#like the handprint on the jacket! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sanakiras · 3 months ago

Text

LIAR, LIAR!

PAIRING — kim mingyu x fem!reader

❝ AND THE DANCE FLOOR IS FILLING UP WITH BLOOD, BUT OH LORD, YOU’VE NEVER BEEN SO IN LOVE! ❞

WORD COUNT — 13.5k

SYNOPSIS — in a dramatic turn of events, a rich businessman is found dead in his lavish estate, and the authorities believe it was no accident. as the detectives dig deeper, they ultimately end up with two key suspects: you, the businessman’s very own daughter, and your sworn enemy, kim mingyu. as the time progresses, tensions rise and secrets spill — and the truth has the power to either bring you closer together or tear you apart.

TAGS — murder mystery, rich rivals to partners in crime to lovers, whole lotta plot, explicit sexual content, somewhat graphic depictions of death, everyone and everything is dysfunctional™, mentions of suicide, unrealistic circumstances, moral compass is nowhere to be found, angst, medium long hair!gyu bc self-indulgence, tsundere-ish reader again guys sorry i love her so bad, mentions of parental neglect, this ended up so long help

♪ verydeadly - wolves (kanye west cover),, low - dancing and blood,, vessel - red sex,, florence + the machine - mermaids,, zayn - bordersz,, mikky ekko - who are you, really?,, q - alone,, danna paola - tenemos que hablar,, blue foundation - eyes on fire (4 ave version),, summer camp - i want you

NOTE — one of my favorite episodes of going seventeen remains bad clue 2020, i loved mingyu’s role in it and i could totally see him portraying darker/morally grey characters and rock tf out of it so. i wrote this solely based on that idea. the music recs above are also really nice to get into the vibe! enjoyyyy :D

[ RETURN TO PART ONE ] ✧˚ · .⋆ ★ [ TWO ]

viii. I LOVE YOU LIKE A DRUG

november has a harsh cold to it that goes right through the skin of your cheeks. with your long black coat and matching gloves, you walk through the city, heading towards your lawyer’s office.

it’s been a few days since you last saw or talked to mingyu. you’ve been thinking about the kiss constantly, unable to stop it from clouding your mind. it’s hard to believe you hated his guts for years and completely changed your opinion on him within months — he took you by surprise on that. which you’re not sure how you feel about.

it’s as if his handprints were etched into your skin. you can still remember exactly how it felt, where they were. more importantly, perhaps, you know what your mind keeps leading to when the memory runs through your head.

that you want nothing more than for him to put his hands on you again. you want him so much that you have to clench your fists and tell yourself to get it together.

the universe must like to mess with you, as you receive a text from him at that exact moment. stopping in your tracks on the street, you’re just about to read it when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

once you’ve looked up from your phone, you see the devil himself standing there with a meek little smile on his face, which has you scoffing when he greets you. “hi.”

his dark hair is slicked back as he sports a thick winter jacket, jeans and black shoes. god, he’s handsome. why is he so annoying?

instead of responding to his greeting, you just speak your mind. “what’re you doing here?”

“chan mentioned you had an appointment in the neighborhood, so here i am. i wanted to see you.”

“why?”

“what, am i not allowed to visit my partner in crime?”

you purse your lips. “i thought we both agreed on discretion regarding our relationship.”

“and what kind of relationship is that?”

“an understanding.” your response comes out colder than anticipated, but you stick with it. “look, gyu, what we did… we probably shouldn’t do it again.”

he seems surprised. and a little disappointed, which he hides very quickly, but not quick enough.

so he pouts at you, doing his best not to dwell on it. “okay. any particular reason?”

you inhale sharply, trying to give him the best possible excuse you can come up with. “we agreed to keep it professional, didn’t we?”

“we did.” he nods, speaking in a way as if he were focusing on something else. “is that all there is to it? or do you have another reason?”

his gaze is playful, which makes you smile as you look down at your feet for a moment. “i’m sure you can fill the blanks.”

“interesting choice of words.”

“god, you’re such a perv.”

mingyu laughs when you punch his shoulder, his hand comfortable on your lower back. you don’t swat it away, utterly contradicting your previous words, but you can’t find it in yourself to care that much.

two days later, you’re over at his apartment, continuing your research where you left off last week, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining things, but it feels like there is a palpable tension in the air. soft rain taps against the windows while you’re looking at some security footage his friend seungkwan sent over about an hour ago.

with the two of you sitting beside eachother as you’re looking at the screen of your laptop, you find it difficult to focus on the footage, because you feel electrified by his mere presence. it’s ridiculous. he accidentally brushes your knee with your hand, and you feel a rush going through your body. a candle is lit on the table — his tan skin looks beyond beautiful, his brown eyes piercing through yours like never before.

you want him.

you. want. him. and no one else.

it’s driving you nuts, and as if he can read your mind, he begins to talk about it.

“i haven’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss.”

while the footage keeps playing in the background, you bite your lip, sucking in a breath. “gyu.” you say his name in a near scolding manner.

“do you like me?” he suddenly turns his head to face you, which feels borderline intrusive. like he’s able to see everything that’s going on in your head and heart.

it steals your breath, making your voice sound somewhat strained as a result, and you can’t even bring yourself to lie about it any longer. “i might.”

“i like you. a lot.” he says, and when you think he’s getting closer to you, you stand up from your seat, doing whatever you need to do to get it back together. you don’t want him to know how you really feel, so you clench your fists in your place, your back facing him.

“what does it matter? we’re nothing more than partners. that’s all there is to it.”

as you shake your head to yourself, he gets up as well, moving to stand behind you. “is that why you kissed me?”

“it was just the heat of the moment.”

“you’re a good liar — but not that good.” mingyu shamelessly eyes your body up and down, and when you look over your shoulder, he meets your gaze with something that appears to resemble pride, in a way.

arrogance, perhaps.

for whatever reason, that ticks something off in you. “you want me to be honest? fine. i don’t want to like you, mingyu. i didn’t want to enjoy that kiss. i’ve spent years hating you to the bone, and changing that opinion on you feels like betraying myself.”

he blinks at your sudden and blunt confession, but it’s honest and clear to him.

then he nods in understanding.

“just… hypothetically, if i said i wanted to kiss you again, what would you do?”

you notice a clear difference in his tone, his breathing, his eyes dropping down to your lips — oh, he’s fucking turned on. he knows you want him as badly as he wants you. you both know it.

“i’d tell you it was a one-time thing.”

he gets closer to you, eyelids hanging low and the hint of that damn smirk tugging at his mouth. “how about one more? for good measure. just to get our rocks off.”

the proposition is almost laughable, yet you selfishly find yourself agreeing. “just once?”

“just once.” the palm of his hand cups your jaw, and you know you’re done for when you lean in first, causing him to smile triumphantly right before his lips lock with yours.

this is what you’ve both been yearning for the past week. now that you have it, it feels like drugs, almost — addicting.

you kiss him with vigor, and his tongue slips into your mouth, leaving you aching for more. it’s when his hand pulls you closer by your waist that you force yourself to back away from him, both you and him gasping for air.

“gyu, we were supposed to—”

“keep things professional, i know,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against yours as if he has to make the biggest decision of his life, “but i don’t want to anymore.”

his hands are still on your waist, trailing down to the flesh of your upper legs, and he squeezes it, feeling sick at the idea of someone touching you there that’s not him.

“need you so bad. please — let me touch you.”

looking at his desperate form for a moment, you internally decide to go for whatever your body wants — and that’s to have him tonight.

so you roll your eyes, pulling him to you by his black t-shirt, your hands on the back of his neck before he can comprehend it. he hoists you up by the back of your thighs, taking you to his spacious bedroom.

your back touches the soft bed within seconds. his hands continue to glide up and down your body, and he subtly puts his one hand underneath the hem of your shirt, fingers touching your warm skin, and you almost forget to breathe.

mingyu feels your fingers pulling at the waistband of his jeans, and he relishes in how eager you are. he kisses your neck and moves lower painfully slowly, causing you to writhe underneath him, because you need him now.

it’s certainly a first for you to have such a need and desperation to fuck someone. and for him, of all people. if you had known about this in the morning, you wouldn’t have believed it.

but then again, the tension has been brewing between you two for years, reaching its highest point over the last couple weeks.

maybe he was onto something when he suggested for you to fuck him back in the strip club.

his lips are touching your bare stomach, and you show a hint of dominance by undoing the buttons of your pants and shoving down your panties, putting your hand on his head to guide it between your legs.

and he just lets you.

he takes your pants and underwear from your ankles and discards the pieces on the floor, hands on the back of your thighs once more as he pushes them to lean over his shoulders.

the first few seconds are spent basking in his excitement. his heart races when he looks you in the eye, and he grins to himself before diving in.

for some reason, he feels this primal urge to prove himself to you, to make you feel good like no one ever has before.

whatever the hell it is that made him have such a massive change of heart, he doesn’t know.

but he does know one thing — he worships the ground you walk on.

so to hear you gasp and whine for him when he eats you out only spurs him on to keep going, to make it dirtier and messier and keep having you moan his name.

mingyu encourages you to pull on his hair, and with each strand being pulled, he grows harder in his pants. he moans at the pain, humming against your pussy while his tongue is buried inside you.

you’re grinding against his face and he hums again, loving the feeling. “rub it in my face, baby, ‘s so good—” he babbles as his cock is rock-hard and throbbing against the fabric of his jeans, and he rubs his hard-on against the matress to get any kind of friction.

over the course of the years, even while hating him, you wondered if he was good in bed.

you didn’t think your question was going to be answered by first-hand experience.

he’s not only sickeningly good at providing pleasure — he seems to get off on it, too. your fingers clamp on his long strands of hair, thighs around his head, almost suffocating him, and even when you hit your first climax, he just keeps going. his tongue moves as if you’re not completely crumbling before him.

with a sudden sensitivity hitting you, you have to pull his face from your pussy, and he looks at you with lust-blown eyes and your wetness smeared over his lips and chin.

yeah, you fucking like him. jesus.

the little fang-shaped teeth he has show themselves when he grins at the mess he’s made of you. “want me to go again?”

