch your drift immediately, because for some reason saying this out loud feels so scary, and adrenaline is already coursing through you.

"What did you see?" he asks. His tone is quite neutral, so you can't tell if he has any inkling of what you're thinking, and it irks you. You're going to have to say it, and your heart races in your chest.

"I-I saw you- you and Mingi, uh, kissing," you say, the image playing clear as day in your head. Both of them are holding red solo cups, and the room is empty, except for the mess strewn about from the night's activities. The harsh light of Ari's friend's college dorm shines down as you're sat on the lumpy couch, screams coming from outside as everyone gathered to watch someone throw something off the roof. You couldn't be bothered to watch that, having slipped back inside, and thought for sure you'd be all alone until you spotted that two of them in the hallway, Mingi's back pressed to the wall as Yunho stared him down, their obviously drunk eyes meeting feverishly. And then Yunho leaned in, your stomach dropping in your gut as you watched their lips meet, as you watched Yunho grab Mingi's waist and pull himself forward, the solo cups dropping to the floor and long forgotten. You hadn't been able to get that image out of your head for months, it coming to you time and time again, in the dead of night when your hand was between your legs.

"Oh, you saw us?" Yunho asks. You don't really know what you were expecting in response, but his calm reaction is surprising you.

"Yeah," you reply, letting out the breath you were holding.

"And, you liked it?"

"Mmhm", you reply. "Did you guys, do , uh, other stuff that night?" you ask, hesitating a moment.

"You mean, did we have sex?" he clarifies. You nod. "Uh, yeah, I think so. Honestly we were both kind of drunk that night, which probably wasn't the best. But yeah, we've hooked up a few times, actually."

"Really?" you ask, and suddenly you remember another birthday of Ari's, the night when you had to escort a very drunk and very sad Seonghwa home, and when the two of you were walking down the dimly lit path that led from her apartment to the street, you saw through the window the silouette of what you swore looked like two tall men kissing.

"It's weird, I know," he says behind you.

"No, no, that's not what I mean. I just always thought you were straight," you say.

"I thought so too," he says, voice sounding small.

"Are you ashamed of it?"

"Maybe," he says.

"Yuyu, you shouldn't be."

"I know," he says.

You squeeze his arms close, tucking yourself into him again. "I've done stuff with a girl," you say, breaking the silence, hoping the admission makes him feel better about what he's just revealed.

"Who?" he asks.

"Do you remember my friend Elle? Yeah, a few times we did stuff," you answer, bringing to his mind the girl you spent so much time with the summer after high school, the two of you inseparable in a way that should have made your feelings obvious. But even to each other, they weren't.

"Oh, I should have guessed," he laughed.

"I know, we were fucking inseparable that summer. And she, well, I think she was very ashamed of it all. She didn't explicitly ask me never to tell anyone but please, don't tell anyone else. I don't think she would want anyone knowing, really. I mean, it's not like any of us are friends with her anymore, she doesn't even live here anymore. But you know what I mean."

"Of course, I won't tell anyone," he says, sighing in relief. Your admission has helped him feel a bit better about his own secret, and you can feel it in the way his body relaxes behind you.

"Do you want me to not tell anyone about you and Mingi?" you ask.

"Well, I think some of our friends kind of know, I mean if you saw us then probably some of them have. I don't- honestly- hmm, I don't think I care who knows. I don't think he does either. I mean, it's happened, it's not like we can really pretend like it hasn't," he says, his mind spinning as he thinks more deeply about him and Mingi than he has in a while. He thought about it a lot, after it first happened, but since then he'd sort of buried those thoughts because Mingi had never brought it up himself. Without another person prompting it, Yunho would probably never have given it much thought, and some part of him felt like that was really strange, and cowardly. "Is it weird that I don't really, think about it?" he asks you.

"No, I mean why should you have to? If neither of you are ashamed about it, and it's just some little thing that happened in the past, why should it have to be this big complicated thing? It's just like any other hookup from high school, or college," you say, and you feel him tense behind you again, slightly. "What, is there something else you haven't told me?"

"Well, it's not just some thing from high school. It's happened more times than just that," he says.

"How many times?" you ask, chuckling slightly. You can't help but feel excited by the information, even if he sounds hesitant to share.

