#its okay though. he’s a good man. he is. it’s just from his observation. and i expressed how passionate i was on this topic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaggedamethyst · 4 months ago

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easy (bucky barnes x gn!reader)

content: life with bucky is amazing…but it’s easy to feel like you’re not enough when your relationship is a secret.

secret relationship, miscommunication/misunderstanding, angst, self doubt, alpine!!!!! not proofread

notes: fawk tik tok but welcome everyone who is bored and here getting their bucky content now. real as fuck. (no sharon carter slander allowed around me ever btw.)

there will be a part two (possibly more but idk)

main masterlist

part two

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

“I never really understood the appeal of a secret relationship until now,” You glanced over to Bucky, “It’s kinda invigorating.”

He smirked, his lazy smile matching his relaxed figure—sprawled on the bed next to you. “Invigorating, huh?”

He had rushed over the night before, getting back to the compound and waiting for a good time to slyly step out. It became habit; he would say that he was coming back from a run in the mornings. If he ever was caught in the evening, he’d simply went on one of many errand trips.

The truth was, that people didn’t really notice him. Bucky Barnes could sneak out and back in relatively unchecked save for Steve. Even then, Bucky’s elusive nature made it easy for people to stop asking after a while. He knew the underlying issue was that they would never truly separate who he was with who he is now. It was okay, though, because he had you. Thats all that mattered.

Peoples’ concern for Bucky’s wellbeing and whereabouts dwindled—figuring he could handle himself. He loved that when everyone else could simply shut their minds off to the thought of a rehabilitated solider—you accepted him with warmth. That affection would never truly be lost on him.

You turned over in your bed, observing Bucky’s features. You couldn’t help the way your entire face upturned—truly invigorated by the sight.

He noticed your stare in his peripheral, “Like what you see?”

“Oh, please.” A pillow found its way in your grip, playfully smacking Bucky in his face. You quickly moved to leap off of the bed, but the attempt was futile, of course. The man had been able to lean over and grab you before you could even process the movement—pushing you firmly into the mattress. Without missing a beat, he leaned in to kiss you—smiling into it. His metal hand found a grip on your neck, just under your chin, and pulled you up into him. The pressure was delicate—the inherent weight of him using this arm not lost on either of you. The coolness spurred you on. Your arms snaked around his back and tightened at the feeling of his skin on yours; you’d never truly gotten used to the feeling.

It was an honor, truly, to be loved by James Barnes. It was even more so to love him. When you were able to bask in the morning sun like this, to kiss him like he could disappear, you never took it for granted.

The kiss quickly became overwhelming. Thoughts of the man filled your mind—mostly of how lucky you felt. Even more common at times like these was to feel as if you weren’t deserving…despite him constantly saying otherwise. He made sure to tell you daily, if not more often, that being a secret was to keep you safe. He couldn’t chance losing you, he’d say. He couldn’t live without you.

But something else clawed at your skull, telling you that maybe you just weren’t enough—that you didn’t look the way you should.

You pulled away, looking between his eyes. He was completely in a daze—lips reddened and swollen so quickly. A blush feathered its way over his cheeks, then, watching you look at him so intensely.

He swallowed, “What?” He pecked your lips quickly. “Am I just that good at kissing that you’re mesmerized by my talents?”

An involuntary huff escaped you and you quickly forgot that fleeting thought of inadequacy. You mirrored his smile before playfully pushing him off of you, finally moving off of the bed and toward the kitchen.

Bucky had a charismatic way about him that could be mistaken for immature. You knew better, though. In his new life he adopted optimism—a way to combat the thoughts he had. Feelings of his still being a horrible man. That he would never escape being an assassin. So when he looked at you and saw a growing somber look on your face, he didn’t expect the worst. He should’ve.

After some time passed, Bucky emerged from your bedroom. You gave him a quick look over the brim of your cup, sipping on your tea. You made a show of observing how he’d freshened up and changed into his signature dark clothing. The sight of Alpine snuggling up to his boot had you cheesing then.

He stalked over to you, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Gonna go stop by my place and get a few things…figured she would like the trip.” He leaned down to scoop up his cat. “Should probably also grab more of her food.” He motioned toward the now empty tupperware he had made into a makeshift transport for when the both of them would stay at your place.

“No worries. I should be tidying up around here anyways.” You reached up to hug him, leaving space for Alpine between you.

“I’ll be seeing ya, doll.”

You pushed into his shoulder at his silly remark, but decided to play along. “Be seeing ya, too, Sarge.”

With that he turned to leave—the white cat perched comfortably on his shoulder now.

The sound of the door closing immediately made you turn to survey your apartment. It wasn’t too bad—but could easily take a few hours to freshen up if you made a day of it. With a nod, you began tidying and cleaning to pass the time—occasionally checking your phone for a text or call from Bucky.

It was only way into the night that you began to get anxious. You knew about his job; at one moment there could be nothing and the next a universal threat they had to combat. You tried not to jump to worry, but it was so unlike him. There’d been times like this, where he would disappear. You would take the time, giving him space he probably needed—only to find him holed up in his apartment in the worst condition he’d ever been in. Images of him contracted in on himself and shoved into a dark corner played in your mind. You had to go check, to be sure.

Throwing on a matching sweat set, you shoved your phone and keys into your pocket, quickly making the trek to his place. It wasn’t far, but it wasn’t exactly close. For some reason you made the decision to walk there—the franticness and burn in your legs making the distance seem even larger.

Your chest burned, heaving as you turned the corner. The building came into view, finally. You quickly swiped the extra card he’d given you to enter the building. Every step felt like a march toward complete devastation. Your hands opened and shut, grasping at your hoodie. The elevator ride was torturous. You weren’t sure how you’d find him—the thought alone was driving you up a wall.

As you approached his door, your pace slowed. You dug into your pocket again, reaching for his key on your keychain. Just above the gasps of your breath you heard shuffling in his place—causing you to still. You were sure the expression on your face was one of confusion, wondering why he’d not let you know he got here at least. Just as you went to call his name, a voice spoke, muffled by the closed door. Without a thought, you leaned in at the sound—growing more cautious and remembering just how much Bucky told you to stay aware of your surroundings. With a tilt, you steadied your breathing. None of the words were coming clear to you. It was certain, though, that there was a woman in his place.

You took a long and drawn inhale before swiftly pushing in and turning the key to Bucky’s apartment.

The woman paused the call she’d been on, now looking at you. “I’ll call you back.” She pushed the phone into her pocket, looking at you expectantly. “Hi.”

“Hi?” You gave her a quizzical look, “Who are you?” You hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly.

The woman across from you didn’t move, clearly aware of the fact that you didn’t let the door close. Either you were really dumb…or someone taught you that. She stepped toward you, then, a hand outstretched. “I’m Sharon.” She observed your lack of motion except for a brow that arched at the introduction. “You must know Barnes, he sent me here to check on Alpine…can’t seem to find him.”

“Her.”

“Sorry?”

“Her…Alpine’s…a her.”

Sharon lowered her hand. “Didn’t know, sorry.”

Your grip on the door’s knob loosened a bit at the mention of Bucky and Alpine. Finally, you let the door swing closed behind you—stepping into his living room but keeping a distance.

You cleared your throat, “So where is he? That he couldn’t check on Alpine himself, I mean…”

“I um…” She paused, teetering on her feet. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to say-“

“I’m his friend,” you interrupted. You groaned internally at the attempt to make your presence at his place seem legitimate. “We’ve been friends for a while. Haven’t heard from him and wanted to see if he was okay.”

“So you just walked in?”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

The woman smiled, chuckling to herself. “Got a point there.” Silence filled the room again before she spoke again, “So…you’re a friend…with a key?”

“I watch Alpine when he’s out of town…he figured I should have one just in case he’s ever gone longer than expected.”

You surveyed the woman, looking for any questioning of your rehearsed reply. It was somewhat true…not entirely, though.

You chose to repeat your question, concern still sitting within you. “Where’s Bucky?”

The woman reached in her pocket, causing you to step away from her. She raised her arm—motioning for you to wait. Reflected back at you was her ID and badge. She worked with him.

“You should come with me.”

Just then, Alpine strolled around the corner, approaching you in recognition. You scooped her up the same as Bucky had, watching Sharon move toward the door. You inched back, allowing her the space to exit and for you to follow.

The car ride was uncomfortably silent. No words were exchanged between you and the only sound that resonated between the both of you being Alpines sweet purrs into your lap. Eventually you approached the compound. Bucky had never bought you here—thinking better of it. You followed Sharons swift motions, keeping a somewhat close distance on her trail. Looking around as you walked, you were overwhelmed. There were so many people, all of which Bucky didn’t want to know about you. There were so many weapons, so casually strewn about and waved around.

A shake of your head was inadvertent. You pulled Alpine in closer to you, sniffing in the lingering scent of Bucky on her.

The two of you rounded a corner, a few sectioned off rooms coming into view. Sharon quickly stepped into one, ushering you in.

She leaned down and clicked on a keyboard, speaking while looking at the computer screen. “Barnes was called up.” She clicked away, “We needed some undercover done and they had to be able to speak Russian…possibly other languages.” She side eyed you, making sure you were looking. “We have feeds on them at all times.”

She stood then, backing up to stand in line with you. You surveyed the screen, confused by the atmosphere, “Where is this?”

“Some arts gala…few hours away. We got word of illegal dealings happening a few weeks out so they’re doing recon.”

You nodded, watching the zoomed out view of the ballroom. A quick scan came up empty—no signs of Bucky at all. You saw Sharon in your side view, watching the various emotions littering your face.

She crossed her arms, “Barnes isn’t your friend.”

“No.” It wasn’t a question. You figured this would happen, Bucky said as much, that anyone he worked with would see right through you. You kicked yourself for how obvious you’d been, even when trying to be subtle.

“There they are.”

You looked over to her suddenly, “They?”

She moved to zoom in on the screen. “Yup, Barnes and Romanoff.” Sharon resumed her stance next to you. “See? He’s alright…figured this would ease your mind. I know how he can get.”

There was nothing out of the ordinary and you reasoned that you were just being overly cautious. Admittedly, you jumped to so many conclusions in such a small time.

The sound of Sharon’s phone going off filled the room. “I have to take this, but feel free to stay. I can take you back in a sec, okay?”

“Thank you, Sharon.”

She nodded before stepping out to take the call.

You sat down, allowing Alpine to observe the screen as well. “He’s doing just fine. That’s good, right?”

You looked down at Alpine for a second, amused by your own love for the cat—seeing as you weren’t fond of them as a whole. Generally, you were more of a dog person, but you compromised because Bucky loved her. You smiled at the thought of them, your own little family.

The absentminded circling on Alpine’s back stopped abruptly as you looked up at the screen again. You whispered to yourself, “What the fuck…”

In what seemed to be an average recon mission, seemed to linger a hint of something you didn’t quite like. The distance between Bucky and the woman was closing. His grip found her back, a secure hand there while the other held hers firmly. They were talking. You turned to look for Sharon, hoping there were mics on them. The smiles exchanged back and forth had your chest in pain—the same lazy smile he’d shown you just hours ago. Your body started to shake, pulsing at a frequency that left you feeling unstable. A hand secured you in the chair; you urged yourself to keep watching, even if to your own detriment.

He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. They moved apart, then, searching in one another’s gaze. In a split second, the pair’s lips met one another’s. You felt your eyes blink away a sting that approached you quickly. An immediate pain welled up in you. You couldn’t believe it. Clenching down on your teeth, you stood up quickly, moving closer to the monitor. Your finger trailed his face, looking for any sign that this was just an act—an elaborate ruse for the task at hand. Yet, there was nothing.

You couldn’t help but let the feelings of inadequacy cloud your judgement. You couldn’t help but doubt everything he’d ever said. You couldn’t help but cower away from yourself—scared of your own reflection now. It had to be true…you just simply weren’t enough. Someone else was better.

Feeling Alpine in your hands, you pressed a firm hug and kiss into her fur. You rubbed her reassuringly before setting her down in the chair. “I’ll see you later…okay?”

The cat seemed to look at you longingly—but you couldn’t let that stop your path. You had to get out of here. Swinging the door open, you stepped out into the hall and looked around for Sharon. She seemed to have disappear—of course. You took a few steps, unsure of which direction to go. To anyone watching, you seemed to stutter step. You’d move in one direction and question the next. Suddenly, a man came into view, towering over you.

He leaned down to meet your eyeline, “Hey.” He waved a hand in an attempt to break you from your trance. “You okay? You seem lost.”

“I just need to get out of here.” You move to step around him, “Excuse me.”

Your quick footsteps carried you toward the outside—the familiar burn of your legs reminding you of the feeling just an hour ago. How concerned you’d been, you thought, only for him to be hours away having the time of his life…without you.

Within a few minutes, you were able to find a ride and head home. Opening your apartment door hit you in a way you didn’t expect. You had cleaned everything, yes, but you had accidentally removed all traces of Bucky in your attempt to straighten up. The lack of him felt too real—hitting your chest with a force you couldn’t take.

In all your time together you hadn’t felt more connected to Bucky than right now. You empathized with him—sinking to the floor came easy. Letting yourself waste away in an effort to not acknowledge the pain was… easy. Sitting in the dark, ignoring calls, letting your mind run rampant.

I can do this, you thought. Reveling in the feeling of sadness was much easier than facing Bucky. So you simply…wouldn’t.

part two

#jaggedamethyst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes

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secretlysamcro · 2 months ago

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Black female reader x Jax Teller Explicit language, violent language & possible spoilers. If you're under the age of 18, haven't finished the show or dislike any of said topics, please read no further.

Request: "Jax x Black reader where they’re married. Also, they’re been separated for a little while and Jax keeps letting his little girlfriends forget their place until she has to come set the record straight about who’s really the queen of Samcro."

Backstory: y/n and Jax met shortly after Abel was born, Wendy out of the picture, the two grew closer and closer. Abel looks at y/n as the mother figure in his life. About two years later, Jax and y/n got married, had their own son together, Cain. However, with the stress of the club and other various outside factors, the two decided to separate for a while. They’re still married, and still on good terms, mainly for the kids though. Jax, spends most his time at the clubhouse or Gemma’s, if not though he sleeps in the boys room or on the sofa.

"Okay" you say, your voice barely above a whisper. It feels like surrender, something the two of you, are not used to. Deep down though, you know its the right choice. Even if it breaks you.

Jax watches you, really looks at you, and for a moment his mask slips. You see it, you've been with him long enough to know what he's thinking. To know that the weight of this decision is pressing down on him just as much as it is on you.

"Okay" he echoes, but his voice is rough, like it physically hurts to say out loud.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to hold it together. "What are we gonna tell the boys?" Your voice is strong, but inside you're screaming.

He drums his fist against the counter, a restless, frustrated motion. "Nothin" he says, shaking his head. "For now, it wont be that different. They start to notice then...then we'll figure somethin' out"

Jax has always been a master at building up walls, pretending things never hurt when they did. And right now, you can see him doing just that.

Jax stood in the doorway of the house that he used to share with you and the boys. It had been a while since he'd been or stayed here.

At first, not much had changed, aside from no longer sharing the same bed. He'd crash in the boys room or try to get comfortable on the couch. But now, over 6 months later, things were different. The boy's had sleepovers with him at Gemma's or he spent his nights in the clubhouse dorm.

The decorations were simple, but perfect. Different tones of blue balloons, a little "Happy 3rd Birthday" banner and a table stacked with gifts.

Cain was in the middle of the room, his little face lighting up when he spotted his Dad. "Daddy!" he squealed running full force into Jax's legs. He scooped him up without thinking, pressing a kiss to his son's curls. "Happy Birthday little man".

Abel wasn't far behind, standing by the couch with his hands in his pockets, watching. He was quieter that Cain, more observant and Jax felt the weight of his son's stare.

Abel gave a small smile. "Hi Daddy" Jax sets Cain down as he takes Abel into his arms. "Hey buddy" he studies his older sons face "you doin' good?"

Abel was quiet, but he wasn’t blind. He noticed everything. Cain, still too young to pick up on it, but Abel wasn’t. He noticed the little changes, before they grew bigger. How Daddy started sleeping in their room instead of Mommy’s. How Daddy wasn’t there for dinner anymore, always coming home a little later. How Mommy never told Daddy she loved him, not like she used to. Then the bigger changes, Daddy started staying at Grandmas, at first just for a night, then two, until it turned into weeks, months.

Now, Daddy doesn’t come home at all.

You set a tray of snacks on the table, working alongside Gemma as she sets down the last of the food. As you step into the living room, that’s when you see him. Standing with the boys, his head tilted down as they talk. Their faces lit up with joy, clearly happy to have their dad back home, even if it is just for the day.

You hold your breath. It's been a minute since you've seen him face to face. The last few months have been nothing but texts and quick calls, strictly about the boys. Nothing else.

You keep your distance, arms crossed as you watch him. He's knelt between the two boys, listening as they take turns telling him one thing after another. You can tell he feels you standing there but he drags the conversation out, like he's bracing himself for whatever comes next.

"You're early" your voice comes out even. You weren't expecting him yet. The other guests haven't even arrived.

"Yeah" he exhales, stuffing his hands in his pockets as you both watch the boys running off over to Gemma. "Figured I'd get some time in with the boys before shit gets crazy" a smirk tugs at his lips, memories flashing behind his eyes. "You know how these parties go"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as flashes of Abel's last birthday party come rushing back. Kids screaming, juice stains on the carpet and Juice himself sprawled out on the couch, too drunk to even be embarrassed about getting that wasted at a kid's party.

Jax shifts on his feet. "Told some of the guys they could come by" he says, watching you carefully, like he's waiting for some form of pushback.

You shrug, nodding towards the kitchen where the bottles of liquor line the counter "Yeah, I was expecting them anyway" a smile creeps on your face "Thats for after the kids are gone though, yeah? maybe remind Juice of that this time"

He laughs, shaking his head "yeah, wish me luck"

"I gotta go get ready" you glance at the clock. "Can you watch the boys while Gemma finishes up in the kitchen?

Jax nods, with one of those blank expressions on his face. "Yeah, course, I got 'em"

You hesitate for a second, then nod. "Cool".

As you turn to walk to the bedroom, you feel his eyes on you. Like he wants to say something but stops himself. You don't give him the chance though, disappearing down the hall before anything heavier can come of it.

The party is in full swing now, the house buzzing with laughter and conversation. Abel and Cain sit together, admiring the pile of gifts, and its clear which one is his favorite. The monster truck collection and track that Jax had got for him. Cain hasn't let go of one of the trucks since he unwrapped it, his little hands gripping it tightly as he watching the other kids race around, weaving in and out of the adults.

The rooms packed with familiar faces. Your family, Jax's family, and of course some of the club. Voices are overlapping, there's stories being told over plates of food. Cooked by none other than your mama. But you being the one in charge, you barely have time to sit and enjoy it. You're too busy making sure everyone else is being catered for.

You step into the kitchen, pressing your back against the counter, fingers gripping the edge like its the only thing holding you up. Your head tilts back, eyes shutting for just a second. That's all you need, a second away from the chaos, the kids, and the forced smiles and conversations,

Little did you know, that peace was about to be shattered.

"Lookin' a bit stressed" his voice cuts through the moment, smooth and familiar.

Your eyes open, and when you turn your head, Jax is leant against the fridge, hands tucked in his pockets, watching you.

You force another smile. "Yeah, just needed a second. I'll be better once the kids go and its just us, then, I can have a drink"

Jax raises a brow "Us?"

You let out a small laugh "Yeah, you know, the ones who are left after the party dies down, the usual crowd" You smirk, referring to the club brothers who always stick around long after the party finishes. It's never bothered you though, if anything it was always your favourite part of hosting these sorta things.

Jax chuckles, nodding "Right... the ones who don't know when to leave".

You laugh with him, grabbing a cloth off the counter and wiping down a spot that doesn't need it. Anything to keep your hands busy, to stop from holding the eye contact too long.

The tension in the kitchen thickens for just a second as Jax steps further in, pushing off the fridge and gripping the back of one of the chairs with both hands. His rings clink softly against the wood, a familiar sound, one that used to mean he was home.

"You did good" he says, his voice low, like he means it more than he's letting on. His eyes flick to Abel, who's sat talking to Happy, and Cain, dramatically telling his little friend something that seems like the most important thing in the world. A ghost of a smile pulls at his lips before he looks back at you.

"Boys look happy" he continues, his voice quieter now. "haven't seen em smile like this for a while"

You exhale quick through your nose, giving yourself a moment before speaking. "Yeah, well... that probably has more to do with you being here" you pause, "you know, being at home"

The words land heavy between the two of you, he shifts gripping the chair a little tighter before letting his fingers loosen. "Been a while, huh?" he mutters

You don't say anything, just nod, lips pressing together.