“would you?”

“i’d keep going for hours if that’s what you want.”

pressing your lips together, you inhale deeply, ‘cause he looks like he means it, too. “well, as great as that sounds, i want you in me. now.”

he would’ve had a damn field trip eating you out again, but he certainly won’t complain, because he’s about to bust in his pants from just looking at you. his eyes return to your figure when you take your shirt off, dick twitching when you unclasp your lacy bra and show your completely bare body to him.

“are you just gonna keep staring?” you ask teasingly, and he needs a few seconds to get his brain running again, chuckling at your words before he removes his own clothes, pushing you back to lay you down.

“can’t help that i like what i see.”

you’re about to give him a witty retort in return when you feel the tip of his cock at the entrance of your hole, pushing forward just the slightest bit, and your lashes flutter at the sensation. he bites his lower lip at the feeling, a sudden intensity hitting the both of you.

then he pushes himself inside, inch by inch, achingly slowly. your brows scrunch together and you throw your head back, manicured nails digging into his bedsheets.

“hah—gyu—” you mumble, tension setting into your shoulderblades as he stretches you open, and you’re so tight that he feels just as suffocated as you do.

“fuck, you’re fucking tight.” he huffs out, utterly savoring your wetness wrapping around him. “can i keep going?”

at hearing the question, a breathy laugh escapes you. “how fucking big are you to have to ask that?”

“well, ‘m only halfway in right now, baby.”

fucking hell. the look on your face is borderline horrified, because jesus, you’re gonna need to adjust to him.

he lowers his chest to hover above yours, and your hands immediately move to his back, nails aching to dig into his skin. he’s only focused on your face now, and he pushes himself in all the way, watching your face contort in pain and pleasure.

your body stiffens for a second before it relaxes, and he has to hold down the urge to start moving. “that’s it. took me all the way in,” he mutters, and you nod to yourself, accidentally clamping down on him, at which he groans.

the first movements are small, slow — gentle. you release long, dragged-out moans that are the single hottest thing he’s ever heard. but he needs more, needs to get rid of the little voice in his head to fuck you hard and stupid.

he pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in, and the erotic whine you let out is just too good to his ears.

so he does it again, again, again. he fucks you to the point a different part of him takes over, ruthlessly seeking the pleasure and pain that gets him off like nothing else. he likes it fast, hard, and deep, and by the looks of it, you do too.

you’re clinging onto him with every thrust, every kiss, every moan, and he loves it.

mingyu moans, eyebrows knitted together as he’s hypnotized by the feeling of himself sheathed all the way inside you. “take it — take my fucking cock.”

“mhm. a little harder — please?” you beg, and if he wasn’t in love with you yet, he certainly is now. how on earth do you look as gorgeous as you do whilst half fucked-out, still needing more?

naturally, he gives in to you, doing whatever you ask of him. he fucks you harder, his grip on your waist tightening with each thrust.

you come to one conclusion — you don’t think anyone’s ever fucked you this good.

his mouth latches onto your tits, sucking at your nipples, and you bring his head up to kiss him again. it’s sloppy, and his movements begin to slow a little, your wetness dripping down his cock. “god, you’re fucking perfect.”

“want more, gyu. i want you to cum in me.”

“you—” he stutters out, “you want it?”

nodding at him, you even push yourself against him, his cock sinking just a little deeper into you.

so he fucks you as hard as he can until he feels himself hitting that blissful climax, continuing to roll his hips and stuff you as full of him as possible. then he sits up with a thin layer of cold sweat on his back, and he pulls himself out as slowly as he entered you, watching drops of cum seep out of your hole.

“so much for professional.” you breathe out, after which you both chuckle, and he leans in to kiss you again, and you get on top of him, taking charge, and he shivers in anticipation.

the night becomes an increasing blur with every kiss, every touch, every thrust — it’s hard to say what time it is or how many times you’ve gone at it when you finally let yourself sink into a deep sleep.

when you wake up beside him in the morning, you watch his sleeping form, your heart flutters.

it’s bizarre how he’s made you feel a kind of love you didn’t even know existed before. a feeling of great complexity and intensity that’s settled deep into your gut whenever he’s near.

as if he’s become a part of you that you can’t let go.

checking your phone, you know it’s time to get up, since you’ve got an important agenda today. yet when you try to silently slip away from his bed, you feel a warm hand on yours.

“don’t go.” he pleads, his voice lower and raspier than usual from sleeping. there’s a certain desperation in his now open eyes, and it affects you.

“i have to. appointments i can’t cancel, you know what that’s like—”

but he’s not talking about your day.

“i’m afraid of people leaving me,” he suddenly admits with a shaky tone, “and i like what we have. i like you. i guess i’m scared that… this was just a one-time thing, ‘cause it wasn’t for me. i don’t want to go back to what we were before all of this.”

processing his words, you nod, touching his cheek, reassuring him. “it wasn’t a one-time thing for me, either. you have me, i promise.”

“okay.” he gently smiles at you, his fingers caressing yours, and you lean in to press a kiss onto his lips, which he immediately reciprocates.

you give him a quick goodbye after putting your clothes on, and he’s left smiling to himself in bed while you walk out of his apartment with the same expression.

but you should know by now that all good things come to an end — one way or another.

ix. WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?

the two weeks since your first time sleeping together have been nothing but excitingly ignorant bliss. in between his meetings and family commitments and your meetings regarding your father’s business relations, you’ve been meeting eachother in the middle at every opportunity, the investigation of your father’s death fading into the background bit by bit, getting lowered on your list of priorities.

none of your friends are aware of your relationship – since it’s a secret, and neither of you have really labelled it yet – as far as you know, anyway.

being with him is comfortable to you, and surprisingly enough, he’s the first person who’s made you feel like you could breathe properly after the chaos that your father’s death caused.

“do you really have to go out at this hour?”

“yeah, unfortunately.” he presses a kiss to your lips before pulling his shirt on while you’re still naked on his bed. “i’ll be back as soon as i can, but you don’t have to wait for me, okay? it’s probably gonna take a while.”

with a sigh, you nod, pouting a little. “okay. i’ll probably go take a shower and head home after.”

he kisses the top of your head this time, and it all feels awfully domestic.

but it’s a good feeling.

mingyu takes in the sight of your bare face and body covered in nothing but his sheets, and he feels like things were meant to be like this. like you two were always indirectly tied together, and now this is your reality.

“you’re allowed to stay as long as you want. i’ll call you later, baby, yeah?” he hums against your lips, and you nod, wanting nothing more than to pull his shirt off and drag him back into bed with you.

“mhm. you should go, or you’ll be late.”

he chuckles, his mouth grazing the top of your hand before he exits the room, slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving you alone in his apartment.

after taking a short nap, you decide to get up and take a quick shower.

this might be the first time you’re completely on your own in his place — so you feel like checking out what he’s got lying around here.

it’s not because you don’t trust him, truly. you just like to snoop around a little, out of curiosity.

you peek into his drawers, his closet, his personal things, except for what he’s got kept under lock and key.

what intrigues you are the clear scratches on the floor by the cupboard. everything in his apartment is perfectly clean and clearly well taken care of, so this makes you raise a brow.

you figure the scratches were made by moving the cupboard to the side, so you do the same thing, trying to see if there’s a particular reason for it.

it’s hard to contain a scoff once you lay your eyes on what is apparently hiding behind it.

a safe hidden behind a cupboard. seriously? did he take inspiration from your father’s office or something? this is starting to get a bit weird.

the safe seems to require a code with six digits to be unlocked, and since the system and mechanics seem on the older side, you doubt it would send off any signals if someone tried out a wrong code.

biting your lip, you give in to your curiosity, and try out a few codes.

a popular choice for codes are always birthdays, often loved ones, and since mingyu is a complete softie in that regard, you figure it might be worth trying out.

you remember his father’s birthday from the tombstone at the graveyard where your father was buried as well. his mother celebrated her birthday last week, so that’s easy.

unfortunately, neither of the codes work.

fuck, what was his sister’s birthday again? you don’t remember. then an idea pops up in your head – she probably made a birthday post on social media at some point. you search the username and scan her profile, and within a minute, you’ve found it.

with your phone in hand, eyes going from the screen to the rotating dials, you enter the code, and the sound of a clicking lock causes your heartbeat to quicken.

it worked.

throwing your phone onto the bed, you open the safe, several items catching your eye.

there’s quite some things in there considering it’s such a small space. some stacks of money, a few vials with clear liquids in them, a gun, a passport with his photo but a different name – what the fuck is this? his backup plan to start a new life in case he needs it? that’s close to paranoid, especially for a guy who seemingly has no enemies.

behind the piles of dollar bills, you find a few old-fashioned cassette recorders stacked up, each of them numbered from one to ten.

as your curiosity gets the better of you once more, you take the recorders out of the safe and put them on the floor, where you sit down to listen to whatever’s on them.

you click the button at the back of the device, noise beginning to crack through the small speaker.

“i know recording myself confessing to something as grave as this could be my downfall, but… it’s something i need to get off my chest. i need to.” your hear him inhale sharply. “i’m setting a plan in motion that will lead to someone’s death. it’s not something i’m proud of, but he’s threatening my family. i don’t know what else to do.”

your eyes widen as you listen to the rest of the tape. he’s talking about killing your father, using a poison to take him out. once it’s finished, you look for the second tape with shaky fingers.

“getting it done shouldn’t be hard. the real issue is having an alibi, and if necessary, i need someone to put the blame on. the death of someone as important as him will draw attention, so should they assume he didn’t die of natural causes, they’re gonna want to convict someone. i can only think of one person who fits the criteria — his daughter.”

it’s like the confirmation you’ve been waiting for. this is what he’s been hiding all this time. of course he didn’t want to help you without an ulterior motive.

your heart breaks the moment he says it. just how much of a fool have you been?

“we’ve always hated eachother. looking back, i’m not sure how it started, but it did. she’s the only one who could have a solid motive. i don’t want to frame her, or anyone for that matter, but if the police decide it’s not an accident, i’ll have no other choice. maybe her lawyer can find a way around it.”

tape three.