"Oh, you're loving this aren't you," he jokes, gently pinching your side.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just, I'm very curious," you say, biting back a laugh again.

"Curious, I'm sure that's what it is," he chuckles. "Well, uh, I don't know the exact number, I meant probably somewhere around, eleven, twelve times?"

"Really?" you ask, and you can't hide the way your thighs clench a bit.

"Wow, you like the idea of it that much?" he teases, moving a hand down to your thigh.

"Yunho," you grumble, his teasing making you feel a bit embarrassed of yourself again.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease so much," he says, hand still not leaving your thigh. "Like I said before, it's hot. Really hot." Your cheeks bloom in a genuine smile, that little box inside of you open, waves of light flowing out and making your whole body feel airy and warm. Being seen like this by him, these fantasies not only being accepted but being liked by him, has you feeling so connected to him and to yourself in a way that you've not often felt in life. The feeling emboldens you, and because the two of you haven't discussed any specific terms of your relationship yet, you want to put your thought out there in the open.

"You can keep hooking up with him, even if we're, together. As long as you're being safe, of course," you say.

"Do you want us to be open?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so. But he feels like an exception to me. I don't want to be in the way of you two..." you trail off, unsure how to word what you're trying to say.

"Do you want to watch us, is that it?" Yunho laughs, his instinct to tease you taking over again. He expects an immediate dismissal from you, but the groan you let out and the way your legs tremble just momentarily tells him everything he needs to know. "Looks like I'll have to ask Mingi a few questions," he chuckles, making your body tremble again.

"You- are you serious?" you respond, surprised.

"If I can make your wild fantasies come true, then I want to. I obviously can't make everything that happens in those little books of yours a reality, but this is something I could do. I mean, I know Mingi thinks you're hot, so I kind of bet he'll jump at the chance," Yunho says, his hand on your thigh squeezing you comfortingly. "And of course we're always safe, we both take that stuff seriously."

"You- ok first of all, how do you know Mingi feels that way? And second of all, you two can still hook up without me being there too, just so you know. Just to make this very clear," you respond.

"Me and Mingi have talked about it. Talked about you. A lot, honestly," he sighs, moving his hand around to the front of you again.

"So he did know already," you say, remembering the first night in the hot spring tub.

"What do you mean?" Yunho asks.

"The first night when we were all in the hot spring, he looked at me funny when I climbed onto your lap. I don't know if you noticed," you respond.

"Oh, yeah, well he knew about my feelings at least, so he probably was wondering if you were doing that cause you felt the same."

"I didn't even realize it then," you chuckle.

"It's very cute how oblivious you are sometimes," he says. "Though honestly I wasn't even sure myself if you liked me back."

"Has Mingi been, weird with you at all, because of us?" you ask.

"No, we haven't talked about it this trip, but I know he won't feel any type of way about it. I know he thinks you're attractive too, but we both always knew I felt a lot more for you than he did. And we're a lot closer than you two are, at least as far as I know," he chuckles, illicinting a nod from you. "He hasn't been weird at all, but seriously, I think he'd go for it if we presented the idea of you watching me and him."

"Really?" you ask, still not sure if you believe him.

"Yeah, I can talk to him about it, if you want. Or if you want to, that's fine."

"I- I think I want to, actually," you say, surprising you both. "I want to hear it from his mouth that he actually is attracted to me like that."

"I promise you I'm not lying," he says, holding you close.

"I know Yunho, it just feels a little hard to believe."

And with that final sentence you both finally yawn, your conversation coming to an end as the dark blanket of night falls over you both. It was another eventful day of your trip, another day your body angered you, but you couldn't help feeling a lot of excitement as you fell asleep, wondering what a conversation with Mingi might bring you.

#ateez yunho #ateez x reader #yunho smut #yunho x reader #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez fic

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visceravalentines · 10 months ago

Text

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 8 months ago

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What do you think Katniss and Peeta’s unexpected turn ons are? Like a small innocent thing about the other that drives them wild just because they really love them so much? And makes the other one go “really? 😉”

This was way too much fun to answer and got out of hand. I could probably think up a thousand more of these if I had the time.