Jax clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know you can call me, if you need anything" he speaks clear, like he's trying to make sure you really hear him "just cause we're...you know..." he stops, brows joining in the middle.

You tilt your head, making air quotes "separated?" you say, emphasising the word with a small trace of doubt.

A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth, as if he knows just as much as you, this separation most likely wont last much longer. "Yeah" he looks down before making eye contact again. "It don't mean you gotta do this all on your own. You ever need help with anything, you know I’ve got you?"

There's something so genuine in the way he says it, it catches you off guard. You nod, running your finger along the edge of your lips to smooth out your gloss. "I know" you add, this time offering a real smile, not one of those forced ones you’ve been giving all day.

For a second, and just a second, it feels as if nothing has changed.

And then, that peace we were talking about earlier?

This is when it fucks up.

Chibs steps into the kitchen, his presence breaking whatever was lingering in the air. You barely look at him before turning back around, about to repour his usual, but then, he takes a step closer to Jax, voice low for only him to hear.

"Lola's outside Jackie, she's askin' for ya" he sucks in a breath as he finishes the sentence.

Jax scoffs, clearly irritated "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me" he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, already storming towards the front door.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey bottle, the glass cool against your palm. Your attention panning over to Chibs now, waiting for an answer you know damn well he aint gonna give.

"Who did you say was here?" you ask, your voice edged with something sharp.

Chibs presses his lips together, baring his teeth in the slightest, like he's debating what to say. Like he already knows whatever comes next is gonna set you off.

"you gonna make me go out there and find out?"

Chibs exhales, darting his eye contact away from you "not my problem, lass"

Your nostrils flare as you set the bottle down, hard. The sound of the glass against the wood snapping through the tension. Then, you push past him. Your anger already misdirected, but he doesn't take it personally. He mutters something under his breath about not wanting to be in the middle of this shit, as he watches you follow Jax towards the front door. Jax stands in the doorway, his posture screaming irritation. hes holding his hands folded accross his chest like he's stopping himself from making a bad decision. But it's not him you focus on.

Its her.

Blonde, young and dressed like she stepped straight out of a Red Woody production. Tight mini skirt clinging to everything it possibly could. A fucking croweater.

Your lips part in disbelief "Who's this?" you say, pushing past Jax just enough to plant yourself in the conversation, making sure this little whore sees exactly who's house she decided to show up at.

He doesn't even look at you, his jaw clenches, hard enough to crack a fucking tooth. "No one" he grits out. His patience clearly already running thin.

The blonde's lips curl into a smile. Her eyes looking you up and down, noticing your expression, your stance and the way you squared up next to Jax without hesititation.

"So you must be the baby mama" she says, voice fake with sweetness, but its the way she says it that makes your fist curl at your sides. Like an insult.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

Jax says something under his breath, running a hand over his face like he already knows what's about to happen next. He moves uncomfortably, his eyes flicking between the ground, the blonde, and then finally to you.

And the second he does?

Yeah, he's fucked.

Jax hasn't seen you this mad in a long time, and judging by the way your hands are fidgeting like you're ready to swing, you're barely holding yourself back. You let out a slow, controlled breath, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose before lifting your head towards him.

"Jackson?"

His lower jaw swings side to side at the sound of you using his full name, he's about to open his mouth to speak.

"Nah" you lift a hand, cutting him off before he even gets a word out. "don't even try it"

He sighs, shaking his head "Look, I didn't-"

"I don't give a fuck" you snap, stepping forward so your right in his space "what I do care about is why the fuck she is standing at my door like she has any fucking right to be here".

The blonde scoffs, crossing her arms like she's got something to say, but you don't even look at her. She doesn't exist right now.

"I never asked her to come here-"

"Well she’s fuckin' here, so now what?"

Silence, he doesn't have an answer.

You finally turn back to her, dragging your gaze over her like she's nothing. Your head tilts, your finger gesturing between the two of them. Your voice sounding calm, too fucking calm.

"You’re fuckin’ her?"

Its not an accusation, its not even a real question. It's a statement that you're waiting to be confirmed.

Jax stiffens, his eyes showing something unreadable, but you know him enough to catch it.

And that's all you needed.

You press your lips together, nodding slowly as the rage ignites. Now ain't the time. Not with a house full of people. Not with Cain's birthday in full swing.

A hundred thoughts race through your mind. How the fuck did she even know where to come? and why the fuck was she comfortable enough to just roll up like it was nothing. Jax is already fucking somebody else? She just called you his baby mama?

She's real fucking lucky it's Cains birthday.

And so is Jax, cause if it wasn't? You woulda had them both by the throat.

You stand in the kitchen, twisting the cap off the bottle of whiskey. You don't pour much, just enough to take the edge off while keeping things under control with the kids still around. The burn settles in your chest as you lean against the counter, a humourless laugh leaving your mouth. Your eyes land on the cake, monster trucks, flames, absolutely perfect for Cain. You pull open the drawer, grabbing three leftover candles and pressing them in without hesitation. With a deep breath, you straighten up, push it all aside and step back into the mayhem, back to hosting, back to being a mom, as if the betrayal isn’t coursing through your veins. “Time for cake!” you call out across the living room.

The energy in the room has changed, even if it is only you and Jax who sense it. Normally, this is the part where you’d catch Jax’s eye, give him the silent cue that it’s time to do this together, but this time, you don’t even look at him.

Cain, Abel and the other kids come running over, eyes wide with excitement, their little hands gripping at the table as they bounce on their feet.

"You need help?"

You don’t look at him, you don't even pause.

"No." your response is sharp and final, crouching down beside Cain.

You pull the lighter from your pocket, flicking it once, and then twice until the tiny flames catch the candles. The warm glow flickering across his face, his grin pure and unfiltered, and for a brief second, it softens the rage simmering in your chest, because this is what really matters.

Cain, stands there with his eyes squeezed shut, his breath puffing out his candles, his whole world world still so simple, and that's just how you intend to keep it.

The house is finally quiet, the other kids gone, the laughter and high pitched screams just an echo in the walls. In its wake though, crumbled wrapping paper, half eaten slices of cake, and the sporadic stickiness of spilled juice on the lino floors.

You and Gemma both move throughout the rooms, picking up plates, tossing empty cups and trying restore some sense of order. Both the boys sprawled against the couch, completely exhausted. Cain is barely fighting it, his curls covering his face as his eyes struggle to stay open. And Abel, staring at the wheels spinning on his toy Harley. You stop cleaning for a moment, watching them. Despite everything, Cain had his birthday, his perfect little day alongside his big brother Abel, who also had fun, especially with Daddy being home.

You don't look at him, but you can feel him.

He's still here, standing a few feet away, lingering as the party transitions from cake and balloons to brothers and booze. He hasn't moved much since everyone left, beer bottle loose in his hand and his eyes have been on you the entire time.

You ignore him deliberately.

You turn to Gemma, brushing your hands against your thighs before nodding towards the mess still scattered around the living room. "You okay if I take the boys to bed?"

She waves you off with a smirk, already stacking the scattered plates "Go on, I got it"

Before you can move, Jax's voice cuts in.

"I'll take Abel"

You don't look at him, you don't acknowledge him. You just move.

He doesn't wait for your approval either, he steps past you scooping Abel into his arms as he nestles into his father's chest. You sigh softly and pick up Cain, his weight warm and heavy against you as he mumbles something sleepily into your shoulder.

The walk to their room is quite, the only sounds coming from the soft creak of the floorboards and the slow, steady breaths of your boys.

You set Cain down gently in his bed, fingers working as you change him into his pyjamas, his eyelids already dropping, but he's still awake enough to giggle when you pepper soft kisses to his little button nose, his cheeks and his forehead.

"Happy birthday baby boy" you smile, smoothing his unruly curls back before tucking him in, pulling the blankets up tight and snug.

Across the room, Jax is doing the same with Abel, his voice low and soft as he asks him about his day. The space between you is silent, thick with all the things that haven't been said. You move around each other, careful and calculated. Like strangers in a familiar place, working in sync but not together.

You switch places without a word. Jax leans over Cain, pressing a kiss to his head, murmuring something low that only his son can hear. Meanwhile, you crouch beside Abel, running a hand over his warm cheek before dropping a kiss to his forehead.

Abel grins, his voice sleepy "I'm happy Daddy’s here...today was the best day ever"

Your chest tightens a little, but you push past it, stroking his hair gently "That's all that matters baby"

Across the room, Cain reaches out for Jax's necklace, his tiny fingers curling around the bullet pendant as it swings towards him, turning it between his fingers. His eyes heavy with sleep but still fascinated. “Happy birthday little man... Daddy loves you”

You both move towards the door, the weight of it all pressing down on the space between you. Just as you reach for the handle, Abel's small voice breaks through the quite.

"Daddy are you staying at home now?" his words laced with hope, so innocent and pure.

Jax pauses, his eyes flicking towards yours.

Before she showed up, before he let today turn into this, maybe you would've said yes. Maybe you would've let him.

But now? no fucking way.

Your voice is steady, quiet but firm "Not tonight baby". Jax doesn't argue, doesn't try to fight it. He just drops his gaze to the floor, exhaling slow through his nose.

“But that’s what Cain wished for…” Abel’s small voice cuts through the heavy silence. “…he told me…” he hesitates, “… We both want Daddy to come home”.

The weight of his words settle deep in your chest, Jax’s too. You tilt your head back, blinking up at the ceiling. Doing everything in your power to hold it together. You hover for a second, "Sometimes wishes don’t come true straight away baby" and then, you flip the switch, the room now dark as you both walk out.

“That wasn’t fair” Jax says, his voice rough and blunt.

You shake your head. “Not fair? What, did you want me to lie? want me to sugarcoat it for them Jax? Should I have told them I was gonna ask you to stay anyway? right up until your pretty lil skank showed up at my door?”

The muscles in his Jaw become visible, but before he can even open his mouth, you’re already turning away, you can’t even face whatever excuse was about to roll off his tongue.

The second you step outside, the night air hits your skin. The walls of the house had started closing in, the sound of laughter and clinking bottles grating against your nerves, making it harder to keep your composure.

Your hands shake a little as you pull the joint from your purse, watching the flame catch and the tip glow. You hold the smoke in your lungs and let it sit there seeping into the cracks of your anger. Because no matter how much you try to push it aside, the image of that bitch standing in your doorway wont leave your head.

"Since when did you start smokin' again?" His voice is low, careful like he's testing the waters.

"Since when did you start fuckin' blonde pussy again?" you scoff, taking another drag.

Jax breathes sharply through his nose, already trying to keep himself in line. Instead of answering, he sinks next to you on the step, his forearms resting on his knees. Without asking, he takes the joint from your fingers, taking a long pull before letting the smoke drift out through his nose.

You don't stop him though, because you're waiting. Waiting for the bullshit, but when he doesn't say anything, you push.

"You gonna talk?" you ask, tilting your head "or you just gonna sit there and act like the lil whore you been fuckin’ didn't just show up at our sons birthday party?"

He exhales slow, the smoke rolling from his lips as he shakes his head "It ain't what you think"

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you snatch the joint back from his fingers. "Then what the fuck is it Jax?" You take another long drag, exhaling before rolling your eyes at him "You get too comfortable with her? start talkin' too much while she's got her mouth all over you? letting her know where your house is? where our sons fucking sleep?" your voice sharpens, the anger rising again "you that fuckin' sloppy? or you just don't give a shit?" Jax exhales hard, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The weight of his own fuck up settling heavy on his shoulders. He looks at you, his eyes dark and tired. "y/n, I..." he starts "...she must have overheard somethin' at the club. I don't know how she found her way here, but do you really think I'd invite her?"

A bitter laugh erupts from you "didn't think you'd be stickin' your dick in someone else so soon." you snap, your eyes cutting into him "guess I was wrong about that too, huh?"

His whole body tenses, he goes to speak but stops himself, shaking his head like he's trying to shake away the shit. You saw it though. That flicker of something in his face. It could have been guilt, it could have been regret, either way it doesn't change a damn thing.

He drags a hand down his face, rubbing his beard before muttering "I'm sorry y/n"

You push off the step, "Yeah" you say, voice emotionless "heard that before"

Jax watches you, watches the way your hands flex at your sides, how your shoulders rise and fall like you're trying to hold back the rage and the fucking disbelief at how careless he's been.

You turn towards the house, desperate to put some space between the two of you, before the lump in your throat can choke you whole. Your feet stop before you even realise. Because you're not done yet.

"Baby mama?" you screw your face up, like the words taste wrong in your mouth "That's all I am to you now?"

Jax freezes. You can tell he's already exhausted, but he gets up anyway stepping closer to you, his hands lifting, reaching for you. But of course, you step back.

"I don't know why she said that" he whispers, his voice gritted, looking at you deeply as he speaks "I've never called you that"

You huff out a short laugh, folding your arms across your chest "Then why did she say it?"

"I dont know y/n" he says again, stronger this time. You know when Jax is lying, and this isn't one of those times.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to let it show, refuse to let him see how deep its cutting. Because you're more than that, so much fucking more than that.

"If any more pussy you been fuckin’ comes to this house again..." your eyes lock onto his, your stare deathly "...I't wont be her I'm checkin"

He doesn't move, doesn't say a damn word. Because he knows you mean it.

The boys were at Gemma's for another sleepover, giving you a second, a chance to do something for yourself for once. No wiping sticky hands, no mediating arguments over toy cars, no little voices calling your name every five seconds. Just a quiet morning, one you intended to take full advantage of.

You start off with something simple. Getting your nails done, a small luxury but one that always made you feel a little more put together. French tip, almond shape. Your signature, the one thing you never switched up.

You weren't the chatty type when it came to self care appointments. Some people liked to gossip, spill their whole life story with the technician, but not you. You used the time to have some mental therapy. The chance to sit back and zone out while your mind did what it always did. Replay every single thing that had pissed you off during the week.

And unsurprisingly, Cain's party was right at the top of the list.

You managed to push it to the back of your mind for a while, but sitting here, staring at your hands as they shaped and polished your nails, it all came rushing back.

The audacity, the fucking nerve. The fact that no matter how you try to brush it off, its still fucking there.

Your fresh set, sharp and fucking clean rest against the steering wheel as you drive home. The day had been quiet so far, too quiet. Like the universe was just waiting to throw something in your path.

And then you see her.

Lola.

Hovering outside the clubhouse like a lost fucking puppy, pacing the lot, glancing at her phone, then back to the doors as if she was waiting for someone to let her in. Your grip on the wheel tightens, the coldness of your rings digging into your skin. You should keep driving, shouldn't even give her the time of day. But then, your gaze moves to the rear view mirror.

No Abel. No Cain. Just you, and her.

Without thinking twice, you swerve into the lot, the tires crunching against the gravel. She doesn't even notice, still caught up in whatever delusion was keeping her here.

She still doesn't notice as you walk up behind her, not knowing you were about to ruin her entire fucking day.

Not until, your hand fists the back of her hair, driving her forward, smashing her face against the rough brick wall of the clubhouse, her body jolting as she gasps in shock. She immediately starts to struggle, trying to push you off, but you shove her harder, using your weight to force her against it, letting the brick graze her cheek.

"Stay the fuck away from Jax..." you tell her, lips inches from her ear "...and don't you ever come to my fucking house again" she tenses beneath you, her hands pressing against the wall, trying to break free.

"Or what?" she spits, trying to sound brave but you can hear the shake in her voice "You're not even together anymore!"

You cant help but laugh, one of those bitter ones as you shake your head, getting closer to her now. "It's not about us not being together. This is about you, knowing your fucking place"

And that, made her still. The way your fingers curled tighter, pressing her harder against the wall, she understood how fucking serious you were.

You give her a second before releasing your grip, only to slam her face forward one more time, leaving pretty trails of crimson against her skin. You step back, admiring your still fresh nails, untouched by the mess they just endured.

A slow smirk, curling at your lips "Huh" you let out, as you flex your fingers in front of you.

"Jesus fucking christ" Chibs' voice cuts through the silence, you turn your head to see him and Juice standing near the garage, both of them watching the entire thing unfold.

Juice looks somewhere between impressed and terrified, his eyes wide as he runs a hand over his mohawk.

"Shit y/n..." he mutters, shaking his head "you're actually insane"

Chibs exhales, rubbing a hand down his face, but not in frustration, something familiar, maybe proudness. "You done now lass?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah" a grin forms on your lips, admiring your still immaculate nails "I guess I am"

Then, like clockwork, the deep familiar roar of Jax's Dyna tears through the lot.

Chibs sighs and Juice lets out a low whistle, stepping back like they wanted Jax to know they had no part in this.

He pulls in, the crunch under his tires breaking the tension. His sharp eyes sweep across the scene. His eyes lock onto yours, something dark beneath them. He already knows, he didn't even have to ask, but he did anyway.

"Someone wanna tell me what that fuck I've just walked into?" his voice sounds calm, but you could tell he was holding back.

You smirk, turning towards your car, you lean against the open door, tapping your fingers against the frame as your eyes lock onto Jax's.

"The boys are with Gemma..." you start, your voice light but somewhat dismissive. Then, with a slow flick of the wrist, you gesture towards Lola's wrecked form on slabs. "Don't take too long cleaning this shit up"

For a moment, there's nothing.

No words, no reaction, nothing.

And then you see it, so fucking small that you very nearly missed it.

The smallest quiver of his top lip, the way his mouth is parted open, with no words ready to come out yet. Like he's trying to fight a full smirk.

Then, the way his tongue slowly licks across his bottom lip.

That signature fucking look.

The one that always used to mean he wanted you. The one that, no matter what was going on. No matter how bad the fight, how deep the wounds were you would always end up fucked against something, breathless and completely undone.

You let your own smile spread across your face, just enough for him to see, just enough to make sure he knows you caught it. Then, almost mockingly you mirror his look. Running your own tongue against your lip before you slip into the car, driving off like nothing even happened.

Even though he knows he's fucked up, even though things are broken, seeing you handle business still makes him want you just as bad.

He doesn't say a word as your car disappears out of the lot, the engine fading into the distance. His jaw stays tight, shoulders squared and his hands restless. He inhales sharply, rolling his neck before turning towards the clubhouse.

Lola groans from the ground, blood smeared against her face.

Jax takes no notice at all. Doesn't check if she's okay, doesn't offer a hand, doesn't even fucking stop.

He just steps over her, like she wasn’t even there. His shoes scuffing against the gravel as he makes his way towards the door, Chibs and juice falling in line behind him.

"Is anyone gonna help her?" Juice says, looking over Lola.

Chibs snorts as he shoots Jax a look that says ‘This guy really thinks you’re about to play saviour to some wounded whore on the floor’

Jax meets Chibs’ look head on. A slow smirk creeping upon his face. His chin lifted slightly, but he doesn’t need to say a word, his expression says it all.

And just like that, the clubhouse door opens and swallows them whole. Leaving Lola exactly where she belongs.

Dismissed, completely fucking irrelevant and outside.

Photos & gifs do not belong to me. Just edited together (anyone peep the ‘Jackson’ tattoo hehe) 🖤

Thank you for reading! & thank you to anon who requested hope this works out well for you 🫶🏽

Keep the Jax requests coming! Starting to work through them again, whilst also brainstorming the new piece I can’t wait to fucking write.

Jax Teller Masterlist

xoxo secretly samcro

#jax teller #sons of anarchy #secretly samcro #jax x black reader #jax teller x reader #samcro #jax teller imagine #jax teller x black!reader #jax teller one shot #charlie hunnam #soa #jax x reader

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jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee.

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data.

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static.

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where?

The query returns a null set.

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response.

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow.

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement.

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five.

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels.

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?"

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies.

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup.

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion?

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?"

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."

You frown. "Source?"

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..."

His gaze flicks to your hands.

“...idle curiosity."

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.

"Noted."

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries.

All return access-denied.

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase.

"Such as?"

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2.

"And you?"

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.

You count their footsteps.

He counts your breaths.

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.”

His gaze lingers, searching for something.

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation.

Barrel diameter: 9mm.

Temperature: room.

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply.

Data input: threat detected.

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point.

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference.

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field.

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%

ANOMALY DETECTED

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag.

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest.

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"

"Statistical probability suggested—"

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."

"Without consent."

"Without options.”

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him.

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed.

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification.

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity.

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock.

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational.

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right.

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..."