“the plan is to pretend i have a lead on the killer when i’m actually planting fake evidence to make her seem like the culprit. i talked to her in the graveyard today, but she completely lashed out at me. it’s hard to tell who she hates more — me, her father, or herself. though i didn't know her hatred for me ran this deep, nor that she was this lonely. i kind of feel for her.”

tape four.

“she just agreed to be my date to the gala next week, though she's certainly not thrilled about it. understandably so, i guess. she's quite intimidating when she’s mad. maybe i should take notes, seeing how she always stands so firmly on business.”

tape five.

“i didn’t think she’d go as far as to go through my room. she’s more determined than i gave her credit for. god, i could barely keep it together when she said whoever killed her father did her a favor. it’s maybe the only good thing about this whole mess. i wanted to scream, tell her that it was me who did her that favor.”

tape six.

“leave it to her to interrupt a stripper’s lap dance and take me with her instead. the man taking money out of her father’s account was hired by me — i needed to subtly prove to her that it couldn’t have been me, ‘cause i was at the other side of the city when it happened. i was curious to see if she’d take the bait, and she did. she mentioned something about wanting someone who would let her be… uninhibited. it scared and surprised me; mostly because i want the exact same.”

tape seven.

“we broke into her father’s office together. it was… thrilling. exciting. she keeps surprising me with how daring she is. somewhere underneath that hard surface hides someone who’s aching for adventure, i think. maybe we’re more similar than i thought. and she’s so clever, i just—i like her. like, platonically, of course. we work well together. i should probably be more careful, try not to get too close. who knows what that might lead to.”

tape eight.

“i kissed her. i fucking kissed her. well, she kissed me first, but… i kept it going. not just a little peck, no, a full-on makeout session. it was… the type of kiss they talk about in the romance novels. i’ve never felt that big of a need to kiss someone before. and she’s so gorgeous, too. i wonder if she’s thinking about it as much as i am right now.”

tape nine.

“wonwoo says i have feelings for her, in a way. i… i feel like there’s no going back if i acknowledge it. but there's something about her, it's like... i'm not sure. like she and i are on the same wavelength. we’re so different yet so similar.”

tape ten.

“the police are tightening their grip. they wanna name the culprit, and fast. i’ve thought of turning myself in, but i’ll ruin the family name if i do that. my mom and sister will be cast out if that happens. and then there’s… her. god, she’s become so special to me. i can’t go through with it — i can’t. the idea of losing her makes me feel suffocated. fuck, i don’t know what to do.”

and just like that, you close your eyes for a moment.

everything falls into place.

putting the final tape to the side, your cheeks are wet from the tears that have been silently rolling down your cheeks ever since you hit the first play button.

he doesn’t really like you — of course he doesn’t. he’s just using you for his own gain, to cover up his crime.

it’s then that the heavy sobs come out. you utterly fall apart, feeling weak and manipulated and alone.

terrifyingly alone, more than ever before.

but you force yourself to stop crying by telling yourself that you won’t allow him to use you anymore. you need to be steps ahead of him now that he’s not aware of you knowing this information, so you wipe your tears away and play all the tapes again, but this time with your phone making recordings of each one of them.

overcome by your emotions, you feel ready to throw up.

whatever you’re about to do, it’ll probably come back to bite you in the ass later, but you don’t care. not anymore. everything’s already gone to hell anyways.

when mingyu arrives at his apartment a few hours later, it’s empty. he frowns when noticing that your clothes and things you had lying around are all gone, but shrugs it off, believing you probably had a good reason for taking them back home.

but when he calls you the next day, you don’t pick up. you don’t answer any of his texts. your staff by the gate tells him that no visitors are allowed into the driveway, meaning he can’t even get to your front door anymore.

something’s happened. he just doesn’t know what.

long after he’s had his dinner, the rain comes pouring down from the dark clouds in the sky, thunder rumbling in the distance as you make your way to the front door of mingyu’s apartment.

he instantly notices something is very wrong once he lays eyes on you. you look like you’ve just gone through hell and back.

you let yourself in before he can say anything, so he closes the door behind you, confusion painted across his face. “i’ve been calling you — what’s going on? did something happen?”

oh, the question immediately pisses you off even more than you already are. this is about to be fun. “well, you’d know.” you grumble.

“know what?”

“that you killed my fucking father.”

the words strike like lightning. you finding out about the truth certainly wasn’t part of the plan, and since you seem so convinced, he doesn’t have much faith in trying to convince you of his innocence.

when his surprised expression fades, you finally see the truth written all over his face. his jaw is clenched tight, lips pressed together into a thin line, and he suddenly looks very guilty. “how… how did you find out?”

“the tapes. who the fuck records their own confession to murder? were you trying to get me to find out?” you rhetorically ask, eyes blazing fire.

mingyu huffs to himself. he knew he shouldn’t have kept those tapes — fuck.

“look, i—” he swallows, attempting to mend the situation, but you don’t let him speak.

“no. you’re going to tell me exactly what you did and why you did it. you owe me that much.”

he flinches, closing his eyes for a moment, lowering his head, his way of showing he accepts his defeat. “your dad… i always thought he wanted me around because he liked me, but after all those years, that turned out to be a lie. i found out he was blackmailing my mom with evidence of my father’s wrongdoings before his passing — fraud, embezzlement, all of that. we’re talking millions of dollars here. the damage it would’ve done to my family if that ever came out… it’s something i had to prevent. hell, i wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one behind my dad’s car accident. so i did what i thought was necessary.”

you can only scoff. “of course. how noble of you.”

“i’m sorry.” he tells you, but it’s a lie. your father was a despicable man, loved by no one. not really, anyway.

“if you’re going to lie to me, at least do it well.” you scold him, turning away from him for a moment, looking at the rain outside through the large windows of his apartment. “how did you kill him? i wanna hear you say it.”

“can’t we talk about—”

interrupting him, you turn around, the pistol from his safe in your hand, and it’s pointed at him. he anxiously awaits your next move.

“don’t make me ask again. i don’t particularly feel like repeating myself.”

he shudders at the view of the gun pointed at him, but does what you tell him to. “i poisoned him. he had no idea, didn’t suspect me at all. i told him to go home, so he’d die there.”

“where i would be, too. perfect plan, huh?”

“the plan was to make it look like a death from natural causes. the poison would be out of his system by the time the authorities were to perform the autopsy on his body — but then they found him dangling from the ceiling instead. that wasn’t my doing, so i figured the poison got to him to the point he wanted a quicker way out. you were there, with a reasonable motive. i panicked and made a choice.”

inhaling sharply, your eye twitches. “you chose to frame me.”

“i was going to.”

“oh, give me a break. don’t start acting like you care about me, now.”

“except i do. it was different in the beginning — but then i just—i didn’t remember why i hated you. i couldn’t even fathom a possible reason to. i started liking being around you, and you felt it too. i know you did, you said it yourself.” he pleads, getting closer to you, not giving a damn that the barrel of the gun is touching his chest at this point.

a tear escapes your eye, but your anger is still there. “you know what the thing is, mingyu? i don’t even care that you killed him. hell, if you had come to me after our interrogations and confessed that it was you, i would’ve thanked you. what i care about is that you took advantage of me when i was vulnerable, and that you made me feel like i mattered to you when you were all just doing it for your own gain.”

it’s like you’ve ripped his heart out of his chest. he wishes he could make you understand that you’ve made him feel more alive than anyone he’s ever met, that you’ve grown to mean so much to him in a ridiculously short span of time. that he’d go to hell and back to protect you now.

“you matter to me. more than anyone else.”

all you can do is let out a sarcastic fit of laughter; you don’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. “i need you to tell me something. did you sleep with me because you actually wanted to or because you felt like you had to in order to manipulate me to get closer to you?”

he seems appalled at what you’re implying. “of course i wanted to. all i ended up wanting was you—”

“don’t you fucking lie to me!” you burst out angrily, at which he flinches, but his frustration brings him to confess his true feelings.

“it’s not a lie, because i’m in love with you!” he raises his voice in desperation, “i don’t care if you shoot me right here, right now. it won’t change how i feel about you.”

your heart shatters even more, because he sounds so genuine, yet it doesn’t make you feel the way it should.

the words should probably bring some kind of twisted comfort, but they feel like a gut punch instead. you grab your chest to stop yourself from hyperventilating. “at least i was right at the beginning. the golden boy is a fucking murderer. you’ve played your part well, i gotta admit.”

he watches you breathily laugh and cry at him, and all he can do is stare back at you with teary eyes and a guilty face.

“please don’t say that.”

“why? does it hurt, hearing the truth?”

“i swear to you—”

you shut him up by pushing him backwards with the pistol against his chest. “you know, when you bothered me after the funeral, when i had my breakdown, i wanted nothing more than to cave in your skull with a rock. looking back, i should’ve just done it. would’ve spared me this whole mess.”

surprisingly enough, you simply put the pistol back in your jacket pocket, but mingyu is just as if not more afraid of you. your gaze is the harshest, coldest, meanest he’s ever seen it. all you do is look at him and he crumbles.

and yet he still wants you. he knows you hate him to the bone, you detest every part of him, and he still. wants. you.

and he intends to show you that, because he’s willing to throw every last shred of pride and dignity he has let out the window if it means you’ll show him you want him even the smallest bit. “i’ll prove it to you. if you ask me to turn myself in, i’ll turn myself in. i’ll do it, for you.”

god, he seems so genuine in it, too.

your breaths are ragged, and you feel like you need to get literally anywhere else, out of the suffocation that is this room with him in it. you barely even noticed he’d taken a hold of your hand until now.