<3 kdnfb

Canonically, Peeta cannot lie to Katniss and look her in the eyes. When she figures out that he still can’t post-mj, she uses it to her advantage. She can always tell when he’s trying to fib his way out of accidentally revealing an innocuous secret or a surprise he’s planning, like what he’s getting her for her birthday. And it drives her a little insane. Like “either look me in the eyes when you try to lie to me or take me to bed right now, since you won’t give me my present right now.”

Katniss is a consummate caretaker, to an almost annoying degree. Fortunately for her, she husbanded someone with a caretaker kink. That boy was dying of blood poisoning, raging with fever in a deathmatch arena, and he was still laying down the lines and making her laugh. Every time she fusses over him or bosses him around when he’s got a minor injury or just a little sniffling cold, that man is in full on flirt mode and dragging her into bed with him. “I’ve got a surefire way you can make me feel better.” “If we have sex, will you stop whining and get up so I can wash the sheets afterwards?” she sighs in exasperation as she’s stripping off her clothes and crawling under the covers with him.

Meanwhile, Katniss goes feral whenever Peeta gets a little protective of her. Some whackadoo from the Capitol comes out to Twelve to check on the progress of the new medicine factory and brings a limousine with him on the train, but the roads in Twelve are not made for cars like that and the idiot almost runs people over. So of course, Peeta wraps his arm around his wife and bodily lifts her out of the path. One second she’s walking through town, reciting her shopping list, the next she’s pressed up against a storefront with Peeta’s body caging her in and some idiot driver is careening past, honking his horn. And if you think Katniss doesn’t almost climb him right there and he has to toss her over his shoulder to drag her home before she tears his clothes off, I cannot help you.

Both of them become unhinged morons whenever the other one is a complete mess.

By this I mean Katniss comes in from tending the garden, her shirt all sweaty and clinging to her. Her hair’s a mess and she’s got a little sunburn on her nose and cheeks and Peeta’s already naked, demanding she take him on the spot.

Similar response when she comes home a little disheveled from a hunt. “At least let me put the meat in the freezer first, Peeta.” Nope. She gets railed up against said freezer and can’t keep a straight face when they have to invite Haymitch over to eat all this meat because they had to cook it immediately after or it would’ve gone bad.

Peeta starts coming home from the bakery deliberately a little messy. Flour in his hair, sugar stuck to his neck. A random smear of frosting on his arm. Why? Because Katniss starts squirming the instant she sees him and honestly, he really likes it when she mounts him in the hallway because she couldn’t make it the five extra feet to the bedroom.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve had sex because he didn’t get all the paint washed off his hands before a meal or before bed. And he almost never notices the smear of paint or pencil dust that winds up on his left temple because he brushed back his hair at some point while he was painting/drawing and why is that so hot? She has no clue, all she knows is that she wants to bathe in him. Usually, she manages to wait a little while for that one, mainly because she wants to see what he was painting before she jumps him. What he was painting often dictates the flavor of their sex.

He doesn’t paint the Games as much, after the first time she tells him “Real,” but when he does, the sex is tender and usually happens in the art studio itself, on a paint splattered sofa or on the floor, rolling around on his floor tarps so that both of them are smeared with paint afterwards.

If he’s painting her or other people that they love, they’ll make it up to the bedroom before clothes start flying, laughing and teasing each other the entire way. Katniss will be laughing so hard she snorts while she’s moaning and coming at the same time. Peeta lives to make her snort laughing while she’s coming, btw. Huge turn on, switch flipped to feral mode as soon as she's done coming, and Katniss feels like she won’t be able to walk straight for a day after he finishes inside her.

He uses her as a canvas? Well eventually he's gonna wind up covered in paint too. They go until the paint starts to dry and by then, they're sleepy and content and can barely move anymore.

Painting landscapes and nature scenes? Absolutely feral pig sex where the neighbors worry about them and ask each other if they should… knock? Make sure everyone is still alive in there? Katniss really can’t walk straight for a day after that, but she’s not complaining. Instead she’s demanding her husband carry her around, because he did that to her, after all.

Sadly for Katniss, Peeta carrying her around is something she absolutely loves for the tenderness and silliness of it, but also at times it turns her into a raving madwoman "take me to bed and throw me on it then fuck me this instant before I pull out all my hair, husband!"