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.

goal: 250 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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shinysobi · 25 days ago

Text

pretty u

summary: when joshua, your best friend gets engaged, you can't help but feel as though you're missing out on something important. jihoon, your other best friend, kindly offers to set you up with one of his many friends. chaos ensues, seungkwan is an observer who knows everything, and unfortunately, mingyu is a hapless victim.

pairing: woozi x fem! reader

genre: crack, fluff, angst

word count: 10k~ish

warnings: alcohol consumption, general warnings apply

a/n: yes so this is a reupload, bc guess who wanted to edit and instead ended up deleting the whole post? me, that's who. anyway, this is still my favorite chapter lol hehe

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

back to masterlist

Chapter 4

Its funny, how easy it is, to slip into habits. Old habits, ones that have seeped into your routine over time. I wake up, check my phone for emails. I make coffee, check my phone for emails. I get dressed for work, check my phone for emails. On weekends, I do chores leftover from the week, read books I have to write reviews of.

I would most certainly not be taking a nap in the middle of a Saturday with Lee Jihoon. I would not be lying down in my bed, lying next to, nay, cuddled up with, Lee Jihoon. If anyone had told me, even a few hours ago, that I would be snuggled up with Lee Jihoon, my best friend since university. Wait. Can we even call ourselves friends?

“Jihoon.” I whisper, elbowing him in the ribs. “Jihoon.”

“Mm, five more minutes,” he mutters, “I’ll get up then.”

“Hey, wasn’t your meeting with the producers this afternoon?” I ask, “you’ll be getting in a world of trouble because you didn’t show up.”

“I won’t be getting in any trouble.” Jihoon replies, voice thick with sleep, “I’m the terrible child of the company. They’ll keep me around as long as I make good songs for them, they’ll change meeting times when I ask them to. They’ll do anything as long as I’m happy.”

“You’re taking advantage of your position,” I smile, shifting closer to him, “anyone would think you have a horrible work ethic.”

“It’s all okay when it’s regarding my—wait, what are we?” Jihoon sits up in the bed, still half-dressed, “are we still friends?”

“Depends. Do you kiss your friends?” I sit up, facing him, “then we’re friends. Otherwise, we’re not.”

Jihoon pulls a face, “I just imagined kissing one of the boys. Ew, no, never.”

“Then I suppose we aren’t friends anymore.” I smile, leaning in, “we’re something else, then.”

“Can I call you my girlfriend yet, or no?”

I laugh. From this angle, his face is soft, so soft it feels as though he’ll evaporate if I try to touch him, “depends. Do you kiss your girlfriends?”

Jihoon grins, pressing his lips to mine, “all the time.”

“M-hmm,” I smile, touching his cheeks, soft and pliable underneath my fingers, “Woozi, aren’t you being a little presumptuous? All the time? What do you mean all the time?”

He pulls a face, “I swear to god, if you start some bullshit again, I’m going to break up with you.”

“And we’ve been together for what, three hours? That has got to be a new record, even for you, Jihoon.” I say, laughing as Jihoon tackles me to the pillows, “not to mention you’ve been pining over me for the past what—six, years, since you went for your military service. Imagine liking someone for that long, and not telling anyone about it.”

“At least I had the decency to keep it to myself like a normal adult,” Jihoon replies, “you on the other hand, you were a wreck after a week. Imagine being that down bad over a man. You should be repulsed by yourself. What would Andrea Dworkin say?”

“And that’s it, we’ve had a good run, bye,” I begin, trying to get out of bed, but Jihoon stops me, “let me go. You said yourself that I should be repulsed because I like you.”

“Three hours and five minutes,” Jihoon replies, “not bad at all, given that two of them were spent sleeping.”

“Really, who the fuck sleeps after getting together with someone? It’s like, violating the first ethics of relationships,” I grumble, “imagine kissing your best friend, who’s now your boyfriend, who then proceeds to take a nap in your bed? Who would do that?”

“Were you disappointed?” Jihoon asks, his expression changing to sly, “were you expecting something else?”

I roll my eyes, struggling to get out of his grip, but unfortunately, all the hours Jihoon has put in the gym has now created a reality where I can no longer get out of his grip, “no, I wasn’t, I was just expecting you to not snore on me after kissing me in my living room.”

His face falls, and he is about to say something, when my phone rings loudly, making me jump, “what the hell? Why is your ringtone so loud?”

“It’s not!” I reply, “I just forgot to switch it back to silent after coming back home today. I had it set on full volume last night. And give that to me.” I swipe to accept the call, and soon enough, Jeonghan’s voice floats through the speakers.

“How are you two doing?” Jeonghan asks, and I stare at Jihoon, who seems to be equally confused as me.

“Jihoon said he was going to meet you, I figured that you two might have finally gotten your shits together,” he clarifies, “I’m not that old, nor do I have enough sense to stay out of your affairs.”

“Yes, yes, hyung, you’re the nosiest of us all,” Jihoon grumbles from next to me, “yes, we’re doing fine, thank you very much.”

“Great!” I can hear the barely-concealed glee in his voice, “Chan, tell the rest of the guys to pay up. I’m the only one who guessed correctly that they were going to get together by today.”

“Pay up—wait, hyung, you were betting on my love life?” Jihoon screeches, “why the hell would you do that?”

“I’ve seen and heard you pine over her for the past eight years, you nitwit, of course, I’m going to host a betting pool for when you finally get together. Not to mention, you’ve just made me an entirely obscene amount of money, which I’m going to spend happily.”

“Wait, if you knew Jihoon was going to come to see me, why did you take so long to call us?”

“I was being polite.”

“For what?”

“Well, if you two were having sex, I would not like to be calling in the middle of it now, would I?” he giggles even as Jihoon and I both let out twin gasps of surprise, “What? Did you not put years of sexual tension into use?”

“That’s inappropriate, hyung.”

“So, you haven’t.”

“Oppa!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop.” Jeonghan lets out one final demonic cackle (still cannot believe I called him my angel once), “I’ll let you two lovebirds be together. Oh, and Soonyoung told me to tell you, Jihoon, that he’ll take care of the meeting today. You can take a day off once in a while.”

“Thanks, hyung, I’ll go back to sleeping,” Jihoon mutters, handing the phone over to me and immediately burrowing himself in the sheets to get some more sleep.

“I’ll make myself scarce then, shall I?”

“Wait, oppa,” I say, thinking very hard, “you did this on purpose didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I mean the whole situation. You were the one who kept telling me about how long Jihoon has liked me for, and you were the one who I called before Jihoon took the phone away from you and talked to me.” My voice takes on an accusatory note, “Yoon Jeonghan, did you manipulate me and Jihoon into confessing so that you could win a bet?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that accusation.”

“So, you did.” I stand up from the bed, ignoring Jihoon, who’s already snoring softly, “Yoon Jeonghan, you better give us a share of the pool.”

Jeonghan laughs on the other end of the phone, “fine, fine, I will. I’ll take you and Jihoon out for samgyeopsal this week. Cool?”

“Just so you know, while we both will be there, I still don’t appreciate this.”

“Come on, writer,” Jeonghan wheedles, “anyone could see that you were both circling each other for half a decade. It was exhausting to watch, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too!” he hangs up, and I go back to bed, sidling up to Jihoon, who hugs me in his sleep. Its nice, being this way. I can pretend that the world is just the two of us, in my bed, sleeping in the afternoon.

Jihoon doesn’t look lonely anymore. In fact, he looks happy, smiling even in his sleep. When was the last time I saw him like that? A memory floats up to my mind, of another afternoon, spent in Jihoon’s flat, after we’d all finished giving the final exams. Jihoon had a job lined up with a production company, and I was about to start working with an online fashion magazine. Joshua was in graduate school, and everything was fine. We spent that one afternoon watching trashy soap operas on Netflix, drank too much booze and smoked too many cigarettes, and finally, just before we went to sleep, I could swear I saw a ghost of a smile on Jihoon’s face.

Until a week later, when his enlistment notice came, and I never saw that smile again. But now it is there, and I can reach out and touch him, and I can see his face relax even more under my touch, as if Jihoon had been craving it, even in his denial. I probably have, even after so long. Years of wondering ‘what if’ and now, finally, it’s here.

“Jihoon,” I whisper, “Jihoon.”

“What?” he burrows further into the blankets, “I’m cold now.”

“Jeonghan kind of manipulated us both into getting together.”

“He did?” Jihoon mumbles, “good for him, I now have a girlfriend.”

—

Jihoon wakes up in the middle of the evening, and shakes me awake too, because he’s hungry and I have to cook for him.

“I’m the one who told you about this apartment, so you kind of owe me,” he says, perched on a stool, “and no ramen, please. I’ve been living on that for so long I know all flavours that are there, and the convenience store guy looks at me strangely whenever I go inside.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I mutter, chopping up vegetables to put in a stew, “I don’t have anything in the house, so you’re going to have to be happy with a random stew of things I found lying in the fridge.”

“That’s fine.” He replies, “at least I don’t have to starve.”

“Yes, Mr Woozi, I appreciate the concern, now wash the rice.”

Lunch (dinner? Linner?) is kimchi stew, with old vegetables and things that were almost going bad, but he eats it like it’s a Michelin-starred restaurant meal. Jihoon is not really picky: I’ve seen him eat everything from day-old scraps to a croissant that was growing mould on it (the less said about that the better) but us eating in my kitchen, this feels strangely domestic to me, in a way that’s almost scary.

“Are you scared?” Jihoon asks, spooning up rice into his mouth, “don’t worry, I’m scared too.”

I stare at him, “have you become psychic, by any chance? Do you want to change your profession to shaman?”

“I’d be a shitty shaman either way,” he replies, “the only person I know how to read well is you. You have that look on your face, so I asked.”

“What look?”

“The look that you get when you’re terrified of something, but you also want to do it.”

“I don’t have a look.”

Jihoon stares at me, “You totally do, I know it; it’s the same look you got when you attempted to take that class on Psychoanalysis in second year.”

“I sucked at it.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, you were terrified, but you also wanted to do it, I know that look. You might think you’re fooling people, and you can, but the last person you can fool is me; Joshua, to an extent, but I doubt he’s made a hobby of reading your every expression over a period of eight years.”

I make a face. Jihoon notices, because of course he does, “that’s the face you make when you don’t like what the other person is saying, but you know that they’re right.”

“That’s unfair, Jihoon.”

“Is it? I’ve known you for so long, of course I should know about your expressions.” He smiles, before leaning over to kiss me on the cheek, “that’s the expression you make when your surprised.”

“Then don’t fucking surprise me!” I press a hand to my cheek, “what was the reason for that?”

“Nothing, just making sure I didn’t dream up the last few hours, and that I can really kiss you whenever I feel like it.”

“I have to want it too, you know. Also, when did you get so keen on physical affection? I’ve literally never seen you be this way with anyone before.’

He shrugs, “I wasn’t pining over those people for years, so that’s there, too.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I just laugh at his words, “Jihoon, aren’t you being a bit hard on them?”

“On who?”

“The women you’ve dated. The people I’ve dated. Like it or not, they are a part of us. They’ve made us into the kind of people we are today.” I take a sip of the soup, “would you have asked me out if we were in university? Or after you came back from the military?”

He pauses to think about it, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of kimchi, “probably not.”

“And even if you did, we would have hated each other, and broken up in a week. So, let’s not talk about the people who have given a part of their lives to us.”

Jihoon nods, “understood. Does this mean you’re going to invite your exes to your wedding?”

I laugh, “not to that extent, no, but I will respect them for their time and affection that they gave to me because for better or for worse, they were a part of who I was, before I fell in love with you.”

“Fell in love?” Jihoon gasps, “are you saying you’re in love with me?”

“As if this was even part of the question. Of course I’m in love with you.” I take a deep breath, standing up to clear out the remnants of dinner, “I don’t know how to say this properly but, I’ve loved you all throughout the time I’ve known you. As a friend, as a lover, as my family here in Seoul. I’ve loved you all the time. At the risk of sounding cringe, there has not been a time when I haven’t been full of love for you. Even if it didn’t seem that way, I’ve loved you for years.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything, instead wraps me into a hug, “have you been taking lessons on how to deliver a speech?”

“Why, yes, I have.”

He giggles, which is a rare sound coming from him, “I’ve always loved you too. Even if I didn’t show it, even if I didn’t express it well, I have loved you.”

I kiss him, “sorry for taking all this time to realise my feelings.”

He shakes his head, “no, don’t be sorry for that. The way you are, the way you will be, I’ll always love you.”

—

I text Eunseo in the evening, asking her to meet me for coffee. Joshua and Jihoon are both too busy for brunch, so I have some time to burn. Eunseo texts me back within minutes, eagerly agreeing to meet me. I text her the name of the same café the three of us go to for brunch.

“You look great,” Eunseo says as soon as I walk in, “did something great happen?”

I stare at her. She’s dressed to go out this morning, wearing a light green dress under a heavy brown coat. In comparison, I’m wearing my office pants and a white shirt. We’re dressed miles apart. Saying that I look good is almost an insult.

But Eunseo doesn’t insult anyone, even knowingly, so I take my seat and say, “you’re joking.”

“No, not at all,” she replies, “you’ve got this glow that I cannot really put my finger on. It seems as though something great happened in the past few days.”

“Well, I did begin seeing Jihoon, so,” I shrug, but Eunseo is already clapping her hands in joy, “what? What’s going on?”

“Wait, I have to tell Joshua to come meet us,” she chirps, “I’m not saying anything until he comes back, but I’m so happy for you, you have no idea.”

Joshua, who was looking at suits in the morning, comes to the café within minutes, by which we already have ordered a bunch of things. He comes in looking harried, and the first thing he says, “I thought this was an emergency! You texted me she was dying!”

Eunseo laughs, “that was the only way to get your attention, josh, I’m so sorry.” Her expression shows that she isn’t sorry at all.

“No, you’re not,” Joshua sits down on the chairs, “you’re not sorry at all, Eunseo.”

They share a sweet moment, and normally, I’d pull a face and call them cringe, but today, I just don’t feel like it. maybe it’s the hormones of being in a relationship, or maybe I’m finally growing soft around the edges, but I think, what would happen if I text Jihoon to come see us right now? He’d probably scowl and refuse, but I can’t help but imagine the two of us in place of Joshua and Eunseo, sharing a nice moment. This is it; I think to myself, this is the moment you realise you’ve gone entirely crazy because of a man.

“Anyway,” I say loudly, interrupting the two of them, “Eunseo called you here because I have an announcement.”

Joshua stares at the two of us, “is she dying?”

“No! What the fuck, Joshua, I’m not dying!” I say, irritated by this line of conversation, “as I was telling Eunseo, I’m not dying, I just began seeing Jihoon.”

“But you can see him all the time,” Joshua says, still clueless as ever.

“Romantically. Joshua, romantically. We’re dating.” I say, rolling my eyes.

Joshua stares at me, speechless for a whole ten seconds, before he starts laughing, “finally. Cannot believe I had to endure all those years of Jihoon pining over you and you dancing around him because you wanted to avoid your own feelings.” He turns to Eunseo, who looks equal parts disgusted and horrified, “they are probably two of the most obvious people in existence.”

I narrow my eyes, “you both knew about this? And no one told me?”

To her credit, Eunseo looks apologetic, “I just didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge that we all were aware of the dynamics between you and Jihoon; you seemed like you were still figuring it out, and Jihoon didn’t seem like he wanted anyone else to know. But he’s right, you know. You two were seriously the most obvious people in the world.”

I want the earth to split up and swallow me whole, right at this moment. What do you mean we were the most obvious people in the whole world? “What do you mean we were the most obvious people in the whole world?” I wasn’t even aware that Jihoon had feelings for me until a few months ago! “I wasn’t even aware of my own feelings until very recently.”

Before Eunseo can reply to my statement, her phone rings, and she makes a face before picking it up, saying, “it’s the realtor. He is supposed to meet us later in the week.”

Joshua pulls an identical face, and not for the first time since they started dating, I wonder why it is that all couples start to look alike after a few years of being together. However, for the first time, I also wonder how Jihoon and I would look like after a few years together. Would we be annoying, like Joshua and Eunseo? Or would we be one of those couples who always fought and broke up and patched up, all within the span of a week, like those people in university? But that would mean I’d have to spend enough time with Jihoon, becoming one of those couples.

“You’re putting on your thinking face,” Joshua says, bringing me out of my reverie, “it’s the expression you make whenever you’re imagining something.”

“I don’t do that,” I defend reflexively, but I know he’s true, simply because this is not the first time someone has told me about my ‘thinking face’. It is, however, the first time that someone has called me out when I was thinking about Jihoon. “What were you saying?”

“Eunseo just left to take the call from the realtor,” Joshua smiles, “I must say, I saw this coming from a mile away.”

I scowl, “what do you mean you saw this coming from a mile away? I’m not someone who’s that predictable, am I?”

“Well, it is true. You are kind of predictable,” Joshua shrugs, “you’ve been wearing the same clothes since university, you eat the same ten dishes all the time, and you even like the same kind of side dishes. You’re very predictable.”

I sigh, “yes, fine, I’m predictable. Still doesn’t mean you saw this coming from a mile away.”

“Have you seen the way you and Jihoon behave around each other? No matter how much you say that you can’t stand the sight of the other person, Jihoon cares about you the most. He drops everything at a moment’s notice to come to your aid. You do the same thing too, it’s just that you aren’t as forthcoming about it as him.”

“Was that why you were behaving weirdly on that night?”

“What night?” Joshua seems to have entirely forgotten that one Sunday, except it is ingrained into my mind like its just yesterday, “I don’t remember anything.”

“The night that you proposed to Eunseo,” I say, trying my best to not sound frustrated, “when Jihoon told you he was helping me hook up with people, you reacted really strangely.”

“Oh, yes, I did,” Joshua looks sheepish, “I shouldn’t have overreacted like that, but it was very confusing for me.”

“Confusing?”

“Imagine one of your closest friends, who has been pining over another one of your closest friends, telling you that he is helping the girl he has had a crush on for the past six years, in getting her a boyfriend. How would you feel about that?”

“Um, well,” I pause on it, “I’d think my friend was stupid.”

“That’s it!” Joshua yells, “see how it was confusing for me? all throughout university I thought Jihoon had a crush on you, but all of a sudden, after years as your friend, he’s trying to set you up with other men? I thought he was being an idiot.”

“Well, I told him he shouldn’t be doing that,” I grumble, “he didn’t even listen to me and went and blabbed to you about how he was going to set me up with one of the boys.”

“You were the one who made that comment about Mingyu,” Joshua accuses, “I’d better not see you make any excuses for yourself. And what does ‘platonically motorboat’ even mean?”

“It means you would like to motorboat someone, but platonically, not romantically,” Eunseo says, walking into the café, “babe, the realtor wants to see us today, if we can.”

“Really? He wants to meet us today? After changing the date so many times?” Joshua groans, “never mind. We should be glad he’s meeting us poor people, who just want to buy a newlywed home.”

“You should be glad he’s meeting you at all,” I say, gesturing for the check, “if I ever saw a credit score as bad as yours’, I’d refuse to give you any credit, let alone show you houses.”

Both of them pull identical scowls, “yes, yes, showing off your excellent credit, go on,” Joshua says, “I just know you bragged all about it to Jihoon already.”

“You’re not wrong,” I reply, grinning, “but Jihoon said I should brag to others too, so I’m bragging to you.”

“Never mind her babe,” Eunseo puts her hands over Joshua’s ears, “she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

The three of us walk out into the early winter morning, shivering in the cold. Joshua and Eunseo promptly set off in a taxi to go meet their realtor, while I make my way to my apartment, suppressing my urge to text Jihoon about his work. I’ve been endlessly curious about his process ever since university, but the only times he’s allowed me into the studio I’ve either fallen asleep within ten minutes of being there, or we had conversations about things that were not related to his music production. On the other hand, if I text him right now, badgering him about his work, I will seem like either a. an insane, clingy girlfriend, or b. a stupid, clingy girlfriend. In both cases, Jihoon is going to get sick of me so fast, he’s going to break a record with how fast he’s going to dump me.

In university, I was part of the journalism club, and on the first group outing, one of the seniors, drunk off of one too many soju cocktails, had taken the first-years aside and talked about how one should behave when in a relationship. “Now listen,” she had said, “never, I repeat, never, let him know that you’re into him, especially in the first few months of dating. The less he knows about your real feelings, the better.”

“But sunbae,” one of my freshman year-mates had raised her hand, “what happens if your boyfriend gets to know how much you like him in the first few months of the relationship?”

The senior had sighed, before saying, “you’ve got to understand why men like women. They don’t like the person we actually are; they like the chase. They like the person we pretend to be when we start dating them for the first time. Therefore, unless you’re absolutely sure that this is a man you want to keep around for a long time, you must not let your real self show around him.”

We had all nodded, as if we understood what she was talking about, and I had spent the last few years of my life earnestly following this rule. Never allowing my real self to be shown around the people I have dated. But now I’m dating Jihoon, who has been around for all of the embarrassing chapters of my life. How do I navigate this new change in dynamic?