“i can’t do this. just—just let me leave.”

he does.

the moment the door slams shut behind you, he has to grab the nearest object to hold himself up, leaving him wondering what the hell just happened.

x. WHEN IS A MONSTER NOT A MONSTER?

the following days are spent anxiously pacing in his apartment. what is he supposed to do? what should he say to you? what should he tell the press, that he’s innocent? guilty? what should he tell his family? that he killed a man to protect them and their reputation? would they even look him in the eye if he confessed?

he waits and waits and waits for his arrest to come, for the police to barge into his home and take him away to a cold, dark prison cell — yet the day never comes.

personally, he wonders if you’re waiting it out to make you feel as shitty as you’ve probably been feeling since the day you discovered his true colors.

nearly a week after the fight between you, he decides he can’t take it anymore. he needs to see you.

you doubt you’ve ever felt as miserable as you’ve felt these past days. it’s like you’re torn between hating mingyu for taking advantage of you and hating yourself for being stupid enough to fall for it. to fall for him.

because no matter how much you want to deny it, you did.

something you desperately needed was a distraction, which is why you ended up accepting wonwoo’s invitation to the event his father is hosting tonight at his estate just outside the city. with your little black dress on and hair perfectly styled, you down a glass of champagne next to wonwoo, who looks a bit concerned. “everything okay?”

the noise of chatter and soft music in the background only overwhelms you more. “yeah. i just… haven’t had alcohol in a while.” you mutter a bullshit excuse, not really caring whether you sound believable or not.

“i get it if you don’t feel like being here right now, with everything that happened recently. i can take you home if you want.”

“and miss out on your father’s celebration?”

“there will always be another one.” wonwoo shrugs, looking at you like nothing else in the room matters. he has a little smile playing on his lips that’s far too gentle — you almost feel undeserving of a gaze that loving.

but you don’t hold eye contact with him for long, because the source of all your current problems suddenly walks into the room — and he looks good. criminally good.

the red suit with its low neckline draws even more attention to him than usual, along with several expensive pieces of jewelry adorning his wrists and fingers.

“he’s here? that’s strange. he said he wasn’t coming.” wonwoo mumbles, and you do your best to keep your composure and hide the sudden anxiety that blooms in your chest.

“shame. the party was just getting good.” you scoff to yourself, replacing your empty champagne glass with a full one.

it’s then that mingyu’s eyes find yours, and even while politely saying hello to the elders greeting him, he keeps sneaking a peek your way, as if to try to get away from the people surrounding him to get to you.

oh, fuck no. you’re not in the mood to talk to him right now.

“i’m just gonna go and use the restroom, okay? i’ll be right back.” you say to wonwoo, hoping to find yourself a spot in the shadows where you can properly get some air.

you hardly catch his response as your legs are already moving on their own, as far away from the man in red as possible.

passing through a quiet hallway, you find yourself finally alone at the bottom of a staircase, and with no one else around, you sit down on the first few steps, a sigh escaping your mouth.

“did my appearance surprise you?”

as you recognize his voice, your blood runs cold.

looking behind you, he’s standing at the top of the stairs, his hands in his pockets. he appears surprisingly relaxed, even if his fingers slightly tremble against the fabric of his trousers.

“you have some nerve showing up here.”

mingyu purses his lips. “why don’t you come up a couple steps?”

when you finally meet his gaze, his heart skips a beat. your brows are knitted together. “why would i do that?”

“because we’d be on the same level. equals.”

“is that what you want?”

“i think you already know the answer to that.”

biting your lip to yourself, you get up on your feet, heels clicking on the creaking wood with each step. once at his level, you look at him with hostility – he only shows intrigue.

“why haven’t you given me up yet? it’s been a week.”

“i have my reasons.” you shrug, the anger remaining in your features. “what? scared i’ll ruin your reputation?”

his tone suddenly changes into something more desperate, emotional. “i just want to know what you’re gonna do. if you wanna turn me over to the police, fine. but do something, please—”

“you’re not in a position to be making demands.”

“i’m not demanding, i’m asking.”

“go fuck yourself, mingyu.” you snap at him, looking around you before lowering your voice. “what did you think was going to happen when you came here tonight? that i would just let you in on everything? the last thing i owe you is an explanation.”

as the tension continues to rise between you, the argument causes you to step closer to eachother.

his chest heaves out of frustration, because you make a more than valid point, but he still has his own interests at heart. “i know that.”

“so then why show up tonight? don’t bullshit me, i know you’re not here for wonwoo.”

“are you? what are you doing here?”

“what the hell is your problem?” scoffing at him, you intend to push him by his chest, but he grabs your wrists instead.

“you are my problem.” he breathes out angrily as if he were confessing his sins, his hands remaining on your skin. “everything fell apart because of you.”

“if you’re actually trying to pin this on me, i’ll hit you in your fucking jaw until it bleeds.”

he only pulls you closer. “and i’d let you. do you still not get it?”

his grip on your wrists falters, and he softly rubs over your skin with his finger, and you hate your body for reacting to it.

christ, you think to yourself, has he been standing this close to you this whole time?

the smell of his perfume plagues your senses, and a feeling you can’t quite place washes over you when you catch him looking at your lips, and you realize his one hand is slowly gliding past your waist.

are you really going to let yourself fall into his trap again?

“everything okay?”

the words aren’t uttered by you nor mingyu — wonwoo peers up at you from your former spot at the bottom of the stairs.

of course he’s been sensing that there was something going on between you the moment you showed up at the strip club, but this clearly confuses him, since you’re still supposed to hate one another.

fuck. how much of the conversation did he hear?

mingyu hesitantly releases his hands from your body, and you take a step backwards, both of you focusing on wonwoo. “yeah, i’m fine.”

as if to make the situation even worse, the fucking inspector that’s leading the investigation appears behind wonwoo, curiously looking at his two main suspects standing side by side.

the situation feels suffocating. wonwoo points at the older man, “he was looking for you. that’s why i came to see if you were here — i didn’t know you were, um — occupied.”

“i’m not occupied.” with the way you completely disregard mingyu’s existence, it’s almost as if he weren’t even here. you make your way down the steps, smoothening over the fabric of your dress and taking a deep breath to get a hold of yourself again.

the inspector glances at mingyu one last time before asking you if he can talk to you privately, which you agree to.

mere minutes later, you’re standing in a secluded room, far away from the rest of the crowd, arms crossed over your chest, a dim light flickering on the ceiling above you.

“i wanted to talk about the investigation.”

“talking to me off-record again? this isn’t a good look on you.” you sneer at the man, who puts up his hands before his chest.

“i know. but it’s for a good reason.” he defends himself, at which you frown. “i have a proposition for you.”

“which is?”

“i need your help catching the person who killed your father.”

pursing your lips together, you let out a bitter chuckle. “like i would know anything—”

“you were just speaking to him, actually.”

the weight of his words makes your eyes widen. this is the first time he’s expressing who he believes is the culprit, after all these weeks.

your breath hitches in your throat. “you think mingyu is guilty.”

the inspector nods at the conclusion you’ve drawn. “he’s smart, i’ll give him that. but not invincible.”

“what will you do? do you have evidence against him?”

“i have enough that makes me sure that it was him, but not enough to defeat him in court. he’s rich and uses that to his advantage.” he explains, sounding almost hopeful. “so that’s where you come in.”

“me?”

“what i need is evidence that even he can’t work around, no matter how many people in the system he chooses to bribe. you told me the nature of your relationship was sexual — i don’t need to know if that’s true or not. but i’ve noticed he seems fond of you these days. you can use that to get him caught. we can’t let him get away with it.”

his voice rings through your ears, sounding like a convincing whisper. biting down on your tongue, you clench your fists, the predicament you currently find yourself in making you wish the ground would just swallow you whole.

you subtly glance down at your phone for a moment.

the evidence is right there, on the phone in your hand. you’ve recorded all the tapes with your phone — the confession, murder weapon — it’s all the evidence needed. you could give it right now and everything would be over.

yet not a single word comes out of your mouth.

the inspector sighs, offering you a final sentiment. “be careful with him. people can be deceiving.”

and with that, he exits the room, leaving you alone with the voice in your head.

your next moves are crucial. you know what you’re about to do is risky, but it’ll be worth it. it has to be worth it.

once you’ve left the inside of the estate through the backdoor, the event continues for the evening while you ponder over the choice you’re about to make in the backseat of the cab.

shrugging off your coat as you enter your home, you still in your movements when your eyes find the stairs — the spot where the police had to cut down your father’s cold, dead body.

with your gaze remaining on the former crime scene, you press on mingyu’s number to call it.

he picks up faster than lightning, but you don’t allow him to speak.

“meet me in the city tomorrow. 10:30, outside your mother’s firm. don’t be late.”

you hang up right after.

fuck, you should really sell this place. the fact that your father’s wandered around here is more than enough reason.

that he died here as well isn’t great either, but that’s really a minor detail.

with your arms crossed, you scoff, a half-smile that’s almost smug sitting on your face. “if only your death had welcomed us sooner.”

the next morning, you lean your head against the wall of the building you’re meeting at, a cold wind blowing through your hair as you’re sunken deeply into thought.

it’s comfortably quiet, honestly. you’re fond of this type of weather, the white, grey-ish sky, the breeze in the air, some rain on occasion.

you glance at the watch on your wrist — why the fuck is mingyu still not here? what possible reason could he have to be late when this is what he was practically begging for?

just as you’re about to grab your phone from your pocket to call him, someone pulls you by your arm and drags you into the alley beside the building.

“what the fuck!?” you huff out, and then you finally get a good look at the person who grabbed you.

of course it’s him.

“i’m sorry.” mingyu breathes out, his usually neatly styled hair now messy, several strands hanging loose in front of his forehead, the stress visible in his features.

to be together like this feels messy yet weirdly intimate. a few strands of your hair are caught between your lips, and you feel his breath on your face, his hands on your body, even your hands find their way back to him.

as if it’s natural.

“what the hell are you thinking?!” you hiss at him, pushing his hands off you, backing yourself as far up against the wall as possible.

“someone was following me, i was — i thought you’d lured me here to turn me in.”