And ho buddy, when the two of them come home all sweaty and gross from rebuilding the district? Round one on the floor in the entryway. Round two with skin squealing on shower walls and borderline screaming moans echoing off the bathroom walls. Hair pulling, biting, clawing sex. Let me inside your skin, ten minutes later we’re still actively sweating well damn it that shower was fucking pointless in terms of getting clean sex.

Katniss eats her pie backwards, crust first and Peeta doesn’t know why, but for some reason, he thinks it’s adorable and needs to have her instantly. Haymitch wonders why he no longer gets pie on nights when he eats dinner with them. There’s always dessert… but no pie. So Peeta starts baking Haymitch his own pies and dropping them off, because he’s not giving up his absolute need to toss Katniss on the table and eat her out like he’s a dying man whenever she eats her pie like that.

Peeta looks like he’s solving all of the world’s problems when he’s brushing his teeth. So serious. Sometimes, Katniss will throw small objects at his prosthetic until he notices and giggles when he does, looking at her like she’s an annoying brat. Sometimes, she sneaks up behind him and makes faces at him over his shoulder until he laughs and spits out the toothpaste. Other times, her hands on him are incredibly naughty and the next thing he knows, he looks like a rabid animal in the mirror while he’s bent over the sink, holding on for dear life with her hands on his dick, unraveling him one caress and stroke at a time. But whatever she does, it ends with their sheets an absolute wreck and both of them naked and sweaty and staring at the ceiling going “Wow. So that… happened…”

Katniss bites her nails when she’s nervous and Peeta fixes it by snatching her hand and kissing her from her fingertips up her arms to her neck… where he blows a raspberry until she’s laughing. Do smutty things happen after that? Depends on the setting.

Peeta still flirts with her. Like blatantly, let's see how red I can get my wife’s face flirting with her over the bakery counter or in the town square, in front of literally everyone’s salad. And Katniss just melts like a loon but is secretly plotting how to get him naked asap. She’s not against throwing him against the nearest tree if only there weren’t so many people in the district. Oh but she’s absolutely savaged him against several trees in the woods because he was flirting.

Peeta whistles when he’s working in the bakery. Katniss thinks it’s adorable and sexy as hell. She sings in the shower and Peeta never misses the show, sitting on the toilet or just standing against the sink just to hear her sing. It’s the only time he manages to move silently.

Katniss cannot keep her hands out of Peeta’s hair. Girl is obsessed. And Peeta finds it at turns, adorable, adorably annoying, a mild turn on, or holy hell hot. Like “pull my hair again when I make you come” hot. Conversely, she absolutely loves it when Peeta brushes and braids her hair for her. He’s trying to have a tender, loving moment, and she’s often “are you done yet because as soon as that hair tie is on, i’m gonna be all over you.”

Both of them absolutely love it when the other one laughs. It’s not always a turn on, per se, but when it is… lord have mercy they broke a whole ass bed one time because Peeta laughed at something Katniss said.

Peeta wearing loose, soft pajama pants or the like. Katniss is all hot and bothered and “i’m not that big you can definitely fit me in there with you…” Peeta looks at her like she’s lost it, but they actually do try it once or twice. Numerous pairs of pants have been ripped and sewn back together in this pursuit, and not because she couldn’t fit in there with him.

He’s long since accepted that if they’re dressing up for some occasion, he has to get dressed two hours early. To give Katniss enough time to rip it all off and have her way with him and still have time for them to shower and get dressed again so they’re not late.

Anytime Katniss wears one of his shirts, sweaters, etc, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die unless he gets his mouth or hands on her and then his cock inside her because half the time, she’s not wearing a bra or pants with them, just panties, and he just… has to have her. NOW. While said garment is still on her body. Especially a particular red sweater he was wearing the day they had sex the first time and she wore it the morning after.

She absolutely has a sunset orange nightie that nearly gets removed (or not removed) every time she wears it, but removed or not… either way, Katniss can’t feel her toes after Peeta makes her come as many times as he can whenever she wears it.

#well aren't you a spicy anon #post mockingjay #everlark #anonymous #look at that ask

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