My phone pings, and I look down, expecting a text from Joshua or Eunseo, talking about their wedding, but instead of the two of them, its Jihoon.

hoon: did you tell joshuji?

hoon: he just texted me btw

hoon: he also says that we have both been huge idiots

I pause in the middle of the road in my surprise, and narrowly miss hitting a pedestrian. I always knew Joshua was a snitch, but telling Jihoon not even ten minutes after I’ve left? That’s just low.

big dick (canon): cannot believe Joshua snitched

big dick (canon): actually no, I do believe it

big dick (canon): he and Eunseo ditched me after brunch so I’m now being forced to go back to my home

big dick (canon): my home that I love and adore

big dick (canon): but still, I don’t really want to hang out in my apartment all by myself

big dick (canon): it’s so boring

big dick (canon): I’m going to kms

hoon: you know, one of the many, many perks of having me as your boyfriend is

hoon: that you can come hang out in the studio with me all the time

hoon: and I won’t even get angry with you, unlike how I get with others

hoon: because I love you, and this is a perk I provide to my loved ones ONLY

big dick (canon): you have canonically told all twelve of your friends to fuck off from the studio, at least once in your lifetime

big dick (canon): and I’m not even including all the times you have told me no for an interview

big dick (canon): if I count all those times, its going to go to a hundred, EASILY

big dick (canon): and you’re telling me to come hang out with you

big dick (canon): this is HIGHLY sus

hoon: just come to the studio my god you’re so dramatic

hoon: don’t take this as a sign to stop being dramatic, I actually like it when you do that

hoon: if you tell this to anyone else, I’m going to deny it and kill you

big dick (canon): you won’t do that you like me too much

big dick (canon): anyway, should I bring something for you to eat

hoon: have I ever told you that I love u

big dick (canon): yes, u have

big dick (canon): multiple times, in fact

hoon: ugh so dramatic

big dick (canon): I won’t get you anything, then

hoon: get me some fried chicken

big dick (canon): I’m having it delivered to your studio. I’m coming in ten

By the time I enter Jihoon’s studio, the chicken has been delivered, and I open the door to see Jihoon munching on a drumstick. Unlike other days, the studio is messy, and he looks like he’s been through hell. Which, if you take Jihoon’s word for it, is not much, just three meetings.

“Shouldn’t you leave one drumstick for me?” I ask, shrugging my winter coat off, “fuck, its cold as hell outside.”

“Needed brain food,” Jihoon replies through a mouthful of chicken, “had a meeting in the morning, the sound engineers needed some changes to be done to Hoshi’s title track.”

“Sounds like shit,” I mutter, picking up a piece, “you’ve been working on that since the morning?”

“Not just that, but the girl group song too,” he replies, “they liked the first song so much that they want another song from me. I’ve been looking through the scratch files on my computer to find out what songs I can give to them that aren’t emo ballads I made after one too many drinks.”

“You know, some of us just vomit after getting wasted. Are you trying to brag to me that you become more creative when drunk?”

“I’m not bragging, some of these are actually atrocious,” he says, pointing to the icons on the screen, “this one is just called ‘I’m never going to be alive’. What does that mean? Why was I thinking about this at three in the morning?”

“Entertaining suicidal thoughts at three in the morning is something we’ve all done, actually.”

“This is just called ‘Love hurts’, and this one, I named it ‘Park PD is a bitch’.”

“I’ll go tell him you said that.” I laugh when Jihoon’s face darkens, “okay, okay, fine, I won’t, but why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t hate him at all. he was probably getting on my nerves at that moment, and instead of talking it out like real adults, I chose to instead make a song draft calling him a bitch.”

I look closely at the computer screen, “Wait, Jihoon. All of these songs are love songs. To an extent. How many love songs have you written over the years?”

He takes a minute to answer that, “since university, I’ve either created existential songs or love songs, so, I’d say, about a hundred? Give or take, but I won’t put a number on it, since I’m not really sure.”

“You wrote about a hundred love songs?”

“Yes, I did, and they’re all in here,” Jihoon pats the external hard drive hooked up to the computer, “this holds pretty much all of my work.”

“Makes sense as to why you would guard it with your life.” I reply.

I go to sit back down, putting my feet up on the sofa, and Jihoon gives me a dirty look. I just smile in reply. He’s always a stickler for these kind of rules, but it’s funny to see him be so rattled. I’m not going to lie and say that seeing him be irritated is funny, because it is. An angry Jihoon is a cute Jihoon, I’ve learnt that back in university. Especially when he pouts like that.

“You still wear minion socks?” Jihoon says, stuffing his mouth with chicken, “I gave you that as a gag gift last year, you should have thrown them out as soon as you got them.”

“I like the socks. They’re comfortable.” I reply, shrugging, “who gave you the idea to give me socks as a gag gift?”

“Soonyoung. He thought it would be funny to give you cartoon socks.”

“Joke’s on him, I like having my feet warm.”

After Jihoon and I finish the chicken and clean up in record time, he goes back to his workstation, and I’m free to observe him as much as I want to. Seeing Jihoon in his element is always an experience. Even in university, I used to observe him when he worked. He has a singular focus on whatever he does, from eating to producing music. I’m also not going to lie to myself and say that he isn’t attractive when he works, because somehow his attractiveness gets turned up a hundred notches when he’s working. Or maybe, I like him too much and I find everything about him attractive. His eyes are laser-focused on his work, and the lines of his neck, disappearing into his shirt, is at odds with the Jihoon in my bed yesterday, peacefully sleeping as he held me for warmth. Before last night, I never knew that Lee Jihoon was someone who got cold even underneath a comforter, and liked holding someone else for warmth.

“You’re staring,” Jihoon says, breaking my line of thought, “I’ve been talking to you for the past ten seconds and you’ve been staring into space.”

“I was just looking at my handsome boyfriend as he works. Is that not allowed?”

“Stop saying that.” He mutters, going back to his work, but I can see him turning red. Jackpot.

“Jihoon.”

“Hm?”

“Are you blushing right now?”

He turns around to give me an impressive glare, “no, I’m not.”

“The back of your neck is red.” I grin, “were you getting shy?”

“No, I wasn’t.” he lies, his ears going red. At this rate, he might burst into fumes.

“Your ears say otherwise, Jihoon,” I stand up, walking over to his chair, “your ears and your neck is red. You’re getting shy, aren’t you?”

“What! No, I’m not—” he pauses for a moment, turning away from me, before grabbing me by the waist, “stop teasing.”

“I won’t,” I giggle, taking the opportunity to climb into his lap, “see! You’re going all red.”

His face is still turned away from me, but I can see the blush on his cheeks, “are you going to continue to lie to me, Jihoon?”

He pauses, before huffing, “you’re gonna regret teasing me, you know.”

“Pretty sure I won’t—aah!”

Unfortunately, my plan had but one singular flaw in it. I had underestimated how much he worked out on a weekly basis. Jihoon just glares at me, before picking me up and walks over to the sofa, my legs dangling around his waist. Seriously, how much does this guy work out?

“Really? I was working, and in the zone, and you had to tease me like that?” he grumbles, before unceremoniously dumping me on the sofa, “I shouldn’t have invited you over. Let me go back to work.”

“But you did,” I grin, my hands around his neck, “you invited me over. Lured me in, I’ should say. You lured me in, and now you should pay the price.”

Jihoon groans, before smiling, “is this how it’s going to be all the time?”

“Mm, I’m afraid so.”

Lying down on the sofa, I can see the lights on the ceiling, bright white, ones that Jihoon claimed helped him with his workflow. I hated them in the beginning, claimed that they hurt my eyes, but over time, I grew used to them, to the point where I can’t imagine there being anything else. Bright white lights. A comfortable sofa. Jihoon’s face obscuring my vision, so close that I can make out every individual eyelash. His mouth, full and open, insistent against mine. Jihoon kisses like he wants to do nothing else, I’ve realised. As though this was what he wanted to do all along. Anything is okay. I’m not afraid of falling, if it’s Jihoon. which is why I find myself doing strange things. Like allowing him to touch me, even if it’s in the middle of day, in a room where anyone might come in; like allowing him to undress me, even if I’m underneath harsh white lights. Because its him, because its Jihoon. I can touch him in return, slip my hands underneath the shirt he’s wearing, because I can press my mouth just as insistently against him as him.

“So, this is how it’s going to be, is it?” he says, unbuttoning my shirt, “wait. You’re not wearing a bra?”

I roll my eyes. Of all the things he can talk about, this is what he chooses to focus on? “No, Jihoon, its winter. I’m wearing three layers over this. Of course I don’t want to wear a bra. It’s too much work.”

“I wish it was winter forever,” he replies, continuing to unbutton my shirt, “good god, if this is the outcome, I wish it was winter all throughout the year.”

“The economy is gonna hate you.” I mumble against his mouth, “imagine a whole year of winter. The economy is gonna go haywire. And all because you’re horny.”

“It’s a proof of how much I’m attracted to you, that I’m still working on your shirt after you just started talking about the economy,” Jihoon finally manages to slip off the shirt I’m wearing, “total buzzkill.”

I scowl, yanking his shirt over his head in one go, “sorry I’m such a buzzkill, then.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Jihoon kisses my cheek, “you’re so beautiful. Have I told you that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Remind me to tell you this every day, then.” His hands are soft on my hair, stroking, “you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.”

“Even compared to Jeonghan?”

“Even compared to Jeonghan.” He repeats, “why do you have to bring him up now?”

“Just like that.” I smile, kissing him softly, “so, you like this?’

“Is this how it’s going to be now? For the foreseeable future?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Thank god,” Jihoon murmurs, his hands on the button closure of my trousers, “I can’t wait for the future, then.”

—

Being in this industry means you have to meet with a lot of people. When I say a lot of people, I do mean a lot of people. I’ve managed to keep my connections alive, but it has not been easy getting to this place. Not the least for someone like me, who had no one in the industry to rely on. In the beginning, when I was working at the fashion magazine, everywhere I went I would be marked as an outsider, and it was surprising how easily doors could get closed. I’ve always been resentful of those times, but now, now it feels like a moment in time that never called its name out for me, and I cannot bring myself to care.

These are the thoughts that I usually have in the mornings. But now, things have changed.

For one, Jihoon is sleeping next to me, his hands holding me close. Its strange, looking at him like this, peaceful instead of a permanent frown etched into his brow, a small smile on his face instead of the scowl that seems to have carved out its own position on his face.

Nowadays, I wake up before Jihoon does, and on most days, I spend some time looking at his face. He was always beautiful, but now, now he looks ethereal. It takes all my self-control to not run from this, because how can someone like me be happy? What right do I have to happiness?

“You’re thinking too much again,” Jihoon says, shaking my train of thought loose, “I can practically hear your gears turning.”

“Morning,” I reply, hoping it sounds smooth and easy and not like I’ve been consumed with depressing thoughts.

Jihoon hums, pulling me in closer, “you always think too much. Its time you stopped thinking so fast.”

“Hm? Do you have a way of doing that?”

That gets his attention, and he opens his eyes. Still sleepy, but fully awake. “You want me to do something about your overthinking?”

“Yes.”

“Hm, I have a thought on how you can change that.”

“And what is that?”

He says nothing, merely pulls me closer.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Jihoon asks, after we’re both finished, lying in a haze of our own happiness, oblivious to the world around us, “if I haven’t, consider it an oversight I wish to rectify. As much time as it takes.”

“Are you—proposing to me right now?” I ask.

“Well, it’s not really a proposal yet, but I am going to. And it’s going to be with flowers and a grand gesture that you really can’t turn down.”

“Never took you for a romanticist, Lee Jihoon.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of dating me.”

—

Mr Hong is an impressive writer, which is perhaps why I have always been a little jealous of him and his work. It’s also not at all strange as to why he only agrees to interviews with me, given his prickly demeanour, which has not really improved in the years that I have managed to work with him.

But even with all my misgivings, work is work, and I make my way to the office to pick up my files for the interview, and Seungkwan offers me a warm latte, insisting that I should carry it into the interview. The drink is still warm in my hands, and I stare at him. he just shrugs, “what, you should take it to him, it’ll look nice if we bring him something to drink in an interview.”

“Seungkwan,” I say, trying my best not to laugh, “have you read all of Mr Hong’s interviews with me?”

“Yes, I have, why?”

“Then you should also know that he only drinks tea from a specific tea garden in India, right?”

Seungkwan stares back. “He’s that much of a tea snob?”

“He earns ten billion per year in book sales, he can afford to be a tea snob. He imports the tea himself. He doesn’t drink coffee, and he would also hate it if I offered him a drink. It makes him feel like he’s not being a good host to me.”

“She’s like a criminal profiler when it comes to him,” the Editor hands Seungkwan a file, “managed to get all this information from the one single television segment filmed at his house.”

“Kind of forced to, since there was no prior information on him,” I mutter, but Seungkwan’s eyes widen, and he grabs my hands, eyes shining, “what the hell are you doing? You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“You’re so cool, sunbae,” Seungkwan says, almost giggling from his excitement, “can’t believe you exist.”

“Seems like her boyfriend cannot believe she exists either,” The Assistant Editor sets down a cup of coffee at my desk, “cute guy. Handed me the coffee and said I should give it to the Associate Editor.”

“Jihoon said that?” I ask, picking up the warm cup. It’s an iced café mocha, sugary enough for Seungkwan to cringe when he takes a taste of it. “Jihoon doesn’t really refer to me by my title.”

“He always does with us, though,” Seungkwan says, “in fact, he’s been quite besotted with you since your university days.”

“University? It took them that long?” Haewon tuts, “really, sunbae, you should have just gotten together by now.”

“He should be doing that more, if you ask me,” the Assistant Editor smiles, “how does it feel to be the author of one of the most popular columns in the newspaper? There are a couple thousand hits on it every day, and that’s me being conservative with the estimate.”

“They love that column,” the Editor pipes up, “we sure are a depressed country.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve just been giving a voice to the most depraved of our society,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder in what feels like a fourth time this morning, “Seungkwan, are you coming along?”

“Yes!”

Writer Hong’s house is in the same neighbourhood as Jeonghan’s, but he has been living in it since the 90’s and to my knowledge, there has not been a violent murder to reduce the price of the house. Not that he would complain about it, given his obsession with true crime and the lurid crime novels he had written in the 80’s under a pseudonym that I had dug out for him to agree for an interview; because while the television segment did help, it was nothing compared to the immovable force of Writer Hong’s refusal to be in the spotlight. Which is why I had to yell out one of the names of his books (written in the 80’s) before he could disconnect the call. It was the first month I had been working at the news desk, and I was different. Hungrier. For recognition, or for someone to tell me that leaving my comparatively cushy, but dead-end job at a fashion magazine to pursue a career in journalism (good journalism), but journalism that does not pay the bills, was a bad idea. It was my first scoop, and I still remember being congratulated around the office like I had conquered a country. It was supposed to be a one-off thing, something a young writer had accomplished against the better judgement of all the adults involved.

But then Writer Hong had gone and taken a shine to me. I like the way you conduct interviews, he had said, very short. Not like those other blithering idiots who only go on and on about how great my work is.

Which brings me and Seungkwan to this morning, standing outside his mansion—it’s a mansion, a house the two of us can only dream of buying one day—in the cold winter air, Seungkwan nervously clutching the file he’s kept holding on to ever since we left the office building.

I ring the doorbell, and Seungkwan whimpers. Whimpers. I give him a sharp look, and he manages to compose himself just in time for Writer Hong to open the door, grumpy and ruffled, but he opens the door and lets us in, and soon enough, we are sitting in the middle of a tastefully done room, waiting for him to serve us with expensive Darjeeling tea. Seungkwan’s foot vibrates at an almost supersonic speed.

“So,” he says without much of a preamble, entering the room holding a teakwood tray, “I should call you Writer now, instead of Associate Editor.”

Its difficult to stop the blush that spreads across my cheeks, and even Seungkwan lightens up at that statement. Writer Hong had always been someone who valued propriety and how to address someone properly above all else, a relic of the old age, even if he had hated it in his youth.

“I’m still Associate Editor to you, sir,” I reply, holding the porcelain teacup carefully, “the writing is just a column.”

“And one of the better columns I’ve read in the last few years,” he grumbles, “my wife made me read it, you know. And I thought it was nice. Better than what that hack Kim Hong-Sik has been getting up to in these past few days.”

“Did not think a column on unachieved dreams would be exciting to you, sir,” I say, with a small smile, and he guffaws.

“You should start writing properly, then,” he says, “if you think your column is not deserving of praise, going against the word of me, arguably the best writer Korea has seen in the past few decades.”

“That’s going a bit overboard, don’t you think, sir?” I say, and Seungkwan gasps, but Writer Hong just laughs ad laughs, “I mean, Han Kang exists.”

“Best Male author, then.”

The rest of the interview goes smoothly, and he even warms up to Seungkwan considerably, although he calls his way of peeling oranges ‘disgraceful to the flavour of an orange’. Its good, and it makes me feel accomplished, at noon, and before we leave, he even relents to take a picture with me, amidst his impressive collection of Korean art.

“That went very well,” Seungkwan says, as we flag down a taxi, “didn’t know he could be like that. He’s usually so—reserved. And grumpy. In all the award shows.”

“He’s big on privacy, but fame really got to that.”

“Privacy?”

“There was once a story about his daughter, who passed away before she turned a year old. He and his wife hated that article so much he stopped giving interviews.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I say, closing my eyes, and Seungkwan falls silent. He was probably too young to have read that article—hell, I was too young to have read that article, but its easy, to wield this destructive power if you have it, especially without any regard for how the other party might feel about it; most people in my line of work get drunk on it, ruining lives just for the sake of ruining them.

We pick up lunch at a corner store, and walk into the office building in silence. Seungkwan has been looking up old articles, and he’s upset, clearly, given how his mouth settles into a frown, one that doesn’t go away even after Haewon presents us with doughnuts from the cafeteria, a present, she says, from the Editor-in-Chief.

“They’re waiting for you in the Metting room,” she tells me, and I frown, because why the hell would they be there?

“Ah, there’s the Associate Editor!” the Editor booms, his head poking out of the meeting room door, “come have a chat with us.”

Its normal, jovial even, but I approach the room cautiously, only to be greeted with wide smiles from the two men.

“There’s a book deal for you.” The Editor-in-Chief, a man of blessedly few words, says, as soon as I enter, “they like the column, and they want to publish it.”

“Of course, the legal team is going to establish your fees and how much of it should be going to the company—” they drone on, but all the words and thoughts have flow out of my head because holy shit I have a book deal now. Writer Hong’s words from this morning come to mind, and I smile and nod through the entire meeting, assuring them that while the company’s lawyers are sufficient, I should like to talk to my own lawyers about this, and that everything is okay, I would really like to go over the terms and conditions of the contract before signing it, and yes, I was reviewing it positively. While they hate that a column is possibly going out of circulation, they can’t help but think about all the extra money this is going to be bringing in, the extra money and the popularity, being known as the company that fostered a young author’s work. It’s a win-win deal, one that I would be stupid to turn down.

I leave the meeting room and call Jihoon, my hands shaking, and he picks up within three rings, his voice soothing and calm like it always is, “hello?”

“I’m going to be a writer,” I say, no other explanation or long-winded preamble, and Jihoon understands, “can you come pick me up from work?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

I stand up, straighten my pants, and leave the bathroom, marching straight up to the editor’s desk, “I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

“The rest of the day?” he sputters, “wait, what about the interview?”

Seungkwan pops up his head, “I can write that. It’s just compiling all that was said.”

“I’ll check it, and Seungkwan needs to take point on a project,” I say, “besides, if you want me to focus on the column full-time, then someone needs to interview Writer Hong instead of me, right?”

“Still, you shouldn’t be leaving in the middle of the day,” he protests weakly, and the Assistant Editor smacks him with a pamphlet, “what was that for?”

“Clearly, she has someone waiting to pick her up, you buffoon,” she groans, “when will you understand? Just because your love life is barren, doesn’t mean everyone else is the same as you.”

Seungkwan winces, “wait, are you going home with Jihoon-hyung right now?”

I roll my eyes, “would you prefer to have the sordid details?”

“No, thank you.”

A peal of laughter follows me as I walk out of the office, and then the elevator and then Jihoon is standing in the lobby, flushed and wonderful, his nose red in the snow and biting wind. Because I’m a sane woman who is not given to theatrics, I merely walk up to him and tuck my arm into his, moving past the sliding doors onto the street. He’s wearing slippers, I notice, he must have come here straight from the studio.

“Very different from the feral woman who attacked me last night, I see,” Jihoon murmurs, strapping me into the seat of his car and kissing me for a tad bit (okay, thirty seconds) longer than what can be termed as an appropriate hello kiss.

“I was not that feral.”

“I have to wear a turtleneck for a week!” he exclaims, pulling down his shirt to show the extent of the damage, and I look away, embarrassed, “no! you don’t get to look away from me!”

“I like you in turtlenecks.”