“you—” is all you can push out of your throat before a sigh leaves you. of course he’d think that. god, what a mess.

burying your face in your hands, it feels like you’re both on the verge of a complete breakdown. both lost, not sure where to go, not sure what’ll happen next.

you thought you’d found a sense of direction in eachother, but that fell apart like a house of cards hit by the wind.

naturally, it begins to rain right when you’re talking to him outside. sighing to yourself, you gesture for him to come with you to your car in the half-empty parking lot, which he wordlessly agrees with.

it’s pouring by the time you’re both seated, the heavy rain rolling down the glass windows of the car.

it’s completely silent between you as you sit beside one another, staring dead ahead at the street.

your voice is hoarse when you tell him your verdict on the matter.

“we’re gonna cover it up.”

mingyu turns his head to look at you in disbelief, but you don’t move a muscle. “… what?”

“i believe i’ve told you i don’t like to repeat myself.”

“no one in their right mind would do that. no one would help me cover it up.” he exhales, eyes moving rapidly as he tries to process what you’re proposing to him.

“no one in their right mind would commit murder, either, but that certainly didn’t stop you.”

well, you have a point there.

“just tell me one thing,” mingyu asks, hoping you’ll look at him, “why? why do this for me?”

he could cry the moment you do meet his eyes. it’s like he sees a different version of himself staring back at him. “because you did the right thing. i would’ve done the same. well, except for your little affair with me.”

with his heart beating against his chest, he gently touches your hand. “everything i told you was true. it may not have been real in the beginning, and i’m sorry for pretending back then, but it’s real now. i swear that to you.”

you bite your lip. “give me one good reason why i should believe you.”

mingyu can taste his tears at this point. he needs you to believe him, he needs you — and that is terrifying but addictive. “the tapes. you can have them if you want.”

“i don’t need them. they hold no value to me.” you already made copies of them anyway.

“then what can i give you to prove myself?”

“nothing.” you immediately cut him off, eyes blazing fire, but even mingyu can see you do share that sadness that he does, mourning the loss of your connection. “from now on, we avoid contact over the phone as much as possible. you’ll destroy the tapes, the poison — get rid of all of it. we’ll work together until we’ve covered it up, and after that, it’ll be like whatever we had never existed. we’ll be nothing more than strangers to one another.”

“how on earth would we go back to strangers after what we did?”

“by never talking to eachother again.” you respond, swallowing the rising lump in your throat, fingers twitching from feeling suffocated. “get out. you can come over to my place tomorrow, and we’ll… figure out how to handle everything.”

mingyu looks at you, and he knows you won’t let him in again, certainly not now. so he nods.

he thinks of what to say, yet nothing comes out.

so he leaves you in your car without saying another word, walking away with nothing but his mistakes on his mind.

xi. I HATE YOU LIKE MY OWN REFLECTION

“so, what do we do now?”

“our best shot is to try to frame someone else, then take them out of prison after the conviction and pay ‘em good money for it.”

mingyu cocks a brow at your choice. “so you wanna go and do the exact same thing i wanted to do?”

you can’t help but glare at him. “yes, just without the manipulation. don’t think for a second i’ve forgiven you, or that i will in the nearby future, because i can assure you that won’t happen.”

well, so much for trying to get into your good graces again. “noted. so, how do we, um… find a suitable victim? someone who won’t rat us out.”

“my contact in the police force has sent me a list of all the other suspects. we pick someone, threaten to kill them if they don’t cooperate. easy.”

mingyu finds your lack of filter both intriguing and scary, like a switch was flipped and you’re suddenly ready to undertake even more violent measures than him. but then again, he was hiding quite some things too. “okay.”

it’s two days later when you’re holding a now former member of the housekeeping hostage in your spacious private parking garage.

“you can’t make me do this! this is insane!” he cries out, and you roll your eyes, holding the gun in your hand as easily as you’d carry a bottle of water.

you simply shrug. “it’s not impossible.”

“i’ll lose everything!”

“probably. but you’ll also gain a lot of money, enough to get you a comfortable life elsewhere in the world.”

“no, no, i’m not doing this. you can’t make me!”

mingyu looks to you for permission, you grant it with a nod, and he takes your gun to hit the guy in the face with it. you sink down to bend your knees, lowering to your victim’s level.

“i don’t think you get it. either you agree to do this, or you’re not making it out of these walls alive. trust me, if i have to shoot you, i will.” you sternly tell him, attitude changing from casual to threatening.

your partner in crime, who’s still holding the gun, is beyond impressed. he briefly thinks it over —has this part of you always been hiding underneath the surface?

“or maybe it’s your family i should start with? i’ll pick it apart, one by one.” you suggest, feigning innocence in your voice.

it’s then that the man is finally forced to accept your offer, after which you smile triumphantly and tell him he can go home like nothing happened. mingyu watches the change in your behavior, leaving him wondering how the hell you’re the same person he’s come to know over the past months.

but it hardly changes his now deeply-rooted affection for you.

a few days later, you’ve successfully orchestrated your plan and set it in motion, with the man from housekeeping supposedly coming forward with his confession tomorrow.

it’s late at night when mingyu’s still over at your house, and he asks if he can open the bottle of vodka standing on the counter.

“sure. whatever.” you mutter, the stand-offish demeanor you used to hold up around him before getting to know him having returned.

he doesn’t like it. no, scratch that — he can’t stand it.

so he pours you both a shot. “i’ve been thinking about something.”

“well, that must’ve been exhausting for you.”

hilarious. really. he chooses to ignore your sarcasm for now. “in the car, you said i did the right thing. that you would’ve done the same.”

“and?”

“do you really not… hate me for killing him? at all?”

“no.”

“you hate me for… lying to you about it.”

“no.”

his brows knit together. “so…”

“again, don’t take this as a compliment, but i really thought you were smarter than this.”

“i’m just… confused on your stance on the whole thing. that’s all.”

taking a breath, a bitter chuckle leaves your mouth. “i hate it when people make fun of me, like — that’s the worst thing you could do to me. and you tried to get to know me, work with me, pretended to care for me, all while secretly knowing that it wasn’t genuine and you were going to put me in prison. and after i found out, it felt like you were just ridiculing me, for… i don’t know. giving in to you so easily. for being desperate to have at least one person actually care about me the way i thought you did.”

he processes your words with the heavy burden of guilt weighing on his shoulders, while you take another shot of alcohol.

well, he fucked up. miserably.

“when i created the plan to frame you, i… almost held a grudge towards you, like you did to me, for a reason i couldn’t even think of. i was going to be putting someone i hated in prison. a sacrifice i was willing to make for the people i loved. but you completely blew me away. as time progressed, i… couldn’t fathom i used to hate you, or even disliked you. even if you don’t accept my apology, i need you to know that i never… never made fun of you. and i’m sorry for hurting you in the way that i did.”

his heartfelt sentiment gets to you, and you hate it.

“even if i did accept your apology, what then? we’ll just move on with our lives as if this whole thing never happened either way.”

now that you’ve unintentionally given him a sense of hope, he downs another shot of vodka to give himself courage. “it doesn’t have to be like that.”

“what?”

“i still want you.” he breathes out, mentally saying fuck it and deciding to finally be completely honest with you.

the words seem to have caught you off-guard, after which you scoff at him once you realize what he’s saying. “you’re not serious.”

“i am,” he replies without hesitation, following you in your tracks when you stand up, “and you know what i think? you still like me, too.”

“no i don’t.”

now that you’ve turned around to him, you realize how stupid of a move it was to do so. with every step he takes forward, you go back, but there’s only so much room before you hit the wall. “you’re not being very convincing.”

“gyu—”

“i like it when you call me that.”

at a loss for words, you look behind you to find you’re nearly out of space. “i don’t like you.”

“and here i thought we were both being honest with eachother.”

god, all he does is look at you and you feel willing to let him touch you again. he made you feel so good — you liked him so much.

mingyu feels it. he sees you fighting with yourself in your head, so he figures all you need is just a little push to get you back where he had you, to be able to kiss you and hold you and call you his.

with his left hand, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and within a second, he’s pushed his mouth against yours.

fuck, it’s been only two long weeks since he last kissed you, but it felt like forever. this feeling, his touch — you doubt you’d ever be able to feel that with anyone else.

but something in you is still fighting back.

you muster the will to push mingyu away, and he licks his lips from the gloss on yours. both of you panting heavily, you shake your head. “no. we’re not doing this.”

“what? something we both want?” he breathes out, chest heaving up and down.

“something we shouldn’t.”

“why not?”

“because i’d never forgive myself for giving in to the guy who was gonna frame me for murder.”

he merely shrugs, downplaying the situation for his selfish interests. “we hated each other back then. you’d have done it too, you said it yourself.”

his words are true — but it still hurts.

“you’re a liar.” you say to him, and he knows you’re only saying it for one reason — to convince yourself to not give in to what you really want.

“yeah. and so are you.”

that is what momentarily causes your brain to shut down. “what?”

his hand cups your jaw. you can feel his breath on your bare skin, his gaze on your body, shamelessly checking you out before he meets your eyes again. “what we had was real. you make everyone else in my life seem like… nothing.”

“oh, so i’m special, huh? or are you just trying to get back into my good graces so i don’t rat you out?”

his eyes keep lingering on the skin of your cheeks, your neck, exposed collarbones, and he doesn’t even look you in the eye while answering. “you can do whatever you want. i’ll still want you once i’ve gotten out of prison.”

god. he’s really that into you?

“gyu…” you mutter, almost pouting, and he holds your face, nodding as if he understands.

“i know, i know—” his breathing is unsteady as he confesses every dirty little sin on his conscience, “i like being a little selfish, y’know? even when one of my friends mentioned something about liking you, i didn’t tell you, ‘cause i wanted you.”

you’ve got a feeling who he’s talking about. “so what’d you say to him?”

“i said you had something going on with someone else, which wasn’t exactly a lie, since you were on top of me that same night.” he barely allows himself to finish the sentence before kissing you again, putting all his vigor into it, and you decide to indulge both him and yourself this once.

he pushes you up against the wall, and you shove him away again, holding onto the cupboard beside you when you both catch your breath.

“what if i like him better than you?”

“you wouldn’t.”

“why? ‘cause you’re so likeable?”

“because he’d never accept you for who you really are, and you’d find him boring,” he tells you as a possessive streak overcomes him, “just like no other girl would ever want me and i only want you.”

“so i should let you have me because no one else will. what a compelling argument.”

“no. because you want me.” fucking hell, he’s pretty sure his sex drive has never been this high before. “so have me, baby. please — i’m all yours.” he rasps, pressing a kiss so chaste to your lips, they barely touch. his hands burn on your skin.

“maybe i will.” you mumble, which elicits the smallest smirk from him.

he rubs up against you. “you make me insane.”

“pretty sure you already were.” is the last thing you say before kissing him, finally giving in to the feelings you still hold for him.

the sudden motion takes him by surprise, but he regains his composure to kiss you back within seconds. you make him feel so sickeningly good, he practically worships the ground you walk on.

mingyu is always tactile, be it with his friends, family, or in this case — you. his hands are practically glued to your body, pulling you as close to him as possible.

and normally he likes to take his time when it comes to sex. but he’s just so hot right now that he needs some kind of friction, some kind of release. so he lifts you up to take you to your bedroom, where he wastes no time to plunge his fingers into you.

“fuck—gyu—”

this is all he wants. to hear you moan his name like that and watch you writhe underneath him while his cock throbs as he rubs it against the bed.

“you look so pretty like this.” he grins, curling his fingers to watch you squirm and feel you clench around him.

jesus, his pace is high. higher than any other time he’s done this before. the pressure in your stomach builds so fast that you’re almost overwhelmed by the feeling, at which you instinctively reach down to hold his wrist, but to no avail, because he keeps going.

“say you like me back and i’ll make you cum.”

even through the pleasure he’s giving you, you manage to pull your mean attitude back up. “are you that desperate?”

not only does he seem completely unaffected by the snark in your voice — he might even like it.

“so what if i am?” he shrugs, his fingers moving in and out of you while he kisses and sucks on the skin of your neck.

when he moves onto your jaw, he suddenly hits the right spot inside you, and your eyes roll back, a dragged-out moan escaping you.

“bet that feels good, hm?” he whispers, his fangs showing when he smiles slyly, “c’mon — say it. i’ll make you feel so good, baby.”

right after the words come out of his mouth, he threatens to take his fingers out, and you grab his wrist once more, this time to keep him as close as possible.

“fine — i like you.”

like a war general who just won his greatest battle, he’s beaming at your confession. “good. put your legs over my shoulders.”

well, he certainly is determined. he’s back in his previous position in no-time, now with your legs up, and you try to not clench your thighs around his head too much as his digits piston in and out of your hole.

your orgasm hits you within what feels like a minute, and mingyu keeps going even when your legs are shaking and trembling on his shoulders.

the drag of his cock inside you is heavenly. he’s a big man, and you always need to adjust yourself to him, but fuck is it good.

you always like the slower strokes best, he’s learned. slow and deep, to make you feel every inch of him, and he can bury himself in you to the hilt every single time.

“god, you’re always so tight.” he has to suck through gritted teeth to not completely lose it, ‘cause you’re clenching down on him so much that it almost hurts.

“that’s ‘cause you don’t fuck me enough.”

“we should fix that, then.” he responds, sliding his cock in and out of the pooling wetness between your legs, and as the minutes go by, you continue to find yourself in his arms, your body plastered on his.

it’s the ringing of your phone from the nightstand that pulls you out of the erotic haze.

mingyu turns his head to the side, the dark strands of hair hanging beside his head as he’s still hovering above you.

his chest still heaves when he picks up the device to show you the caller id. “you never did tell me what he wanted to talk to you about.”

all you can do is chuckle — a sound that comes across as if you know more than he does. “he’s onto you. thinks you’re guilty. not far from the truth, is he?”

throwing your phone to the other side of the bed, he pushes himself a little deeper into you, loving the way you have to bite your lip to suppress a whimper. “and he wanted you to give him evidence, i bet.”

“he did.”

“did you?”

“since you still have the freedom to fuck me — take a wild guess.”

this time it’s him who lets out an arrogant laugh. “i knew you liked me too much.”

“i could still do it, y’know.”

“oh, i know you could.” he bites his lower lip before kissing you so vigorously again — as if you’re the air he breathes.

xii. ROUGH HEWN BY UNFORTUNATE EVENTS, AND GIVEN BREATH BY NECESSITY

with the noise of the fireplace crackling, you stand by the window of your mansion’s spacious living room, staring outside as you’re anxiously rubbing your fingers over your collarbone.

the man you and mingyu forced to act like he was guilty of murdering your father has supposedly confessed yesterday morning, and yet you’ve still heard nothing. which is strange.

extremely strange.

“they could still be interrogating him.” mingyu tries to ease both your and his own nerves, but you shake your head, your back still facing him.

“something’s wrong. if it were convincing enough, i would’ve heard something. fuck.”

he gets up from the soft couch to wrap his arms around you from behind. “we just gotta be a little more patient. the guy knows what’s at stake should he mess it up.”

letting out a sigh, you nod. “yeah, i guess you’re right.”

just when he’s pressed a kiss on the top of your head, the doorbell rings — whoever that may be.

mingyu remains in his spot by the window while you go ahead to check who’s visiting you. your breath is almost stolen completely from you once you see who it is.

“coming to visit me at this hour?”

the inspector gives you a fake smile in return. “it’s important.”

so you let him in, keeping up the nonchalance in your attitude. mingyu raises a brow at the older man walking into the room, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“i had someone coming into the station yesterday — one of your father’s former staff. he confessed to the murder.” the inspector begins. “unfortunately for him, i said i’d already figured out who the culprit was, and so i sent him back home.”

“someone confessed and you didn’t think about telling us?” mingyu questions angrily, and you really have to force yourself not to show how impressed you are with his acting skills.

the other man in the room is less impressed. “why would i tell you something you’re already aware of? you orchestrated it.”

oh, shit.

as your eyes widen, it’s quiet for a moment.

“i really hope you have actual proof to back this accusation.” mingyu sneers, clearly hostile towards the man while you silently take a few steps back, slowly hiding yourself more in the shadows by the walls.

“traces of poison were found in the reports of the autopsy. it was disregarded at first because of the small amount, but i eventually began to consider it evidence when i discovered you recently purchased that exact formula from a dealer who’s been on our radar for a while.”

the hairs on your neck suddenly stand upright. is this it? is the person you’ve grown so attached to actually going to get arrested?

“thing is, if i were to arrest you, you’d probably be let go. i know you both have contacts in the police force as well as the justice system, i almost caught someone messing with the autopsy results — but despite that, i know the truth.” the man nods to himself. “and that is, mr. kim, that the only charge against you is attempted murder.”

mingyu seems confused. “attempted?”

“the poison didn’t kill him. you’re guilty of something, definitely, but you’re no murderer.” the inspector’s gaze suddenly shifts from your partner to you, a deep frown setting into your forehead. “the only player in this game that wasn’t making any sense to me was you.”

“me?”

“you know, in my many years in this line of work, i’ve found it a rarity to have a suspect possessing such an… inscrutible expectant stillness. the gears in your head are constantly turning, but no one’s really sure what it is that goes up in there. you’re an enigma.” he says to you, and you listen to him with a raised brow.

as you remain silent, he continues. “at the event a few weeks ago, when i spoke with you, i came to you and told you i suspected him to be the culprit — the man you’ve hated from day one. the opportunity to make him go away was practically given to you, yet you did nothing with it.”

scoffing at him in disbelief, you tilt your head. “that’s all you have against me? baseless speculation?”

“not exactly baseless. see, the autopsy report showed one more thing — he was choked before the hanging. your father was unconscious before you put that rope around his neck.”

it’s so quiet, you’re pretty sure the two men in the room are able to hear your heartbeat at this point.

mingyu turns to look at you with a puzzled expression, and you finally decide to drop the façade you’ve upheld for so long.

“oh, so what?” you shrug, finding the accusation bothersome at best.

the sudden change in demeanor catches mingyu completely off-guard. he can’t fully comprehend what’s going on here. “you—you killed him?”

you press your lips together. “whatever you used on him wasn’t enough to kill him, but it was enough to make him violent. he came home that night just—fucking losing it. stumbling over everything, his eyes were all red, and he yelled at me because he thought i was the one who poisoned him. ‘cause naturally, he’d never suspect you. my father was one to hit me on the cheek whenever he was really angry with me, but he’d never gone further than that. the poison must’ve worked him up so much that he lost rational thinking. so he began to accuse me of trying to kill him, after which he tried to choke me, but i managed to throw him off, and he passed out. and i figured it’d been enough of his torture, so… i hung him in the stairwell to make it seem like a suicide.”

the inspector nods knowingly. “you murdered him in cold blood.”

you’re quick to respond with your defense, though you don’t really care anymore. “did you not hear the part where he tried to kill me?”

mingyu looks like a kicked puppy when he processes your confession. “so you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

the words elicit a scoff. “that’s real bold, coming from you.”

“but you—you agreed to help me figure out who your father’s killer was. why would you do that if you did it?”

“at first i didn’t, as you know, but you were just so fucking persistent. so i figured i could try to divert your attention from me. i was going to convince you that it was a suicide. then i hear the tapes, you admitting that you poisoned him, and everything made sense. but hey, at least i wasn’t trying to frame you.”

the jab directed at him makes him feel guilty again. “so we both did it.”

“in a way. though i’d argue it was somewhat self-defense. i mean, he came onto me, tried to kill me—”

“you made a mistake and you know it.” the inspector interrupts, making you roll your eyes as he scolds you. “you should’ve called the police. but you didn’t, you just decided to hang him instead!”

“he deserved it!” you retort, displaying the clear hatred you’ve always felt towards anyone who tried to defend the man who raised you. “i don’t care what you think. and you said it yourself — i have everyone in the justice system on my payroll, if necessary. threatening to kill a family member or two also works like a charm.”

it’s silent for a few seconds after you’ve revealed this side of your true nature, and the man just stares you in the eye before grabbing a device from his backpocket.

when he clicks on the button, you already know what it is.

he recorded the whole conversation, and you already know he can’t be bribed, so this is a real problem — because it’s the one piece of evidence needed that will destroy you both.