That pleases him, and he smiles , “then I’ll wear them throughout the year.”

“Jihoon, you’ll suffocate.”

“I’ll have you.” He grins, “so, celebration?”

“I want to laze away today. Take a nap. Order shitty food.”

“I’m assuming there’s coitus involved. And not to mention, you dragged me out of work today.”

I wrinkle my nose, “do not say that word ever again, or else I’m kicking you out of my bed. And besides, what’s the point in being a famous producer if they don’t let you get home to your fiancée now and then?”

“What, coitus?”

“You’re no longer allowed into my bed,” I mutter darkly, and he just laughs.

The apartment building is mostly quiet this time of the day, but we pass a fair few old people who give us strange looks for coming back so early from work. Given that there have been multiple witnesses to me coming back at one in the morning, tired from overtime, and Jihoon walking into the elevator when the old ladies have finished their morning stroll, dark shadows under his eyes so pronounced he had to sleep for a week to get rid of them.

Jihoon presses the code to his home, and the two of us walk into the hallway, closing the door behind us to avoid the cold draught from chilling us to the bone.

“What should we get/” Jihoon toes off his slippers, scrolling absent-minded through his phone, “there’s a shop that delivers samgyetang, and I thought we could get some delivered, since you’ve been coming down with that cold for the past few days.”

“I’d like that,” I shake off my own shoes, sensible boots compared to Jihoon’s slippers, and kiss him again, for no other reason that I can and I will. He smiles against my mouth, “order me a whole chicken, Jihoon-ssi.”

“Two whole chickens,” he amends, “we can have the soup throughout the week. Shower?”

It is an innocuous enough question, but the way Jihoon’s eyes flash makes something shift inside of me, and I find myself returning his little smirk, peeling off the heavy coat, “you know there’s a water shortage.”

“Hmm. Its very bad. We should be conserving all the water we can.”

Jihoon pulls me close to kiss me again, and I laugh, leading him towards the shower.

—

My hometown is a quiet town. Sleepy, with neighbours that know everything about everyone. I used to hate them when I was younger, hated the way they always compared me to my sister, told me I had to be better in order for me to meet my parents’ expectations, as if nothing I did was good enough when compared to her. Nowadays, it’s a welcome distraction; reminding me of the fact that nothing in my town really changes, or will ever change. Not for the better, nor for the worse.

“Oh, are you here for the wedding?” the old man at the fruit shop says, as Jihoon and I walk out of the car, Jihoon yawning behind a closed fist, having slept half the way while I drove, “wait, you’re Yong-Hwa’s sister-in-law!”

“Yes, we’re here for the wedding,” I reply, as Jihoon shakes the falling cherry blossoms out of his hair, “just wanted to pick some fruits to take back to the house.”

That get’s his attention, and he spends an entire half-hour detailing to us every fruit he had at the store, and how good they would taste in season. In the end, we buy a box of strawberries, ones that he assures me are going to ‘taste like heaven’, and Jihoon is taking the driver’s seat for once, and we are speeding towards the house where I have spent my childhood and adolescence.

“Hasn’t been that long since I visited this place.” Jihoon says, turning a corner so that my home is visible, “this feels different somehow.”

“Yes, well, we weren’t together when you visited my mom. And its only a reminder of how much she wants me to visit, and I keep avoiding her requests.”

“But you’re here for the wedding.” He says, and I turn to look at him. Jihoon looks resolute, his mouth set in a line I haven’t seen for a long time, the light casting deep shadows on his face. My eyes move to the smooth gold band on his ring finger, its identical twin gleaming on my hand. He’s nervous, navigating this journey from being my friend to being my intended, meeting the family all over again, essentially.

There are flowers all over the house, bursting into bloom for my sister’s wedding, and I think to myself, this is how it usually is, huh. It’s a surprise that the usual dread that settles into me at the thought of getting married has been replaced with a pleasant anticipation, looking forward to navigating a lifetime with Jihoon.

“You’re here!” my mother shouts as we get down from the car, “they’re here!” she yells to someone inside the house, and soon enough, my father ambles out, looking every bit the disgruntles, emotionless father I had grown up with, looking at his youngest daughter and her partner. My mother envelops me into a crushing hug, but its my father’s gaze that I cannot return, because to this day I cannot live up to the ideal that he had had constructed for me.

My mother doesn’t notice the rings on our fingers, or even if she does, she doesn’t say anything, and we just haul the suitcases up into the house, where Jihoon has the guest bedroom, and I have my old childhood one. Settled in, I leave Jihoon to his devices, answering calls from the company about the new album, and walk down to the kitchen to help my mother with dinner.

“Is everything all right with Jihoon?” she asks, cutting carrots into tiny little pieces, “are you two finally together?”

I say nothing, just pour myself a glass of tea, “didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Oh, the couple rings were too nice to not notice, actually,” she laughs, “its good. You two suit each other very much.”

“Now you’re saying that to take the piss,” I grumble, “you’ve never once approved of the people I’ve dated, whether I dated them or not.”

“That’s because you dated them to stop your mind from crashing and burning,” my mother says, gentle as ever, putting the ingredients for soup into a big pot, “you’ve always been headstrong that way.”

“As opposed to my sister?”

My mother sighs, a sign of a battle she’s already lost against herself, “I’m sorry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I wave my hand. It matters so much. “I was the problem child, I guess. Every family needs one.”

“You were not a problem child,” my mother says, “you were just out of our reach, at times. and when we finally thought we understood you, you ran away and concealed yourself from us.”

“That’s what I was taught.”

“And I should have taught you differently.”

“Never mind, mother,” I give her a quick smile, “you’ll be watching your daughter get married, and in a few years, you’ll be a grandmother, and that will give you enough happiness to tide you over for the next ten years.”

“I think about you too, you know.”

“Congratulations on that, mother.” I reply, walking out of the kitchen.

Jihoon is sitting on the bed when I open the door, hands clutched around a cup, “I wish we hadn’t come back.”

He raises an eyebrow, “this is your home.”

“I know, its just—there’s no one here that knows me, and even if they do, its only by association, as the sister, and my parents are all on eggshells around me, because I blew up in their faces about my childhood, and how much I hated being here, and its never going to stop, is it, I’m going to be this way, this festering, annoying, difficult, person, and I’ll never really be normal ever again—”

Jihoon wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug that’s at once reassuring and scandalous, “you’ll be fine. Your family are, well, they’re sorry, and they’re on eggshells because they don’t know how to approach you anymore. It happens. You can leave to Seoul and have your career, but they’re going to stay on in this town, and be reminded of the fact that maybe they didn’t do enough. Let them hover. It’ll put them at ease.”

“Fine.” I grumble, “I just came back because I love my sister. And Yong-Hwa. He needs to have a chance to run away before he hitches himself to her.”

Jihoon laughs, “would you say the same thing for me?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”

He unwraps his arms from around me, fishing in his pocket, “wait, I forgot the ring at home.”

I gape, “you were going to propose to me?”

“Yes, but now that I forgot the ring, there’s going to be no proposal.” Jihoon grumbles, “stupid.”

“That’s fine, it would have been inappropriate for us to take away my sister’s spotlight,” I grin, pulling him back into a hug, “I accept, nonetheless.”

“Really?”

“I do expect a proper proposal back in Seoul.”

“As you wish, always.”

—

Jihoon proposes with a car full of balloons, and he enlists the help of the other guys to make the proposal truly memorable, a phrase that I’m rapidly beginning to attribute to him. its gorgeous, and everything I had never imagined when it came to a proposal. The wedding, however, is much my style, the two of us traipsing down to the courthouse to submit a form and being declared married by the clerk, who tells us darkly that there’s a divorce counter just in the next room. Jihoon laughs, and I laugh, before walking out of the courthouse to meet our friends (and family) for dinner.

It’s a new life.

—

To LJH,

For being my friend.

154 notes · View notes

lovemybluebully · 9 months ago

Text

A Small Lapse of Judgement

What do you get when you cross a drunk Wolverine? Tickled. You get tickled. 🤣

Okay, yeah sorry guys. This one is literally like twice as long as my last one, but Logan and Wade both needed to get wrecked good. lol I'm just having too much fun writing these guys. So get some snacks or something because you're going to be here for a minute.

More somewhat movie spoilers, and Wade saying inappropriate things to Logan's annoyance. lol Oh, and of course tons of cussing. And tickles. Lots of tickles.

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

ler!Wade/Deadpool x lee!Logan/Wolverine

ler!Logan/Wolverine x lee!Wade/Deadpool

M/M Tickle Fic

Word Count: 4,372

At first Logan had declined Wade's invitation to live with him at his apartment. Having been on his own for so long Logan didn't want to accept the fact that anyone actually wanted him around, but after Wade's persistent prodding and convincing he finally accepted.

"Yes!! It'll be like a sexy slumber party!" Wade had whooped, but one steely-eyed look from Logan made him turn it down, "Ahem. Or, you know, just two guys hanging out together with no lewd activities of any kind...."

No doubt Wade pushed Logan's buttons and got on his nerves more than anyone he had ever met in his life, but after their ordeal together there was no denying the bond that had been created between the two of them. It was hard for him to admit it, but Wade was definitely someone Logan now considered as a friend.

Surprisingly he settled in quickly and had begun to make himself comfortable, allowing him to let his guard down and actually relax for once. It was only a one-bedroom apartment so even though he had to sleep out on the couch every night he was grateful to have a place to call home.

And Wade was thrilled to have him there. Unlike his other roommate, Blind Al, Logan was progressively becoming more tolerant of his off the wall antics so it was nice to have someone else there that he could really joke around with. And drink with, though Logan still tended to embark on some solo day drinking of his own.

Wade shuffled into the living room in his crocs one late evening with Dogpool cradled in his arm to find Logan slouched over on the couch in nothing but jeans and a tank top and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. Further observation revealed there to be two more empty bottles laying around on the ground by his feet.

"Hey. Robert Downey Jr. Wanna take it easy on the booze?"

Logan lazily looked up at him, rolling his eyes when he saw Wade was allowing the dog to lick all over his face.

"I will once ya take it easy on always making out with that mutt."

Wade stared at him in defiance as he continued to kiss Dogpool's head while she licked all around his mouth, making Logan grimace in disgust before Wade set her down upon the ten-sizes-too-big dog bed he had bought for her.

"You know if you were jealous all you had to do was ask, baby girl. There's plenty of Wade Wilson to go around," he leaped onto the couch beside Logan and puckered his lips, making smooching sounds as he tried to pull the other man close while Logan cursed and struggled to hold him back.

"Hey hey! Fucking knock it off, asshole!" Despite his annoyance he chuckled a little with the alcohol lightening his mood and after a few more seconds Wade finally relented to sit himself back.

"You can fight it all you want, but I know you'll come around one day. There's no resisting my natural labido," Wade sat facing him as he gave a wink and a flirty grin, causing Logan to sigh with a shake of his head and take another sip from the bottle.

"See this is exactly why I still drink. I need something to help tolerate your obnoxious ass on a daily basis."

"Fine by me. It has its benefits. Number one being that you're so much less stabby when you're like this," Wade teased, wiggling a finger into his side as Logan squirmed and giggled before swatting at his hand with boozed up coordination.

"Why are ya always tickling me? I hate that shit," Logan was still smiling though as he rubbed at his irritated ribs.

"Because," Wade smiled and turned to look out at the audience before whispering quietly under his breath, "The people demand it."

He sat staring in silence for several seconds until Logan lifted a brow in confusion.

"The fuck you looking at?"

"Nothing," Wade turned back to him, "Well it's because I have to make you laugh somehow, grumpy pants. You're always so serious, and worst of all you never laugh at my jokes."

"Oh yeah? Have ya tried actually being funny?" A big shit eating grin was plastered on Logan's face as he instinctively pulled his arms in close to his body, not expecting Wade to let that one slide.

"Ooh hoo hoo, you're going to pay for that one later. You know what, smart ass? Maybe I'll tickle you in front of Laura. I'm sure she'd love to help me double team you sometime. A little badger on badger action, if you will."

It was Wade's turn to smirk as Logan just looked back at him with nervous eyes that he tried to hide behind the scowl now creasing over his face.

"You'd better fuckin' not."

"I don't know. It's sounding like a pretty good idea to me. Usually I have to pay to see that kind of thing but-"

Logan growled as his claws started to come out, but Wade just laughed and wagged a finger at him.

"Ah ah ah! Rule number one, no bloodshed in the house. So best keep those claws of yours in check, my little kitty cat."

"Just don't give me a reason then," Logan warned, retracting the claws before his eyes raised to focus on Wade's head, "By the way, how long are ya gonna keep wearing that stupid toupee? I already told you that you ain't foolin' anyone with that thing."

Wade looked positively insulted as he patted and smoothed down the hair on his head.

"Uhmm excuse me? As I've told you a thousand times, it's a hair system. It's so I can go out in public looking halfway decent. Not all of us were blessed with the perfect bone structure of a successful Broadway actor," turns his head briefly to look at the camera, "And besides, I think it looks quite distinguished."

"I've seen better looking roadkill than whatever that thing's made out of," Logan snorted and downed the rest of the bottle in his hand before dropping it on the floor beside the other empty bottles.

"Says the guy who looks like he has roadkill glued to the sides of his face," Wade gave a less than gentle tug on his muttonchops as Logan grunted and smacked his hand away.

"Oh yeah? Well at least I can grow facial hair, pal. You on the other hand don't have a speck of hair on your whole goddamn body. You're like a fucking pre-pubescent child. This is what a real man looks like," a tipsy smirk crawled across his face as he nonchalantly pulled up his tank top to show off his hairy chest and stomach.

He emphasized his point by running a hand over his hirsute, muscular torso while Wade just stared very, very hard.

"........Are you trying to turn me on right now? Because it's working," Wade was smiling deviously and reaching a hand out as Logan chuckled dryly and gave him a hard shove, sending him flying to the other end of the couch, "Just so you know, I'm adding that one to the spank bank."

"You fucking wish, bub. Think ya got a better chance with that ugly ass dog of yours," he nodded over towards the sleeping pooch while tugging his shirt back down.

It was rare to see such a repulsed look on Wade's face as the man always seemed to be down for whatever but apparently messing with the dog was where he drew a line.

"Woah woah, that's just going too far now. You need therapy, my friend."

"Oh please. I forgot you were the fucking poster child for mental stability," Logan muttered as he lifted his legs to prop his bare feet up on the coffee table in front of him.

"Heyheyhey! What in the ever-living fuck do you think you are doing? That's where we cut up our Bolivian nose candy-"

"I thought Feige said ya can't talk about that."

"Well what Feige doesn't know won't hurt him. Now let's go. Chop chop. Feet off the table, bud," Wade scolded and kicked Logan in the leg as the man rolled his eyes and begrudgingly pulled his feet down.

"You are such a fucking caveman. That table is an antique. Furniture crafted from the finest-OOof!" Wade grunted in pain as Logan dropped his feet onto his lap with his heel coming down hard onto his groin, "Uh uh nope. Not happening. Feet off the Deadpool too."

"Well I gotta put 'em somewhere. What? Offended that ya weren't my first choice? Be flattered I finally found a good use for you," Logan smirked big time at the genuine outrage that now displayed on Wade's face.

"What the fuck do you mean?! You've seen what a phenomenal cook I am!"

"Almost burned down the apartment."

"I'm the king of late-night karaoke!"

"Got the cops called on us three times already."

"Well I'm good at making friends everywhere I go."

"I had to beat the shit out of all those bikers to get them off of you. Not to mention you almost got us banned from my favorite bar, you dumb fuck."

Wade started to pout from Logan shooting down all of his claims, but was quickly back to grinning as he thought of something that Logan couldn't possibly argue against.

"Okay, you know what? You wanna see something I'm good at? I'll show you something I'm very good at," Wade smirked and grabbed ahold of Logan's legs, securing his ankles in one arm as he began ruthlessly tickling the bottoms of his feet.

Logan lost any sense of calm he had as he immediately broke into a hysterical laughing fit, figuring out too late that he had made a huge mistake. There weren't many things in life that could get the Wolverine to lose his cool, but Wade Wilson the Tickle Monster never failed.

"Baahahahahahaha! Wahahahahade, dohohohon't!! Okaahaahaahaay! I'll mooohoohoove 'em!!"

Logan was far too buzzed to pull his usual act of fighting back his reactions and trying to pretend that he wasn't as horribly sensitive as he really was. Not that any of that ever discouraged Wade since he knew he'd always get him to crack eventually.

"Nah, that's okay. You just keep them right where they are, Giggles. Maybe this'll teach you some manners. Or not, that's okay too. I wouldn't want to run out of excuses to do this....," he scratched at the soles with Logan going nuts and frantically pulling at his captured legs while Wade's arm only squeezed tighter around them to ensure he wouldn't escape.

"Stahahahaaap, ya dihihihick! Fuhuhuhuckin' lehehehehe-lehehet me gohohohohooo!"

"What's that? Aww did you forget your safe word again? So confusing. How do I know if you really want me to stop or not?" The merc teased with his fingers scribbling at Logan's arches as the X-man's laughter surged in volume.

"Fuhuhuhuhuck you! Aaaheheeheeheehee nohohoho! Waahaait! I'm sohohohohorry!" He howled with tears already in his eyes as Wade found the weak spots under his toes; his body twisting and flopping around as he braced his arms on the couch in his clumsy attempts to get free.

Wade always enjoyed when Logan was in this state. Not only was he a lot less homicidal than if he was sober but he wasn't nearly as uptight and didn't even fight the tickles as hard. He practically just rolled over and took it and didn't hold much back.

He suspected that Logan didn't hate being tickled nearly as much as he made out and loved to tease him about it much to the older man's insistent denial of the fact. It's likely that Logan would rather die than ever admit something like that.

Wade then cleared his throat and began to speak in his best exaggerated Australian accent.

"Crikey mate! Here we have the Wolverine. Best known for its violent tendencies and natural ability to be a complete jackass. When confronted by a stronger and more powerful predator it begins to make the most adorable snorting sounds that are meant as a sign of his submission. Let's listen in, shall we?"

Logan had been belting out uncontrollable snorts all throughout his laughter and it was one of Wade's favorite things to poke fun at him for.

"Shhh-Shuhuhuhut uhuhuhup! You're sohohohoho fuhuhucking stuhuhuhupid!"

"Oh, I'm fucking stupid? Who's the one making all the little piggy noises, Wilbur? Speaking of piggies....," Wade smirked as he started to play with his toes again, "This little piggy was an alcoholic....This little piggy was always so mean to his friend, Wade.....This little piggy talked shit about sweet little Dogpool....This little piggy..."

"Fuhuhuhuhuuuck! Alrihihihihight I gihihihive uhuhup! Haahahahaah! No-No mohohohore!" Logan had managed to pull a foot free and was now kicking Wade in the back as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all due his weakened state from laughing so much.

"No more? No MORE? Sorry, sweet cheeks. But I've got plenty more," Wade then threw his foot aside as he turned and dove onto Logan's prone form to now attack his very ticklish stomach, "That was for treating me like an object! This is for saying I'm not funny!"

Wade snickered with glee as the feral man expelled a less than manly squeal of giggles and immediately curled into a protective ball, though all attempts to evade were useless. Deadpool was positively relentless.

"Nooooohohohohohoo nohohohot thehehehehere! Okahahaay you're funny! You're fuhuhuhuhuhunnyyyyyaaahahahahahaaStaahahahahahaaap!"

"Oh sure! All of a sudden I'm just magically funny now! Don't insult my intelligence! You can't bullshit a bullshitter!" Wade managed to get his hands underneath Logan's shirt, raking his fingers up and down his bare stomach and forcing him to dissolve into a lengthy, mirthful wheeze.

"Why are you so ticklish? Is it part of your mutation? A result of a Weapon X experiment gone horribly wrong? Talk, damn you! I need answers!"

Not that Wade actually expected him to answer, but Logan was laughing entirely too hard and fighting it even less. He had his head thrown back in hysterics that exposed his oversized canines, writhing feebly while tears were leaking down his reddened cheeks.

It was a sight to see the normally powerful X-man rendered helpless from such a soft touch, but it just goes to prove that healing factors and big muscles were completely useless against a tickle attack.

Wade would have loved to keep tickling him all night, and he knew the man technically could take it with the high amount of stamina he possessed, but it was time to let him go now and save it for another time. Logan had been a good sport, and he didn't want to push it too far.

Pulling his hands back he now stood triumphantly hovering over the still giggling and plastered Wolverine, who kept his body all curled up in case the crazy merc decided to come for him again.

"Are you sure you're the Wolverine of legends? I mean, this isn't exactly what I had pictured. If I hadn't personally seen you in action then I'd have some serious doubts," he smirked as Logan finally relaxed and slowly splayed out on the couch.