“you do realize how stupid it was to come here alone, right?” you ask rhetorically.

“what, will you kill me too?” he asks, and when both you and mingyu deadpan a stare at him, he knows the answer.

he’s not getting out of this room alive unless he forfeits the recording.

when you and your partner in crime exchange a glance, the inspector attempts to make a run for it, only to be tackled by mingyu once he’s reached the door.

one last sacrifice.

the sound of a blade piercing through skin makes you jump, your fingers twitching.

blood begins to trickle down his body, after which mingyu pulls out the knife and pushes it in once more, higher up in the chest this time.

“oh, jesus—fuck!” you gasp to yourself when you feel the bloodsplatters hitting your face and neck, and mingyu rips the blade from the inspector’s body, letting it fall onto the carpeted floor.

you both stare at the freshly created crime scene, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly just annoyed at having another crime on your hands.

“well, that is unfortunate.” mingyu sighs, after which you press your lips together, looking up at him.

“understatement of the year. did you have to stab him that quick?”

“sweetheart, he would’ve locked us both away if i didn’t.”

“i guess so.” locking the front door to ensure no one can enter, you cross your arms. “so. are we burning, burying or dumping him in a lake?”

mingyu stares at the body on the floor before locking eyes with you, and it’s like making a silent deal — that you’re in this mess together, and only together can you come out of it, as bloody and violent that road may turn out to be.

well, at the end of the day, you suppose your father was right about one little thing.

you and kim mingyu are, indeed, good together. just not in the exact way he imagined.

after all, love can exist even in the murderous heart.

thanks for reading! let me know if you enjoyed it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

#kim mingyu x reader #svt x reader #svthub #svt smut #svt fic #kim mingyu fanfic #kim mingyu angst #kim mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #mingyu smut #seventeen smut #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines

763 notes · View notes

remotewatch · 4 months ago

Text

handprints, footprints all on my glass

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 1.6k wc

minors dni please and thanks, this is hag business

summary: it’s a short ride from the afterparty to the airport, theoretically

cw: shameless smut, she comes first 💪, dry humping, dom reader sorta, pathetic simp Jack enjoyers make some noise!!!, oral (f receiving), fingering, we’re degrading him a bit whoops, accidental vabbing (?????) girl idk, reader wears the pants not the panties, they’re in one of those Mercedes vans, wear your seatbelts everywhere but here

The jet lag was undoubtedly winning. As luck would have it, the busiest weeks of the year for you and Jack overlapped nearly entirely. It had been nonstop flights, engagements, meetings, press releases, dinner parties, galas, openings of buildings for charities for either dogs or orphans, orphaned dogs maybe, for so long you’d entirely lost track and were ever thankful that most of your speaking assignments were behind you. This last afterparty had fried you both; you didn’t have a single networking conversation left in you. Collapsed opposite you in the jump seat, Jack looked just as spent as you felt.

Of course, he still looked too good. It was fucking sweltering in that venue, and he had loosened his evergreen evening tie and slightly unbuttoned his dress shirt the very second you were shielded by the limo tint. Faint wisps of chest hair peered out from the opening, a fresh tan making his teeth look even whiter. Gun to your head, he’d had his pants taken in too much at the hips, but you’d never say anything that would threaten such a view.

There wasn’t time for that; you were in the home stretch of this hell month and had a packed 16 hour day tomorrow. One last email once over, and you could abandon your work iPad and pass out for the flight back to New York.

“Have you been like that all night?” he asks tentatively.

“Like what?” There’s no immediate response, so you look up from checking tomorrow’s agenda to see Jack shamelessly staring up your cocktail dress at your lack of underwear. The spell breaks when you recross your legs and playfully kick his shin.

“Eyes up here. So what if I was?”

Jack blinks dumbly at you and clears his throat. His eyebrows draw together out of confusion.

“But I saw you get dressed this morning. Where’s that pair I just bought you?”

“They’re wrapped in your pocket square. Did you forget to switch it out for a dry one before lunch?” you ask, holding back a shit-eating grin.

It’s hard to deny the rush you get watching Jack go pale and fish the handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his discarded suit jacket, still sticky from cleaning you up a few hours ago. Sure enough, there’s a crumpled La Perla thong cradled in the middle. You interrupt his stuttering protests when you kick your pumps off and slide a foot up his leg.

“Oh please, like you don’t love walking around smelling like me.”

“I do,” his ears are turning red. “but I hugged like twenty people today!”

“Page six has been trying to pin down that musky “cologne” you use for ages. I think you’re safe.” You briefly wonder if you’re leaking onto the leather seats, but that train of thought is halted by Jack’s hand reaching to remove his tie.

“Keep it on.”

He snaps to attention at the direct order.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I like my handle.”

“Do you come with an off switch?”

Break lights flash on in the surrounding lanes. Just your luck; it’s complete gridlock in the few miles between here and the airpark. Maybe there was a little time.

Your foot slides higher, and Jack hisses through his teeth at the contact.

“Why don’t you try and find it?”

There’s barely a millisecond of hesitation before he falls onto you, licking stripes of sweat off your skin from your cleavage to your cheekbones. As always, he’s loud in the way that only a guy who never gets told to shut the fuck up can be: every breath shudders its way out, and he’s basically whimpering into your mouth by the time he gets there, louder when his right hand finds you, in fact, dripping all over the seat. You doubt you’ll ever get used to how thick his fingers are, or the vulgar noises they make when he’s showing off his grip strength knocking on your g spot.

He’d rolled his shirt sleeves up for the afterparty, but his watch was still squarely in the splash zone, and for the briefest of moments you wonder if it’s as waterproof as the cheaper ones he wears surfing. The thought is quickly pushed aside as Jack works you until you’re jolting off the seat trying to get his fingers deeper.

One good yank on his hair gets him off your neck, and he’s so dazed and fucked out already that you almost cum right there.

“Someone looks hungry,” you tease.

“Fuck, please let me-“ He’s cut off by the van suddenly lurching forward and throwing you both off balance, leaving only your vice grip on his tie keeping him in place. There’s a filthy squelch when he pulls his fingers out to suck them clean as he sinks down to his knees. It’s so warm that your dress is sticking to your thighs, and he rapidly loses patience trying to slide it up to your waist.

“This is a rental!” you squeal when the fabric rips, spraying sequins all over the floor. Jack doesn’t even flinch and wraps his lips snugly around your clit.

“Whatever, I’ll buy it,” he mumbles without breaking contact. You find yourself sliding down the sweat slick leather to grind against his face, and he has the nerve to lean back to watch your hips buck desperately.

“I love when you chase it,” he grins. Without missing a beat, you lock your legs around his head and shut him up against you.

“Don’t fucking tease me. I’m not the one humping the floor like a dog.” The mumbly, docile “sorry” that vibrates through you is the hottest thing he’s said all day. And he really is, if his overly enthusiastic slurping indicates anything. Those rapid, precise little strokes of his tongue always froth you up like he’s got a mouthful of soap. By the time you get tired of spelling your name on his nose and shove him to the floor to straddle his face, he’s completely lathered in you.

He lets out a little bleat of surprise when you roughly grab his hair and start manhandling him as if he’s a wet wipe, though he really should expect it by now. Normally, you’d be distractingly aware of the very real possibility the driver can hear the way you’re snarling his name, but time is not on your side right now. The last break lights recede, leaving the compartment only lit by dim blue under-seat bulbs. Your movements grow more frenzied; you’re totally disregarding Jack’s lung capacity and not even aiming for his mouth anymore, just using his whole face like it’s all he’s made for. Right as you begin to worry you have nothing left in the tank due to the lunch commute, a muffled, drawn-out “please” from beneath you sends you tumbling right over the edge. Your orgasm hits you more like a tranquilizer than anything else as the last dregs of your energy drench his face.

As soon as he feels your contractions lessen, he’s tossing you off to sit on his thighs and fumbling with his belt buckle. The van makes a hard right turn onto the final road to the airpark, and Jack lets out a frustrated groan knowing the clock is ticking. Still, he knows not to get in your way when you shove his hands away and slide right back on top of his dick, so hard you can feel the heat radiating through the fabric. You know you’re fucking up his dress pants grinding on him like this, but if nothing else, the linen will dry fast.

“I’m sleeping on the plane whether you finish or not, so make it work.” He doesn’t have enough time to be pissed at you, and he knows it. The sight of him so desperately rutting up against you is nearly enough to get you there all over again. All the tendons in his neck stand out as he presses his lips together trying to focus. His legs splay frantically in an attempt to ground himself, one jet black Oxford wedging under the jump seat and the other pressed flat against the far window. Jack’s head tips back and his eyes screw up in concentration, but you can’t have that, no matter how tasty his Adam’s apple looks. You loop his tie around your hand one more time and yank him back to earth,

“Uh-uh. Look at me when I’m making you cum.” That’ll do it. His expression softens then freezes as his eyes unfocus and his mouth falls open. He sounds downright melodic when he cums, just one long note that gets bounced up and down the scale before trailing off to a whine, and you relish every little twitch of him spilling into his pants, so far from you but certainly close enough.

The van rolls to a stop, and suddenly it’s a fumbling nightmare of you both trying to fish your shoes out from under the seats and smooth each others hair. You snatch Jack’s blazer to cover the rip in your dress, shove the iPad and pocket square-thong mess into your work bag, and throw the door open with what you hope is a believable amount of nobody-get-between-me-and-my-lie-flat-seat urgency.

Wobbly legs insist you grab his hand to step out of the van, and, of course, there’s a fucking pap pressed to the tarmac fence. Jack’s reflexes don’t stand a chance at turning him away in time after what you’ve put him through. When the flash catches his face, you can only look horrified as it perfectly captures the shine you’ve left on him.

Gossipy headlines and vague, tasteful PR statement drafts are already zipping through your head. Add it to the agenda: 16.5 hour day incoming.