"Heehehehe-That's the worst Wolverine to you, bub. You-hehehee-fucking suck," Logan continued to giggle as he struggled to fight off the dizzying high of the combined tickle assault mixed with the alcohol in his bloodstream. Wade was pleased to see he hadn't soured his mood.

"But do I swallow is the real question? Hehehe, sorry, I couldn't help myself. Now did you learn your lesson, you drunken idiot?"

Logan regained some sense of focus as he slowly sat up and looked up at Wade with the most cocky grin.

"Of course not. Gonna take a lot more than that, fucker."

"Do not tempt me, Peanut. I showed you mercy this time, but I cannot guarantee this next round I will be as charitable," Wade smirked and cracked his knuckles, surprised to see Logan lean back onto the couch with his arms folded behind his head.

"Pffft. You don't fuckin' scare me. You can do your worst. Though I'm sorry to say you're not gonna get the chance. Ya wanna know why?"

"Why?" Wade practically demanded with his hands on his hips.

"That's why." Logan lifted a hand to point behind Wade as the merc whirled around to confront what may have got the drop on him and found.....nothing. Nobody.

"Wait a minute.....did I really just fall for the oldest trick in the bo-AAAHCK!" Wade let out a scream as he was pounced from behind by a playfully growling Wolverine and landed hard on his stomach with his face hitting the floor. He had seriously misjudged the other man's current ability to fight back.

"Heheh, you really are a fucking idiot. Now let's see how you like this shit...," Logan immediately dug into Wade's ribs from where he sat perched on his back and was more than thrilled by the scream that ripped out of the merc's mouth. He knew there was no way a loudmouth like Wade wouldn't be ticklish.

"Nohohooo Logan wahahahahaait! Ahahaheeheehehehehe! You cahahahan't tihihihickle meheheee! I'm-I'm the 'ler! Nohohot yooooou!"

"The what? What the hell are ya talkin' about now?" Logan didn't let up though while Wade tried to sputter out an explanation.

"The cohohohommunity! Ihihihit's a thihihiing! I g-guess tehehehechnically I'm a swihihihihitch buhuhuhut stihihill!"

Logan raised his brows, looking more confused than before as he ended up just shrugging it off and shaking his head.

"Nevermind. I really don't wanna know. Now shut up and laugh, asshole," Logan's big hands ran up and down his sides, squeezing his waist and making it back up into his armpits as Wade flailed and shrieked and desperately tried to clamp his arms down.

Logan couldn't help but laugh at Wade's reactions with how he had barely started in on him yet.

"Geez. Have ya really been this fucking ticklish this whole time? Looks like we've got some time to make up for," his fingers fluttered around under Wade's arms, producing wild cackles as he wriggled like a worm and tried to scoot across the floor.

"Get off get off! Nooohahahahahaha! I'm nohohohohot tihihihicklish! I'm nohohohohohohot!"

"Well if you're not ticklish then all this shouldn't be botherin' ya, right? Or do you prefer me stabbin' ya better?" Logan smirked as he used the three middle fingers on each hand to simulate his claws as he repeatedly poked at Wade's ribcage with rapid fire speed, "Hehe, now you're dead."

"Gaahaahahahahaha!! Nohohohohot the clahahahahaws! Mehehehehercy!" Wade begged, trying to reach behind him to smack Logan's hands away. Spoiler alert, it didn't work.

"Mercy? Ha! That's a fuckin' good one. Hey, whaddya know. I guess you are funny after all. Hehehe, tickle tickle tickle, fuckface."

Wade's hysterics were increasing in volume by the second and Logan snorted in amusement at the thought that they might get the cops called on them for a suspected murder happening in the apartment.

"Holy shit. Keep it down, will ya? You're gonna wake the-"

"What in the name of Satan's asshole is that horrible noise?!?!" Blind Al shouted in annoyance as she wandered into the room and nearly tripped over the two men roughhousing on the floor.

"Blind Al! Blind Ahahahahal! Hehehehelp mehehehehe!" Wade screamed as he managed to roll over underneath Logan and reach out a desperate hand towards his elderly roommate.

"You're such a dick. Ya know ya don't have to emphasize that she's blind all the time, ya inconsiderate moron," Logan rolled his eyes with a smile as he now had better access to Wade's ribs and stomach and dug right in.

"Baahahahah-Buhuhuhut thahahat's her nahahahahame! B-Becahahahause she's blihihihind! Gehehehet ihihit?!"

The older woman's lips pursed with disdain.

"Please keep torturing him. I will sleep good tonight knowing that stupid motherfucker is suffering," she gently patted Logan on the shoulder as she turned around and made her way out of the room.

"You got it, boss lady," Logan nodded with a smirk and scratched furiously at Wade's stomach, easily avoiding the flailing hands trying to stop him.

"Blihihihihind Al! Aahahhahahha! You trahahahaahaahaitor! Ahahahafter ahahall I've d-dohohohone for yooohoou!"

"Maybe you could gag his bitch ass too," she yelled back over her shoulder, making Logan chuckle.

"She's got a point. You're loud as fuck. Always makin' fun of how I snort while you're over here shrieking like a fuckin' little girl."

With that, Wade was struck with inspiration as he thought of a way to get Logan to stop.

"Yehehehes! Oh yehehehes Lohohohogan! Dohohohn't stop! Th-Thahahat's ihihihit! Tihihihickle me! Tihihickle mehehehe untihihihil I pahahahass ouhohout!" Wade pretended to moan between his laughs as he put his hands flat against the floor to demonstrate that he had no intention of preventing the tickling, though it was a major struggle for him to keep them there.

Logan tilted his head as he stared down at Wade in bemusement.

"Can't tell if you're tryin' to psyche me out into stopping, or if you really do like it that much. I wouldn't put it past ya to actually enjoy being tickled. Not the weirdest thing about you. Either way, if ya say not stop then I won't," Logan smirked and proceeded to tickle him even harder as he kneaded into his hips.

"Noooooohohohoooo! Okaahahaay! I lihihihied! I cahahahan't tahahahahake it! Pleasepleaseplease stooohahahahoooop!" Wade squealed and kicked his legs around and uselessly tried to grab at the other man's wrists to pry him off.

"Now was that really a lie? Are ya sure it wasn't an educated wish?" Logan loved to bring that stupid shit up every once in a while, knowing it would get under Wade's skin.

"So fuhuhuhunny I forgohohot to lahahahaugh, ahahahasshole! Nohohow gehehet off meeeheeheeheee! You fuhuhuhucking mahahahade yohohohour point!"

Logan was about to make another quip when he heard loud barking and turned his head to see Dogpool come flying over the back of the couch towards them in superhero slow-motion.

She then rushed in to grab Wade by the hair as she pulled with all of her tiny body weight trying to free him.

"Yehehehes! Mary Puhuhuhuppins! Saahahahave pa-pa! Thaahahahat's it!"

"Yeah.....that dog weighs like eight pounds. Hehehe, don't think you're getting away from me just yet, bub," Logan snickered as he dragged Wade closer and plunged his fingers into his armpits, earning another shriek as the merc futilely clamped his arms down and thrashed even harder.

"Looohohohogaaan staaahahahahahahap! I'm-I'm sohohohohoh glahahad to seeheehee-ahahahahhah-see yohohou ehehehembrace thihihis sss-sihihide of you buhuhuhut-AAAAHH! FUHUHUHUCK!!"

A loud ripping sound was heard as Logan looked up in wonderment to see Wade with a hand gripped to his now bald head as Dogpool stood there with his whole hair piece in her mouth.

Logan couldn't help it. The sight of Wade laying there with those fucking staples sticking out of his head and the dog now gnawing on his toupee like a chew toy was just too comical.

He started to laugh. Really laugh. Laughing too damn hard to keep tickling Wade as he literally fell over, holding his sides while his whole body shook in uncontrollable guffaws.

Wade was finally able to sit up as he glared at his hysterical friend, but he had a smile on his face too.

"Really?! That's what makes you laugh?! You seeing me getting hurt is funny to you? Pretty fucked up, you sado," he pretended to sound annoyed, but really he was anything but. It was rare to see Logan laugh like this besides when Wade was tickling him half to death so he'd let him have this for the moment.

Still he had to strike back somehow for this indignity.

"Puppins attack! Kill, my little munchkin! Kill!" Wade shouted as the dog rushed towards the fallen man and jumped onto him. But Dogpool didn't have a mean bone in her body and only knew how to attack with love as she affectionately licked Logan's face much to his aversion.

"Blech! Wahahade! Gehet your dohohog!" He bellowed as he continued to laugh, but other than trying to shield his face with his arms he didn't do much to stop her.

"Okay okay, come here, sweetie pie. Lets get you away from the bad man who tried to kill your pa-pa," Wade reached over and pulled her off of him, setting her into his lap.

Logan finally fought down the giggles as he sat up to find Wade staring longingly at the destroyed toupee in his hand. He kind of felt bad for the guy and thought he should offer some words of encouragement.

"Yeah, that thing's fucked. Big time. But hey, I think you look better without it," he nodded, using his shirt to wipe off his face as Wade gave him a genuine smile.

"You're only saying that because you're drunk," the merc teased back as Logan shrugged in response and grinned broadly.

"You're probably right. I wouldn't touch ya with a ten foot pole."

"That's okay. I don't mind doing all the touching...," Wade gave him a quick squeeze on the side as Logan snorted and lurched away from his reach and got to his feet.

"Don't fucking start that again. I'd say we're even now. Besides, you don't wanna fuck with me now that I know how damn ticklish you are. It's a stalemate. We can put this all behind us and move on. Now if ya don't mind I'd like to get some sleep," he waved the other man away as he grabbed some blankets off the back of the couch to set up his sleeping area.

Wade just smirked as he began walking out of the room with Dogpool in his arms.

"Silly silly Wolvie. I'm not sure you realize the implications of your actions. But I'm afraid this is far from over. You, my friend, have just started a war."

Logan's face fell as he only stared back at Wade in wide-eyed silence.

"Nighty night, Peanut. Sweet dreams," Wade smirked devilishly, waving with wiggling fingers as he flicked off the light switch on the wall.

#ticklish!wolverine #ticklish!logan #ticklish!wade #ticklish!deadpool #lee!logan #lee!wolverine #lee!wade #lee!deadpool #ler!wolverine #ler!logan #ler!wade #ler!deadpool #deadpool tickle #wolverine tickle #tickle fic

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milkhoon · 11 months ago

Text

Freak — L. Heeseung

⋆ 𐙚 ₊ 𓂃 Pairing: Nerd!Heeseung (Evan) x AFAB!Reader

⋆ 𐙚 ₊ 𓂃 Synopsis: You’ve heard a rumour about the university freak, but is he a freak when all he ever do is just existing? Well, maybe he is. In another term.

⋆ 𐙚 ₊ 𓂃 Content warning: Heeseung as Evan. Nerd and shy Hee, afab readear, mention of bullying a bit (Heeseung or Evan being called freak and people not really befriending him), smut, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, cream pie, slow porn plotting and weird details, mild choking, name calling (doll, princess, good girl, slut). Let me know if I miss any.

⋆ 𐙚 ₊ 𓂃 Word count: 4k

⋆ 𐙚 ₊ 𓂃 Okay, this is obviously my very first post here and it’s a special one cause I write this for my best friend, my baby sister. She asked for this so I hope I won’t disappoint her. Pardon me and my typos or grammatical error too, not beta read yet and English is not my first language. Happiest birthday, A! We all love you so much. May your days get even better after this. XOXO.

You have often heard whispers about a “freak” on your campus, but the identity of this figure remained elusive amidst the sea of eccentric individuals inhabiting this quaint little community. It wasn’t until a group project assignment from your professor that you were thrust into an unexpected partnership with a certain Evan.

“Wow, he’s utterly heartless! How could he match you with a freak?” your closest friends exclaimed, perplexed by the professor’s choice.

“A freak?” you queried, raising an inquisitive brow at your friend’s assertion.

“Yes, a freak. Evan is infamous for his weirdness,” your friend continued. "Just observe his attire! Exceptionally dated with thick-rimmed glasses framing his face. And let’s not forget his near-silent demeanor! He rarely engages with anyone!” she elucidated, noting the perplexity on your face.

Was that enough justification for everyone to label Evan as a freak? Who’s to say that the man isn’t simply reserved? Or perhaps he struggles with mental health issues that remain enigmatic to others? You found the rumor weird instead.

“Perhaps he’s just shy. That’s all," you attempted to brush off your friend’s remarks, bidding farewell politely and veering towards a different corridor.

Your destination was to seek out Evan. Absent from the class for undisclosed reasons, your intuition guided you to the library, rumored to be the sanctuary for the misfits and intellectuals alike.

“Hi… you are Evan, right?” you ventured, addressing the figure that resembled your friend’s description. Clad in an old fashioned clothes — an oversized woolen sweater paired with threadbare denims, complemented by circular spectacles framing his slender frame.

Your outstretched hand hesitated momentarily as Evan stood frozen in place, a bewildered and startled expression etched across his features. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh, I’m sorry. I am (Y/N). We were meant to attend the same class earlier, yet you were absent. Our professor assigned us a collaborative project. I propose we talk about AI and its impact on artists. Though it may sound cliché, the subject matter is currently hot and widely discussed, right?”

Evan’s ears rang with a deafening silence that drowned out your words, his body tensed in an icy grip. His gaze remained fixed upon your countenance, a figure that had often pervaded his reveries with its ethereal allure.

“Yeah, hot and widely discussed,” he echoed, not in concurrence but to describe the allure you exuded. Hot. Sexy and attractive. Unbeknownst to you, Evan’s subconscious prompted him to discreetly graze his inner cheek, restraining a stray droplet of saliva.

“Great! Let’s meet at Cafe XX this afternoon since we agreed on our project’s topic then!" you said — or rather, not realizing what the man in front of you was thinking. You reached into your bag for a moment and handed him your card, “My number is written here. Call me if you need anything!”

Accepting the card timidly, Evan nodded meekly, he didn’t want you to think he looked stupid.

“Bye, Evan!” you waved a final farewell, departing the library’s confines.

Evan held the business card you gave him. Y/N. Y/F/N. He brought the card closer to his nose and breathed in your lingering scent. Sweet.

You were supposed to meet with Evan this afternoon as per your agreement, but suddenly, a heavy rain shower engulfed the earth without any warning. The sky, previously serene, now bore the burden of heavy rain, casting a pall of uncertainty over the horizon and your heart.

The task needed to be completed within a week, yet you found yourself a day behind the seven-day deadline. You nervously nibbled on your nails, not truly biting, just place the tips of your teeth to your finger. A hint of worry lingered. With one hand holding your phone, you messaged Evan.

You: It seems like we can't work on the task right now. The rain is pouring heavily here. How about tomorrow?

Evan: Oh… Evan: Don't worry. Evan: I can come to your place.

You: My place?

Evan: Don't get me wrong. Evan: I know you can't go out now, so let me. I don't mind the rain. Evan: I mean for us to finish the task quickly.

You: Okay. You: Here's my address. Just come up to the second floor. It's the farthest room. Knock when you arrive.

You breathed a sigh of relief. Evan’s idea wasn’t so bad. If you could finalize the concept today, the next six days wouldn’t pose any problem at all.

YY Street. Heeseung was familiar with the address you had sent. No, do not accuse him of being a stalker! He had never stalked anyone. He just happened to have seen you on that street, entering a three-story building.

Heeseung couldn’t fathom where all the sudden courage had come from that led him to offer the idea of coming to your place. It seemed like he had gone mad; you were driving him further into madness. An anxious restlessness consumed him as he made his way towards your place.

Nothing strange would happen. Yes, nothing would happen.

Repeatedly reassuring himself with those words like mantra, he suddenly found himself standing in front of the building where you lived. The taxi he had ordered departed a minute ago. His feet felt heavy, stepping one by one like a fool.

His hand timidly knocked on the door after successfully passing through the lobby guarded by a vigilant security, which only added to his nervousness. It felt akin to meeting a stern future in-law.

He could hear you shouting from inside, not too loudly, before the brown door creaked open slightly, revealing you peering out.

“Hey, Evan!” you greeted him cheerfully, opening the door wider and welcoming him inside.

Nothing strange would happen. Yes, nothing would happen.

Evan followed behind you like a duckling, then opted to sit on the floor instead of the sofa, perhaps because it was closer to the table. You offered him a drink, and in his shy manner, he left the choice to you. So, you made him a cup of hot chocolate. He must have been cold from braving the rain. Afterwards, you sat by his side, unaware of the palpable tension in his breath.

One hour. Two hours. Five hours passed by quickly for you. Evan was undeniably a shy man. He didn’t speak much, and when he tried, his voice came out squeaky and timid. Unconsciously, you giggled along with your cup of hot chocolate. He was adorable. The rumors about him were truly unfounded.

Oh, at least, that’s what you thought until you realized that the rain showed no signs of subsiding. In fact, it intensified, and you noticed that your room heater wasn’t working properly. You should have complained to the management and requested a maintenance visit. The chilly night air seeping in through the window crevices began to make you shiver. The crop top you wore clearly wasn’t helping, but you felt too lazy to change into warmer clothing, especially with a guest present.

Evan glanced in your direction as you hugged yourself, arms crossed and rubbing your sides. Summoning his courage once more, he asked, “Are you cold?”

Your head automatically turned towards him, lips rounding briefly after hearing Evan’s question. His voice didn’t waver like before. You simply nodded. The rain persisted, the room heater wasn’t functioning properly, and your attire wasn’t providing much warmth. Of course, you were cold.

Approaching you, not too closely, he reached for your hand, his much larger hand enveloping yours. You jumped in surprise but allowed him to hold your hand. You were confident he had good intentions, right?

For a few minutes, everything was quiet, but his hand continued to grip yours and stroke it, providing warmth.

His earnest and genuine demeanor touched you, although it was just a simple gesture. Unconsciously, you leaned in, closing the gap between you. He averted his gaze, now looking at you as if asking if you needed something. In a shy gesture, you unexpectedly kissed his cheek.

He froze, you froze. After a soft exhale, you said, “Um… thank you? You’re so sweet. I couldn’t resist, sorry.”

For a moment, he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, “Thank you?” was all that came out. You nodded.

“Because you helped me feel warmer,” you explained with a smile. He looked down, his ears turning red, a sign of his embarrassment.

“I can help you feel warmer if you want,” Evan offered in a very soft voice, almost inaudible if you weren’t the only two present in the room. If you hadn’t been paying attention or if you hadn’t been unconsciously focused on him all this time.

“How would you warm me up?” you inquired, prompting him to lift his head again. His round eyes sparkled in the light, truly endearing. It was as if he was questioning you and seeking permission. You nodded faintly.

Still with his hands clasped together, Evan cut the distance between you before one hand came under your chin; bringing you into a small kiss. He kissed your lips, then opened his eyes to reveal his round eyes again. Seeing no resistance from you, he continued. Sucking your lips, kissing them gently before his tongue taps your row of teeth—asking permission to enter. You were happy to welcome his tongue, buying it with yours. Fight for dominance for a while until you finally give in. He explores your entire oral cavity. Then you take more until your saliva drips down, until you run out of breath and slap his chest slowly. That’s when he broke the kiss. But it didn’t stop there, he didn’t let you breathe properly because next, he placed small kisses on the side of your jaw, then down to your neck. Giving you the same small kisses but with fewer sucks and nibbles, you couldn’t help but moan. Damn, he’s really good.

He enjoys every inch of your body, not leaving a single inch without being gently touched. Then, he took you onto his lap. His arms are wrapped intimately around your waist while he himself is busy giving licks to your nipples which are starting to perk up because of the cold air and of course because of arousal. He moved his tongue up and down, not finding the fibers of the clothes still wrapped around your body bothering. He only lifted your crop top a little afterward to do the same to the other nipple. This continues until he feels satisfied licking and sucking your nipples. His other hand suddenly slipped into the mini skirt you were wearing, rubbing your thigh gently but moving upwards. Getting closer to the center of your body. Playing with the hem of your panties, moving to the middle and pressing your lips. He could feel the cotton cloth was wet, he smiled crookedly.

You couldn’t open your eyes properly, not with all Evan’s touches everywhere. When you opened your eyes, it was clear that he was looking at you, writhing in amusement. With a charming smile. He would definitely look better without glasses, you thought. Taking off the glasses that framed his face. Choked up when you saw that his face was even more handsome like this, up close. You moved forward, taking him into a deep, hot kiss as you moved back and forth. Grinding on his thighs.

“Slow down, doll. The night is still young,” he insited while restraining your movements by locking your waist. “I will make sure you are ready first, okay?” he continued the activities that were previously disrupted.

This time he didn’t just rub the outside of your underwear but forced his way inside. Play with your clitoris before inserting a finger. Your eyes rolled, a suppressed moan finally coming out. Tears almost coming out.

“Hurts...” you moaned softly, he stroked your hair gently. Trying to calm you down.

“Shhhh... it’s going to hurt more if I don’t do this, you know it well, princess.” that’s what happened before he moved his fingers forward and back, slowly, slowly and then faster with each passing second. He also added two more fingers into your vagina, making scissor-like movements to prepare you. This continues until the walls of your vagina, which at first were very tight and sucked his fingers, making him wince and think about what would happen if he entered you directly, finally twitch.

“I'm close!” you squealed.

“Take it out, doll. Be a good girl and let it out for me.” he murmurs, still continuing to pound your pussy rapidly with his slender fingers. Not long after, the white liquid came out, soaking your panties which weren’t completely removed as well as Evan’s pants which he was still wearing.

With a satisfied smile, Evan pulled out his fingers from your twisted love tunnel, causing you to whimper with the loss of stimulation. You were drenched in your juices and the scent was intoxicating. He cleaned your thighs with a quick sweep of his thumb, savoring the taste before licking it off.

“Good girl,” he praised affectionately while maintaining eye contact, pushing the hair off your face. He leaned in, giving you another sensual, lust-filled kiss, and then positioned his thick, pulsating cock at your entrance.

The hand that had previously clutching your nape now slid up to cup your cheek. He pushed your panties aside and lower his pants. With a practiced ease, he then forced into you with a slick pop, your walls encircling his member. There was a moment of breathlessness, your eyes locking as he began to move within. In and out, filling you with each stroke as your legs gripped him, keeping him close.

The rhythm steadily built, a counterpoint to your growing sounds of delight. Your nails raked at his shoulders, leaving red trails as you clung to him. Then, the pressure within you seemed to reach the breaking point, a build-up of a storm threatening to burst.

Gasping for breath, you cried out, “Evan, I’m going to… I’m going to...”

Evan responded by increasing the pace, pounding into you mercilessly, his own climax beckoning. “Cum for me, doll,” he growled raggedly, the provocative words adding fuel to the fire that burned within.

The storm broke, the walls of yours being constricted violently, your orgasm crashing through. Keened, your nails digging into his skin, body bucking wildly matched his frenzied tempo, giving everything you had. The sheets beneath began to move, twisted and tangled as you chased the pinnacle of pleasure.

With a deep groan, he stiffened, his own culmination arrived, bathing both of you in his hot seed. He remained inside, holding you tightly as he rode the aftershocks.

Evan suddenly flipped you, making your hair spilling across the bed in a disheveled mess. He pulled out of you slowly, leaving you slick and wanting. As he did, you shifted, your hips still twitching with the lingering sensation of pleasure.

“Don’t be such a greedy slut, stop moving! I’m not done yet,” Evan warned you in a husky voice you never thought would heard before. He gripped your neck, not tight enough to cut off air but close enough to make you aware of his grip. It was a stark contrast to the tender moments, but his desire for control and intimacy was intertwined.

You shivered, your heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. You nodded, indicating your consent. Evan shifted behind you, positioning himself at you entrance once more. “Ready for more, princess?” He murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You moaned her response, your body aching for the promised fulfillment. Evan thrust back into you, his grip on your neck steady and firm. The dual sensation of the tight hold and his penetration built a crescendo of arousal within your again. Your mind swam in a hazy mix of trust, risk, and lust.

His movements were rougher this time, the echo of their sounds in the bedroom sharp and animalistic. Evan’s grunts filled the room, mingling with your whimpers and moans, punctuated by the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

You clawed at the bed, nails leaving crescent marks in desperation to find purchase. The friction of his sinful length against your inner walls whipped you closer.

“Evan... I’m close... again,” you gasped, feeling him swell inside. Evan pounded into you even relentlessly, his thrusts unyielding as he guided you to the edge. In a final surge, his release tore through, spilling into you once more.

He then pulled you into his arms after, both of you sprawled on the rumpled sheets. His fingers tangled in your hair, rubbing the tension from your scalp.

You cradled against him, your body still shivering from the intensity of the lovemaking. “You did a great job, princess,” Evan cooed, tugging the strands of your hair playfully, a small smile forming on his lips. He kissed your temple repeatedly as if saying sorry for the brief rude moment before.

Well, maybe your friend was right. He is indeed a freak. But in different term, only for you to notice.

#enhypen smut #heeseung smut #heeseung #smut #x reader #fem reader #one shot #idk what im doing #idk how to tag this #idk what im talking about #sorry #anyways #happy birthday #sister #lee heeseung

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aventurineswife · 3 months ago

Note

Hiya!!! I wanted to request how HSR people (Jing Yuan specifically, but you can do more if you want, I just feel silly saying a specific person ;~;) would be with a Cat hybrid s/o? For genre I'd say mostly fluff. I'm not sure how to give more description, cause I'd love to hear your thoughts! If you do this, thank you so much!!! If not/you don't feel comfortable with it, that's totally okay too!!! Either way, love your writing!!! Have a good day/night!!! And please make sure to rest, eat, and drink some water :D <3

The Sound of Purring Peace

Summary: Jing Yuan finds comfort in the quiet company of his cat hybrid significant other. In a rare moment of peace away from his duties, he teases and spoils you with affection, encouraging you to help him rest. As you curl up together, the stresses of leadership melt away, and the two of you share a tender, intimate moment.

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Cat Hybrid!Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Soft Moments, Affectionate Jing Yuan, Rest, Tenderness, Romantic.

The bustling corridors of the Xianzhou Luofu quieted as you slipped into Jing Yuan’s chambers. Being a cat hybrid had its perks; stealth came naturally to you. Your ears flicked in response to the faint rustle of papers, followed by a soft exhale. Jing Yuan, the esteemed Arbiter-General of the Cloud Knights, was at his desk, eyes focused on a scroll. His long hair shimmered under the warm lamplight, tied loosely with the familiar red ribbon.

But your heart melted when you saw the faintest smile tug at his lips. He always knew when you were near.

"You're late," Jing Yuan said, not bothering to look up, his voice smooth and teasing.

You pouted, tail swishing behind you. “Says the man who naps half the day. How do you even notice the time?”

He chuckled softly, setting the scroll aside. “An Arbiter-General must remain observant at all times. Besides…” His gaze lifted, eyes locking with yours. “You’re quite hard to miss, little cat.”

Your cheeks warmed at the affectionate nickname. Bounding over to him, you perched on the armrest of his chair, curling your tail around yourself. He reached out, his hand gentle as it brushed against your ears. A purr involuntarily rumbled from your chest.

“Ah, there it is,” he murmured, leaning back as if satisfied with his discovery. “My greatest weapon—your purring.”

You swatted at his arm, but there was no real strength behind it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he countered, cupping your chin, his thumb brushing against your cheek, “you keep coming back.”

Silence lingered for a moment, the soft hum of the room wrapping around you both. Jing Yuan’s thumb traced slow, soothing patterns along your jawline. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as the tension of the day melted away.

“You’re overworking yourself again,” you murmured. “When’s the last time you took a proper break?”

He smirked. “I believe I took a rather refreshing nap yesterday.”

“That doesn’t count!” Your tail flicked in mild annoyance, but he only chuckled.

“Hmm. Perhaps I’ve been remiss in caring for myself,” he conceded, though his tone held a mischievous edge. “Would you, my dear, take it upon yourself to enforce my rest?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “Are you asking me to become your personal nap enforcer?”

“Precisely.” Jing Yuan stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You squawked in protest, but he carried you to the plush couch near the window, settling down with you nestled against his chest. His capes draped over both of you like a blanket.

“You’re impossible,” you grumbled, though you couldn’t deny how comfortable you were in his embrace. Your tail curled around his arm, and he let out a soft sigh, resting his chin atop your head.

For a moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift. The Dozing General, the Divine Foresight, the leader of the Cloud Knights—none of those titles mattered here. He was simply Jing Yuan, holding the person who made the endless march of time feel a little less lonely.

“Rest with me,” he whispered, voice low and warm. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re here.”

You let out a soft purr in response, and his eyes softened further. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled you into a shared tranquility. In this quiet moment, with no battles to fight or strategies to plan, it was just the two of you—content, safe, and at peace.

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venus-vault · 5 months ago

Text

Friend of the Family

Mr.Reed × Fem!Reader(Mid-20s) [18+]

Synopsis: Part 1 - (y/n)'s boring family Christmas vacation to Colorado doesn't exactly go as anticipated...

⚠️TW: Boring Family Dynamic, Age Gap, Alcohol Consumption (all parties of age), Oral Sex (Male & Female Recipients), Raw P in V Penetration, Breif Mutual Masturbation, General Smut. ❄️

"So do I even *actually* know this guy?" I interrogate, unsure why we're staying there instead of some mountainside Airbnb. "Of course! (y/n), you've met Mr. Reed plenty of times, you were just, y'know...smaller." Dad explains, cheery. "Okay... but when you said 'Colorado Christmas Vacation' I thought we'd be like... snowboarding, or hanging out in a cute mountain town, or at least renting a cool cabin in Telluride... not like... the middle of nowhere part of Boulder with some guy I haven't seen since I was a kid..."

He sighs, defeated by my expectations yet again. "Listen. He's my best friend, a few years back he lost his wife, and its true, I haven't gotten around to seeing him in person since you were four, Bug."

He drones on,

"He's a really nice guy, and super cool. He loves that Lana Del Rey girl you're always talking about, and he's got a really nice collection of records and books, its like a mini Barnes & Noble in there! You might find you have more in common than you think!" He offers.

And I decline : "With a 64-year-old retired engineer from England? Yeah thanks, I'll pass. I'm just gonna stay out of the way, keep my headphones on, and let you two reconnect."

I pull out my phone, pop in my earpods, and open Tumblr, pretending to care at all about the latest posts on the Spencer Reid tag. Out of the corner of my eye I can tell I've hurt his feelings, but fathers never say the right thing, and he can withstand a little sting every once in a while. It's what he deserves for not telling me where we were staying til halfway through the plane ride.

Our plane finally touches down, we funnel through Boulder Municipal into a cab and I won't be the first one to speak. I take one earpod out just in case, which Dad takes as an invitation. "Just got a text from Mr. Reed, and I hope you're hungry Bug, because there. will. be. pie." He beams as though this is some great revelation, elaborating "He's got this wild recipe with earl grey in the crust and lemon zest in the filling, it's award-winning. Seriously! He enters it in the local contest every other year and it's only lost once!"

Despite how riveting my father finds Mr. Reed and his Great British baking exploits, I do not, and apparently it shows as his smile tamps down to a simper. "Sweetie, I'm really trying here. I can't convince you it's gonna be the best Christmas ever, hey, we'll probably both have altitude sickness the entire time, but let's just make an attempt, okay? Nothing has to be perfect." He's an idiot but he's right and I agree. "Okay, yeah. I'll be nice." I sigh "That pie does sound pretty good, I guess..."

The cab rolls through the city of Boulder as Lana lilts gently in my earpods about 'haaa-aa-ow toooo disappear~' and maybe this trip won't be so bad after all.

We're finally dropped at the gate to Mr. Reed's house and -you're fucking kidding me- his driveway, long and winding, is gravel. I wince inwardly at the realization that I'll have to lug two wheeled suitcases up that path and flash Dad a fake 'I'm so glad We're doing this' smile before yanking them out of the trunk and making my way up to the stoop. This pie better be incredible.

Once Dad and I are situated on the stoop, out of breath and travel-weary, I assault Mr. Reed's doorbell. It's cold and I need a shower.

ding. .... nothing. ding-ding. nope. dingdingdingdingdingdingdingding-

The door opens, finally, and a sweet-looking older man in a well composed cardigan-button down combo and jeans steps out to greet us, smiling bright as his eyes fall on Dad.

"Jonathan!!"

"Reed!!"

Laughter ensues as I observe their embrace, holding back a heavy eyeroll. Somehow I am already third-wheeling.

"Oh my god, Mr. Reed, you remember (y/n)? She's just finished a semester at Oxford!" Dad smirks, gesturing to me and I give a shy wave as Mr. Reed's eyes scan over me, widening in surprise.

"(y/n)? As in, little (y/n), (y/n) who was- ?" He holds his hand flat, bringing it down by his knee as he looks between me and dad in disbelief.

"The very same, can you believe it?"

I purse my mouth into a smile, just completely overwhelmed by how awkward this interaction is.

"Well look at you! You've certainly grown up, haven't you?"

"I suppose so!" my best fake laugh.

Mr. Reed's eyes trace my form again and he pulls me into a quick side hug. He's warm and smells like lemon zest, vanilla extract.

"Let's get you two in then, supposed to be a blizzard tonight."

He grabs one of my suitcases and we follow him as he shuffles back inside.

His house is simple and a little cramped, but I do smell pie. 'Bless This Mess' reads a framed piece of embroidery on the wall, and if there is a God, I hope he does.

We toss our bags into our respective guest rooms at the top of the stairs and I finally get to take my shower before making a way back downstairs to the dining room.

We sit through a meal -shepherd's pie, what is it with this guy and pie?- and my dad and Mr. Reed discuss people they both know who died or lived or have moved or haven't moved and I am in hell until-

"Little after dinner drink then?"

My eyes snap up from my plate to meet his, a small smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. His eyes crinkle at the ends when he smiles, warm and comforting and it occurs to me for the first time that Mr. Reed is...handsome... If he were 20 years younger he'd definitely be my type, in fact...

"Alright! So that's one, me makes two, Jonathan, little shiraz with your pie?"

"Well how could I say no to such a generous offer?" Dad beams.

We move back into the living room and sip and I pick at the pie. It is good and after a glass and a half of shiraz Mr. Reed looks just as appetizing, but I decide I'm not going to eye-fuck this old man in front of my father, or at least not in an obvious way.

So I sit, tepid, on my phone and pretend not to be bothered by the lack of service while I half listen to their conversation, looking up strategically to ogle Mr. Reed every now and then. His eyes find mine and I watch him nibble at his lip and does he know?

"So then (y/n), Oxford, hm?"

"Uhm, yeah, I'm in their creative writing MFA program right now... its... interesting."

"Interesting boring or interesting incredible?" He crosses one leg over the other and leans in, attentive.

"Uh, I mean it's going well, people in my classes are a little...er.. pretentious..?" I giggle, nervous.

"Exactly as I remember it, then!" He laughs loudly, and dad joins in, snickering along. His laughter is infectious and this wine is making me blush and I smile.

"You're an alum?"

"What, the accent didn't give it away?" A chuckle, "Yeah, yeah, I was lucky enough to take about an eon of courses in engineering sciences there, immigrate in the 90s, build this place, blah blah blah, but enough on me, it seems we may just be in the midst of the next great American novelist, eh Jonathan?" A wink.

"I don't know about that," I tear my eyes away from him, focusing in on the details of a floorboard.

"Oh (y/n) don't be modest, Reed you'd love her stuff, she's got some of the most well-metered prose, and-"

"Dad." I warn, eyes wide with embarrassment.

"Oop, sorry bug," He cringes "Didn't mean to dad-out on ya."

"I'd love to read some of your writing sometime, granted you'd be comfortable enough to share." Mr. Reed interjects.

"Uh, yeah. Maybe. Sometime..."

"Can I top you up?"

"Sure." He fills my glass just to the midpoint and does the same for himself.

"Jonathan?" He smirks playfully at dad.

"Ah, I dunno, I should probably be getting some shut-eye actually."

"Aw come on,"

"No, no, these days if im up past 10 with a drink in hand I'll be totally useless the next 24 hours." He stands, patting my shoulder. "Night, y'all. Don't have too much fun without me!" And there go the finger guns so now it's my turn to cringe.

He finally leaves the room and I'm alone with Mr. Reed. There's a heavy silence in the air and I take a small sip of my drink.

"So, (y/n), big on Lana Del Rey I hear?" He smirks.

"One of my favorites." I breathe, forcing a smile.

"Norman Fucking Rockwell or Blue Banisters?"

"NFR."

His eyebrows raise "it's okay to be wrong."

"But I'm not."

"Lust for Life or Born To Die; Paradise Edition?"

"... you ask hard questions, Mr. Reed."

"And you... answer them."

"And if I give you another 'wrong' answer?"

"Why would it matter? Are you trying to impress me?"

"...Paradise." I squint at him.

"Mm, see? We agree on something."

I'm powerless to the smile that forms on my face.

"Yeah?"

He lets out a low laugh. "Yeah,"

"What drew you to her, originally I mean?" He looks me over.

"Well, like a lot of young women I do have the obligatory depression diagnosis and Tumblr account combo, and things spiraled out from there I guess..."

"Ah, and here I thought it was just your ill-suited attraction to old men!" He lets out a warm chuckle at his own joke and I must've misheard him.

"What?" I shift a bit in my place on the couch, called out.

He scoffs. "Come on, (y/n). Let's not play this game. You've been eyeing me up since dinner, sitting there and sipping your drink and sucking berries off your fork in the most salacious way, letting your gaze linger, innocent and doe-eyed yet so apathetic to it all," he rolls his eyes like he might be as well, "when in reality, it seems, correct me if I go wrong, but you've been looking at me all night like you want me to touch you. Is that accurate or am I projecting a fantasy?"

The tip of his tongue trails his lip, my gaze following its path and I'm warm. His eyes search mine, that was supposed to be a question.

"Uhm... no that... that sounds...accurate..." I admit almost silently, eyes boring into the floor as I sheepishly take another sip of my wine.

"Hm. I see. And in front of your father too...tsk, naughty girl. Lucky for you the man's terrible at reading body language or subtext of any variant,"

Mr. Reed rises from his chair across the coffee table and plants himself on the edge of the sofa next to me. "I, however, do not have that problem." I look up at him and his eyes are two blue marbles behind those wireframed glasses, his cheshire smirk enough to melt me, it's overwhelming.

My face grows hot and my body tight as he delicately removes the wineglass from my hand, sets it down on the coffee table, and leans down to kiss me.

He's tender and gentle and his lips are soft, his tongue stained with blueberry filling as it finds mine, and he strokes my cheek. I place a shaky hand on his knee and one of his covers it as he presses his forehead to mine, breaking the spell. "Are you certain this is something you want, (y/n)? I wouldn't want to impose-" I cut him off with another, more assertive kiss because I need this.

The holidays are stressful and I'm horny and he's here. Fuck it.

As we continue making out, Mr. Reed scoots onto the couch beside me and I find his zipper. His dick jumps to meet my hand through the fabric as one of his hands slips under my sweater and he moans at the softness of my breast.

I pull away to unzip his pants and stroke him a couple times before moving to kneel between his legs. I look up to him, reverent, then back down to his cock, throbbing in hand. Giving him a few steady strokes, I lean forward, parting my lips.

"Can I?" I blink.

He nods eagerly, transfixed.

I take as much of him into my mouth as I can and swallow as his tip hits the back of my throat.

I hear him suck in a breath and his hands find my hair as I start to bob my head over the length of him, holding his balls with one hand and methodically stroking his base with the other. His breath catches, ragged and I feel him spasm in my mouth. I need him. I finally come up for air with a gasp and wipe a tendril of spit off my lower lip as I look up at him. "Mr. Reed, I want to fuck you," I breathe.

"Well all you had to do was ask," he sighs and I pull myself up off the floor, undoing my jeans and tugging them off my legs as quickly as I can before tearing off my sweater and within seconds I'm standing before him in just my panties and bralette. His eyes trail over me. His teeth sink into his lower lip as a hand wraps around his dick and I place a knee on either side of his legs, straddling him. Fair is fair and my fingers slip under the hem of my panties so I can work myself for him as he takes me in.

"How do you want me?"

"Turn around."

I follow his blunt instruction and as I do his fingers hook into either side of my panties, pulling the dampened fabric down my legs.

"Now, you're going to squat down for me... slowly."

I do as I'm told and he guides my hips, lining himself up with my center. Mr. Reed rests his hands on the tops of my thighs, pushing me further down into his lap and I gasp as I feel him begin to penetrate me. I knew it was big, I mean, he could barely fit in my mouth, but christ. I swivel my hips in an attempt to adjust to him, and hear him draw in a breath.

"(y/n), I want you to bounce for me, and you. will. not. make. a sound. understood?"

"Y-yes Mr. Reed."

I start to raise and lower myself slowly on him and gasp sharply as I feel myself tense. He holds me steady by my biceps and guides me up and down.

"Good, that's- ohh that is good, just keep going... mm, mhm, just. like. that. you. Are. Brilliant..." he murmurs, squeezing my ass and I bite back a moan

"Shhhh-shh..."

"Ssorry Mr. Reed," I manage quietly.

He continues to guide my movements, faster now, and I watch his head tip against the back of the couch. His cock twitches inside me and gasp sharply.

"(y/n), stand for me?" And I do.

He turns me around by my hips and I blink down at Mr. Reed and he's panting, glasses perched on top of his head, looking me over hungrily.

"Lay back on the couch here, pet."

He sets a pillow down for me to rest my head on and I do as he says, watching him part my legs, settling between them as he presses gentle kisses up my inner thighs, staring intently into my eyes as he does.

He hovers over my core and I gasp at the warmth of his breath. I watch Mr. Reed's eyes close for a moment as he inhales the scent of my sex and smirks to himself.

"Does your pussy taste like Pepsi Cola then, (y/n)?" He lets out a low chuckle at his own corny little quip, bringing his mouth closer "Shall we find out?"

He pins my thighs open and slowly licks a wide stripe up my vulva from entrance to clit. I can't hold back the whimper that slips from me at the heat of his tongue, and it's even harder to silence msyelf when he dips two fingers into me, curling the pads of his fingertips just slightly as he steadily works me, his tongue moving in a synced rythym against my clit.

The sensation is almost too much and I gasp as I feel myself spasm a couple times around his fingers. He hums into me and the vibration sends a shudder through my body. He tilts his head up, panting as he continues fingering me, and my hips arch up to meet his hand.

He removes his fingers, pressing them against the plush of my lower lip and into my mouth. I suck and lick impatiently, and before long his mouth is on mine again as I feel his cock slip back into me. I can't help the soft moan that escapes my lips as he begins to slowly rock his hips into mine.

"Mister Reed?" I breathe

"Mm?"

"It's... you're just...so big...." He smirks.

"Oh, I'm aware dear." He picks up his pace some "You're taking me so well, though..." he presses a kiss into the side of my neck and I gasp.

"Being so good for me..."

A loud creak interrupts us from overhead and Mr. Reed stops moving, eyes glued upwards as he clamps his hand over my mouth.

Heavy footsteps make the floorboards groan above us as he slowly starts to fuck me again and I take in a sharp breath through my nostrils, looking up at him, panicked.

"Shhh, shh-" another low creak.

Mr. Reed quickens his thrusts and I involuntarily whine against his hand which finds it's way to my neck instantly, holding firm.

"I said. Be quiet." He whispers sternly.

I bite my lip in an effort not to cry out, nodding and I begin to feel that familiar tension coiling inside as he bucks into me, my mind going totally blank at the way his hand feels wrapped around my throat.

The footsteps and floorboards finally stop, his grip on my neck releases some, and a warm haze overtakes my body as he continues to forcefully piston into me. I feel myself starting to tense up and struggle for breath as I unwind completely under him.

Seconds later, Mr. Reed lets out a low groan and I feel his orgasm pulse out acutely within me as I weather my own.

We lay there for a few minutes and as we come down together, the weight of our indiscretion settles in some.

I've just fucked my dad's best friend. Three days before Christmas. And I liked it. A lot.

"Needed.. that..." I huff.

"I could tell," he chortles.

Mr. Reed slips out of me, grabbing one of the discarded linen napkins from the coffee table to clean himself off with, before gently tucking it between my legs.

"Oh, and... it does, by the way."

Part 2❄️

#em.fic4 #friend of the family #hugh grant #mr reed #heretic #mr. reed #mr reed x reader #mr. reed x reader #mr. reed x fem reader #friend of the family fic #mr. reed smut #smut

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lovelykhaleesiii · 2 years ago

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ok but chubby!Aeg with a new wife reader and him just fucking her constantly with a breeding kink and barely letting her out of his chambers until his family finds her would be incredible...

And good luck with your period beautiful, it seems I'm headed there as well

sorry for the delayed response lovely, hope you are better now xox this ask is delicious, thank you for sending it in! any type of Aeg with a breeding kink is something else...

Duty to the Realm.

PAIRING: chubby!King!Aegon ii Targaryen x Queen!fem!Reader

WORDS: 3,522.

WARNINGS: arranged marriage, breeding kink, lactation kink, pregnancy kink, slightly cruel!Aegon ii, female receiving (f*ingering), edging, overstimulation, creampie, cockwarming, swearing, posessive!Aegon, p in v sexual intercourse, mentions of pregnancy/birth.

A/N - I may have gotten carried away a little bit, but that's okay. shoutout for my bitchass anon, that seems to be OBSESSED with me, enjoy reading and hating on this asshole.

The marital duty expected of the woman to the man was one of a common, natural phenomena, that many in the realm would often not bat an eye to, yet one that held great anticipation for you, in your case. Particularly considering, your lawful husband was no other than the sole King of the Seven Kingdoms. An heir was the ultimate and primary responsibility, expected of you both to fulfil. A royal decree and order of the Faith.

He was to bed you as much as it pleased your Sire, as you were to carry and birth as many lively heirs as possible, blessed as the Gods saw fit. Your anointed Septas had spoken to you countlessly to this coming night, and your dearest mother before her untimely passing: all reinstating the other, that childbirth was no easy game. A duty of womankind and also an honour. To be blessed by the Mother herself, with the gift to carry and birth healthily.

Nonetheless, arrangements made, your House meticulously selected, as your husband to be, Aegon the Second of his name, had been thoroughly consulted by his liege council, thought that the most viable candidate to bear the shared responsibility of carrying out the infamous Targaryen dynasty, was you. Now that the Dance had come to its long-awaited end, Aegon the ultimate successor, reparations needed to be made and lines secured for the generations forthcoming.

The wedding was a swift and grandiose occasion: rich food and wine, opulent gifts and crowds [many faces unfamiliar to yourself] gathered in abundance, the union was legitimised by the Faith of the Seven, binded by law. Aegon scarcely spoke to you during the special occasion besides catching his lingering, lilac eyes fleeting over towards you. Strangely you had also noticed, Aegon would not allow for you to speak for yourself. Often promptly intercepting, answering general questions and well wishes on your behalf, before a peep escaped your reddened lips: you found it odd and somewhat harrowing.

It was an ambivalent feeling, as though Aegon acknowledged your physical presence, yet refused to grant you the privilege to speak nor appreciate you? You felt trivial against his stance, nothing more than a vessel at his complete disposal. You came to the haste, haunting conclusion of neglect... "Aegon does not love me."

Aegon took you to bed that dreadful night, ruling against his Council for a meek audience to be present. He vowed a promise, his lingering words "the deed will be done" remained echoing in your thoughtlessly numb mind. The door locked as Aegon saw to it himself, no words spared other than fleeting glances, as he took a swift swing of his Dornish wine that accompanied him, as he departed from the feast with you. Observing Aegon this near, his authority in the realm, was not the only quality in him that held a substantially formidable presence...

Unlike his younger brothers, Aegon was fuller in size. His stocky thighs and legs accentuated in size by the tightly fitted breeches, was accompanied by a portly round stomach that looked tense and swollen from the delectable wedding feast and drinking. Not that you had much of an appetite that evening, however, Aegon did not halt when a full serving was laid in front of him, nor the seconds that he demanded for, or a slice of the exquisite cake. One thing you had noticed tonight that you had never heard of before, was that Aegon had an impressive appetite. Whether it was from the nerves of having to bed a woman he scarcely knew, or the undeniable, looming fear of failing to provide an heir, he ate intensely and seemed to enjoy himself rather. The way he'd savour his last few bites, eyes rolling back in satisfaction, how he did not shy away from sculling two full pitchers worth of wine [yet remained stable on his feet and wickedly alert]. Although, a strange, yearning sensation began to churn below, a dull ache growing stronger right between your inner thighs, as you fleetingly observed Aegon's large hand tenderly palming over his distended belly. Close enough in his proximity, you heard an occasional low belch escape from Aegon's plump, greasy lips, poorly attempting to muffle his discomfort with a tight fist over his mouth.

Now in the privacy of your shared, royal chambers, his arms looked strong and sturdy: the flesh of his fingers pooling tightly around his precious rings. Although his face was wildly handsome as most Targaryen men beared celestial-like attributes, history would tell. The ruggedness remaining evident from blatant, healing scars strewed across the side of his cheek and forehead, proof of the recent battles he had bravely fought and won, did not hinder your undeniable attraction towards him. And yet, there was also a softness to his features, the flesh of his jaw ample and blurred, his cheeks plump.

You prayed in that very moment, that Aegon was just as pleased about you, as you were with him.

Undressing himself off his fine fabrics, lashing the pieces onto the floor as though they cost nothing, your tense body froze completely, as Aegon took slow strides towards you. Only inches apart, his rough hands snaking their way behind your illustrious gown, untying the strings effortlessly, as though this was not the first time he had bedded a woman.

"You know what is expected of you," Aegon firmly uttered, his tone unfaltering and deep, you felt your body grow rigid, as his rough hands met your bare skin, the gown loosely falling off your body.

Your naked body rigid, and mind frail, you could not muster the valour to respond timely, seemingly infuriating Aegon.

"Speak woman, use your words for me."

Feeling his thumb simultaneously flicking at your sensitive, perked nipple, sent shivers down your spine, his fierce, glowing eyes cursing from your breasts to your timid face.

"Y-Yes, my dear," You delicately stuttered, your sullen breath hitching in your throat, as you tried to focus solely on fixating your gaze on Aegon and not daring to look to the ground.

"Hmm, therefore you realise what is expected of me, yes? As your dutiful husband and as the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you understand what I must do to you, yes?"

Aegon's hand that was previously occupied playfully kneading and teasing your breast, now sneaked below to your waist, along with his other, his fingertips firmly tightening around the curves for your hips. His head tilted down, lowering his taller height to meet yours, as his lips found their way melting over your flushed skin.

"Y-Yes my King. Y-Yes, Aegon. A child I must bear, an heir... As many heirs as you see fit my King, I will do as you ask, as you please."

A low growl etched from Aegon's throat, animalistic even, as they momentarily broke free from you, as his thumb now gently grazing over your blush cheek and shut lips.

"Together we share this burden, but rest assured, my dear. I will do everything in my power to ensure the Kingdom has an heir. If that means fucking you day and night, sealing you in this room and chaining you to this bed then so be it. Till your dripping proudly of my seed until you take. Not until I see your belly swell greatly with my babe growing inside, may I let you roam the halls freely once more. Understood?"

"Understood."

That night Aegon took you to bed with caution and great intent. He was effortless in handling you, guiding and adjusting your body according to his positions, lifting and carrying you as though you weighed nothing more than a feather. Kissing you abundantly and with passion, often suckling at your tender flesh around your neck and breasts, you felt the spots that he had latched onto growing sore. His eager mouth occupied, his free hand found its way to your cunt, now moist with excitement, throbbing for something more. He remained generous, inserting two of his longest, thick digits inside, pumping himself in a steady, slow pace, feeling your keen walls stretching mildly, clenching around the base of his knuckles, the deeper he plunged himself in. With each helpless moan that slipped from your mouth that he earned, the deeper he shoved himself in, feeling a slick smirk spread against your neck.

"That's it, my love. You don’t even need to tell me just how bad you need your King to fuck you, I can practically feel your body begging for me, baby."

Countless more breathless moans escaped your lips that you'd desperately bit shut, that you could no longer resist. The silent void of the room gradually filling with the natural sounds of lust, as you stuttered and whimpered your King's name aloud.

"Ugh- A-Aeg. I need my King n-now. I w-want my Aeg-"

"Fuck-" Aegon spat, his teeth softly biting down on the ample flesh of your breast, tugging at your tender skin, causing a sharp jolt of pain to shock you, before letting loose. All the while unknowing to you, your Grace had a third digit inserted deep within your walls, his fist now coated in your pooling wetness, oozing between the gaps of your entrance, as his pace had hasten, his thick fingers deeply inside pumping and pushing against the natural tightness of your enclosure. The strange, dense weight and friction of his fingertips rousing against your sensitive clit.

"That's right. Warming you up so, yet it seemed you were already a soaking mess for me, my love.”

Muffled moans as you weakly attempted to fight the urge to scream and beg for more. Aegon's wicked fingers inside, tormenting you as he quickened his pace and the ferocity of his motion. Your back arching lusciously, as your hips bucked upwards and back again, motioning for more.

"Think you are ready for me, baby? Think you are ready to take my cock, till I fuck you full of my hot seed. Are you ready to be a mother?"

"Y-Yes, Aeg!" You breathlessly yelp, your hands having instinctively found their way to his platinum locks, the mottled strands caught in your fingers, as you grasped and pulled at his roots. As your arms outstretched below your sides, your breasts naturally shoved and pressed together in unison, accentuating your obvious cleavage more so, that Aegon helplessly found himself tempted. Only a second bypassed, before the bulky King found himself crawling further up atop your yielding body, with great effort, huffing and puffing as he subtly caught his breath, before burying his handsome face between, suckling at your hard, perky nipples. His heavy, round belly laid sprawled against your own abdomen, feeling his clothed, rigid cock beneath his tight pants, the tense bulge probing at your inner thigh walls.

"Soon these will be greatly full of the Mother's blessed milk, and I will relish myself with the spoils of my babe growing inside. Knowing that it was all my undoing, that made you so. Gods be good, they will be full enough, practically leaking from the vast supply. Our babes will be well fed, and I, too, hmm."

"A-Aeg, I need you. F-Fuck a babe into me, a-and I shall feed and fuck you, a-as you please."

"Mhmm, my good, pretty wife. Already at my mercy-"

Feeling the rush movements of Aegon's free hand below [as the other remained steadying himself], you had no sense of what was occurring below, nor could you see, as his stout belly blocked your view. Yet the sudden, grazing sensation of his moist, hard cock teasing at the entrance of your wet, throbbing folds, you could bear it no more.

"You promise you can take me, baby? Show me how well of an obedient wife you can be, just as much of a pretty one you are."

No warning and no remorse, Aegon shoved his thick, stiff cock into your aching, tight cunt. Despite Aegon's perilous efforts of 'warming you up', nothing amounted to the concoction of sheer ecstasy and pain that coarsed through your veins, as your King's cock, stretched you out, pushing your limits beyond comfort. And yet, you could feel the familiar, dull throbbing sensation growing more palpable by the second: desperately trying to clench around the girth of his fat, bulky circumference, your nails digging into the plump adipose flesh of his broad shoulders and back, as you remained stagnant and tense around him.

"That's it, baby- Fuck. D-Doing so, so well for me. I can just fucking feel how tight you really are around me, fuck! L-Let me just break into you, easy, easy now-"

Moaning cries and whimpers filled Aegon's ears, yet he remained focused. His pace although messy and sloppy was steady, slowly slowly, thrusting himself as equipped as his larger frame would allow him, his solid weight weighing him down against you, you move no further than squirm with remaining, great effort. Feeling his pulsating cock inside, striking adamantly against your cervix, and the pressure of his swollen, distended gut, pressing from above, with each passing second as you felt an immense, stimulating arousal brewing from below. The fierce, physical tensity of Aegon's size inside and out, was invigorating, as your body obediently attempted to adjust to your husband's size.

"Good-Good wife. That's it, baby, I'm going to cum any second now. Fuck this pretty, tight cunt of yours was needy for her King to spoil. I can feel how desperate you are for my babe, huh?"

"Y-Yes, Aeg-"

"I'm going to keep you locked up, all for myself. Till I can fuck as many heirs as I see fit. U-Until this entire quarter is full of our babes, till the realm can hear their cries. You and this tight cunt of yours are not leaving. Not until I'm fucking satisfied. All mine, now."

"Of-Of course, my King-"

"Fuck, Y/N, was I right about you, huh? Obedient from the start, you greedy, little brat, you wanted this just as much as I. Could you imagine yourself as I did, only full of my royal seed, only you worthy to take me."

"O-Only me. M-Made just for you, Aeg, as the Gods deemed it."

"No, woman. I deemed it. I made the decision. I wanted you. O-Only this cunt to take my seed, these hips to grow wide for the birth, and this belly to swell proudly. Till I see these tits leak and you waddling around, begging me to hold and carry you, this was all my undoing from the start. I am the King, the closest thing to the Gods, and farthest from men."

"Th-Then I am eternally at your mercy and will. M-My beloved-"

As you felt the tense excitement sparking below, the invigorating relief as your wetness had reached a peaking climax, the shudder of chills that echoed through your body, the momentum evaporated, as you twitched and felt feeble against Aegon’s sturdy build. Your wetness drenching his cock, as it once more, oozed heavily against your folds and inner thighs. Aegon's immediate, instinctive release adjunct to your own, earned a mouthful of deep, growling moans and breathless swears from the King himself in relief. His hot, ample seed shot through inside, painting your inner walls, as you felt his body weight drop even more against you, all energy exerted.

Shifting himself to your side, as to not suffocate you against his bulky frame, embracing your flustered, exhausted self in his strong arms, his twitching, thick cock, however remained buried inside.

"Tonight we shall remain united as man and woman, like so. Heed my words earnestly, Y/N. Until I see this belly grow round and full, you will stay in this chamber, until I say otherwise. You obey no other orders unless directly from me, understood? I will send maids to help you, you will not lift a single finger so long as you are my wife. You answer to no one but me.”’

Feeling your nod against his plump, meaty chest. Aegon’s hands found their way to your unkempt, loose hair. Brushing the strands off your sweaty, blush face. Although his words were stern and mildly threatening, his actions remained tender.

“B-But what if the Gods do not see me fit to mother your heirs? W-what if I am… What if I am barren, my King?”

Aegon’s silence was eerily unnerving, although his breath did not hitch in shock of your sudden question, his breathing now regained to stability, remained unfaltering as he contemplated.

“You are my wife, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If anyone wishes to question your purpose in my life, regardless of whom, will answer to me… The King. And they will anguish as I see fit.”

The bright days and chill nights had passed since the wedding night. Aegon, committed to his promise, whenever his duty fulfilled and time free, he would return to you, only to embrace you, love you and fuck you. Proudly filling you day and night full of a fresh batch of his seed, despite practically still being a drenching mess from when he had last left you. Servants attended to your every need: when he felt he had you exhausted, pushed to your limits, your body delicate and tiresome eyes drifting off to a deep slumber. He would let you be, only sharing close proximity as he embraced you cozily. He ordered the chefs to have your supper and meals sent piping hot, in a timely manner and occasionally found himself joining you in attendance, than his own family feasts. A table set up for the both of you, an intimate quiet dinner between a husband and his wife. He much preferred your company, anyways.

His family, more often the Dowager Queen and Hand, himself, promptly questioned Aegon regarding your whereabouts, he would disclose to you.

“At one point my dear mother had feared you’d run away,” Aegon chuckled, as he scoffed a piece of his roast down, followed by a scull of his wine.

“And what if I had? Would you let me be, or have Ser Arryk sent out to seek me out, dear husband?”

Aegon’s familiar eyes flashed towards you instantly, although the longing, tender look was replaced with a cold, menacing pierce.

“Go against this union, means you go against my decision… The decision of your King. I would send out a whole battalion if need be, and when I have you in my grasp, I will rid you of this luxury and see to it that I lock you up in one of the cells below the Red Keep. Fuck you like a common whore, and summon you like a predator to its prey. Until I’m certain you’ve learnt your lesson… Now are you still tempted to run?”

Shaking your head promptly, Aegon’s half-hearted smirk was enough to ease the tension. With all the intimacy involved, you had both gradually become quite comfortable with one another, enough to speak your minds, as Aegon often urged from you on your behalf. Although, only between you two. He firmly ordered for servants and guards alike, to be absent during your shared moments, in an attempt to ease you into speaking with confidentiality and also, to avoid whispers being spread. After the Dance, Aegon was often sceptical of people’s intentions, considering all the treachery he’d been exposed to during the early years of his reign.

Regardless, it was Aegon who was the first to notice subtle changes, only adding it all up when you had meekly disclosed to him that you had not bled in the past two months. Immediately he sought a guard to fetch for the maester and soon enough, his long-awaited wishes had been confirmed.

Aegon often watched over you more intensely now, his eyes ogling over your swelling belly, how the waistline of your gown had grown slightly tighter around your stomach, and your breasts looking fuller, more sensitive under his teasing touch. Relieved, however it was far from the end for Aegon... The King himself, had become even more brutally protective over you, and the babe inside, still adamant on keeping you confined, rested and guarded.

"No harm will come towards you or the babe, so long as I breathe and rule."

He even had Sunfyre tenaciously fly above your tower, granting him peace of mind that no threat could overpower the fury of a dragon.

Nonetheless, the Gods had blessed you to full term, and a healthy babe was born. A son, a true embodiment of the Targaryen dynasty, and the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon was beyond sated that you and the babe had recovered from the gruelling nature of birth, and seldom to his words, he allowed you free to roam, with the newborn warmly nestled in your arms, and Aegon relentlessly by your side. That was until, the King felt the desire for yet another heir to be proclaimed."Need I remind you of our wedding night, my beloved... You promised your King as many heirs. It is only natural as a true-born Targaryen, that I take what is mine."

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Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe

credit for divider - @/babesindestroyland