#jack schlossberg #I have so much to do and instead I’m here #objectifying this little Ken doll #if you notice the phrases I struggle not to repeat #you did not #not my fault there aren’t enough words out there #jack schlossberg x reader

489 notes · View notes

thefabledpheasant · 8 months ago

Text

So, we all know that Cas branded Dean’s soul with the handprint. And then in his last scene left a bloody handprint on Dean’s jacket.

But, have we ever considered that this last handprint was Cas letting dean go? Like, literally removing the handprint brand he left on his soul? That it’s Castiel saying, “I love you so much that I’m dying for you and freeing you from the claim I made on you. I know you are not mine even if I will always be yours and that’s ok. Please live a good life now that my burden is gone from you.”

And if that’s the case, do you think Dean could feel it? The mark being gone? Do you think that left an emptiness nothing else could fill and that’s one of the reasons he was so fine with dying? Because for the first time since he met him, there was truly nothing of Cas left on Earth or with Dean?

406 notes · View notes

lordprettyflackotara · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter Nine || Hitchhiker || The Proxies

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: fluffy sex, shower sex, overstimulation?, squirting, Brian’s a simp sorry not sorry

a/n: enjoy this fluff while it last ;)

The calm pitter patter of rain drew Tim away from his slumber.

He was groggy as he woke up, his vision hazy as he tried to remember the events of the night before. He scanned his surroundings, recognizing your room in an instant. He looked down, realizing he was entangled in your sheets as you slept peacefully beside him.

You were covered in hickies and bruises, your body free of any clothing but littered in marks. Tim frowned at the sight, his fingertips lightly tracing the bruises in the shape of his fingers that lined your waist. His simple touch stirred you out of your sleep, your eyes blinking awake slowly. “Hi,” You whispered. You seemed so content. So okay with the fact Masky had hurt you. Tim sat up fully. “Hi,” He mumbled. He scratched the back of his neck, swallowing as you yawned. You sat up, stretching your arms. The sheet fell down your chest, your breast exposed and nipples perky from the cool air.

“I’m glad you slept. You were out like a light,” You say. You paused, remembering it was Masky who left you with a sexual relieved afterglow. “Or he was. I’m just glad you got some sleep,” You say. You threw the covers off of you, pulling yourself out of bed. You headed over towards the bathroom, opening the door. You were completely naked, Tim’s face flushing red at the sight of your ass giggling with each step you took. He could hear you turning on the shower, the water hitting the tub below. You peaked out of the bathroom door, your hair tangled and a mess.

“Wanna join me?”

Your question was simple. Sweet even. Unsurely Tim rose out of bed, remembering how Masky had handled you. Tim didn’t deserve you. He knew you were satisfied, pleased even, with last nights events. But you deserved to be worshipped and respected. Masky fucked you like a wild animal. It made Tim’s stomach churn when he saw another bruise on your ass, in the shape of his handprint.

“Um sure,” Tim said uneasily. He crawled out of your bed, following you into your cramped bathroom. You stood on your tippy toes, wrapping your arms around his neck. Tim couldn’t understand why you were so content. You were practically glowing. You brought your face closer to his, Tim swallowing as he moved his head back. “Tim? Are you alright?” You asked. The subtle differences between his and Masky’s behavior were becoming more obvious now that you knew the truth. The steam from the shower began to cloud the bathroom, but it couldn’t conceal your swollen lips and marked neck.

“I’m sorry I can’t do this,” Tim uttered. He dashed out of the bathroom, running face first into Brian. The taller male raised his eyebrows, the both of you watching Tim as he ran over to your bed. You noticed the same eerie proxy symbol tatted on his left shoulder, a detail you hadn’t noticed before. Tim shrugged on his shirt, covering the mark before you could study it more. “Tim wait don’t go,” You protested. You grabbed a towel, wrapping yourself and marching up to your bed. Tim couldn’t describe to you the guilt he felt, knowing that he in some way contributed to your harm.

His eyes flickered up to Brian, who was trying his hardest not to obviously look at you. “Take care of her Bri. I need space,” Tim huffed. Tim shrugged his jacket on, before storming out of the room. You turned to Brian, whose face was so red you would’ve thought he had actually watched you and Masky had sex. You awkwardly held your towel, the two of you avoiding eye contact. “So,” You said plainly. Brian awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, avoiding looking at you. “So, you know everything don’t you?” Brian asked. You could hear the sound of the shower water hitting the tile, the steam beginning to roam into your bedroom.

“What gave it away?” You countered. Brian took a step towards you, tilting your head to the side to examine your neck. “Tim would never leave you covered in marks like this. Definitely was Masky,” Brian concluded. You shrugged, pulling your face away. “Yeah well, I enjoyed every second of it. I don’t know why Tim’s so hostile,” You grumbled. Brian pulled his hand away, a rumble of thunder making your apartment shake ever so slightly. “Not hostile, try afraid. Masky’s the ruthless killer. You really think Tim wants his hands on you?” Brian asked. You thought about it, the situation more complicated than you had originally thought. “I suppose not,” You gathered. You raised an eyebrow as you looked at Brian, “Do you feel the same way about Hoodie?”

Brian’s face went a bit pale, the memory of Hoodie stealing your dirty panties flooding his mind. “More or less,” Brian answered dryly. You glanced behind you, paying more attention to your shower still running. “Do you want to join me?” You asked shyly, finally meeting Brian’s gaze. Brian gave you a smile, shrugging his hoodie over his head. “Lead the way,” He replied. You did as instructed, dropping your towel and stepping inside of the warm shower. The warm water washed away all of the sweat and grime that occupied your pores, your shoulders finally relaxing.

Brian had never showered with anyone before. He wasn’t necessarily nervous, he just wasn’t entirely sure what you wanted. Then again, who ask someone to shower with them if they don’t want to fuck? “How are you holding up? Knowing everything and all?” Brian asked. You hummed as you tilted your head back, allowing the warm water to wet your hair. “I have a demon attached to me. I feel like i’m in a shitty paranormal activity movie,” You answered honestly. You closed your eyes, Brian’s gaze lingering to your exposed skin. He swallowed as you moved to the side, allowing him to step under the water. “It doesn’t bother you though? That we’ve done unforgivable things?” He asked, the dirt that stained his skin now washing away down the drain.

“It’s not exactly like you and Tim had a choice,” You say slowly. Brian turned around, his back muscles relaxing under the warm water. You noticed the same proxy symbol tatted on his back shoulder. “And Toby?” Brian asked. You didn’t respond for a moment, reaching over and pumping shampoo into your hands. “I’m not sure what I think of Toby,” You say quietly. You began to scrub the shampoo into your scalp, staring at Brian’s tattoo. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Brian asked. You brought your fingertips to his tattoo, tracing it lightly. “Did getting this hurt?” You questioned. You gathered more shampoo and began washing Brian’s hair as well. Brian wasn’t the biggest fan of tea tree mint shampoo, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“I don’t remember. None of us do. Getting marked, I mean,” Brian elaborated. He turned around, gently pushing your arms away. He brought his slender fingers to your scalp, massaging the shampoo into it deeper. “Toby has one too?” You asked. Brian nodded affirmatively. He guided you towards the water, washing the soap out of your hair. “His is on the palm of his right hand. The kid only nibbled through his left hand, not his right,” Brian explained. You sighed as you tried to relax, your muscles tensing back up. Brian’s hands wondered to your waist, tracing over the bruises Masky had left on you the night before. You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to cup your heat.

“You know we have massive problems to worry about right? Ones that could wind up with both of us in coffins?” Brian asked. You wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer. “Right now all I want is to pick up where we left off,” You admitted. Brian used his spare hand to stroke your cheek, a bruise forming on the side of your face. You knew it was from Masky shoving you against the floor, but for all Brian knew he punched you. “Masky really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Brian asked. You met his gaze, your pupils blown with lust. “Maybe you can make me feel better,” You suggested. Brian knew there was bigger fish to fry. With you now knowing everything, the possibilities of problems were endless.

But as you stood in front of him, eyes glazed over with desire, your core throbbing for him. He couldn’t help but want to be selfish. Just this once, he wanted to do what he wanted. Not what The Operator wanted. Not what Tim or Masky wanted. Not what Hoodie wanted. What he wanted. “Fuck it,” Brian muttered. He brought his lips to yours, pushing you against the shower wall. “I’m gonna be careful with you. Know you’re fragile,” Brian grumbled against your lips. His kisses were hungry, like he was desperately waiting for this moment to happen. He began to draw slow circles around your clit, noticing how puffy your folds were from Masky’s abuse.

You whimpered, Brian’s lips straying from your own and traveling over to your ear. He nibbled at your earlobe, your body igniting to life as he toyed with you. “Such a good girl for me. You can cum for me, can’t you?” He whispered. He slowly slipped two of his fingers into your abused cunt, your walls tight around his digits as he pushed them in further. “Relax for me. You poor thing,” Brian cooed. His breath was hot against your ear, his spare hand slithering to your breast. He toyed with your nipples, pinching and prodding at them until they were perky enough to his liking. The pain slowly subsided into pleasure, his slender fingers curling upwards and hitting just the right spot.

Brian noticed your body relaxing, your gushy walls now eager for more as your juices coated his fingers. “There she is. There’s my good girl,” Brian praised, chuckling darkly at the sound of your groans. Your gummy walls clung to his fingers as he began to pump them into you faster. “It’s not fair i’m the last one that’s got you squirming underneath me like this,” Brian growled. You could feel his cock growing harder, his shaft poking your thigh. “You know what that means right? I have to make you cum the hardest,” Brian snickered mischievously. Your cunt was already sore, your folds puffy and red. You couldn’t stop your whimpers of his name, his fingers relentless against your g spot

“Fuckkk Brian,” You slurred. Brian grinned into your neck as his hand slithered to your throat, resting over the hickies Masky had left the night before. “That’s it. Fall apart on my fingers for me. Go on,” Brian encouraged. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not to apply pressure but to hold you into place. The cord inside of you snapped unexpectedly, your vision turning white as you creamed on his fingers. “There you go. Wasn’t so hard to listen to me, right?” Brian cooed mockingly. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to handle me sweetheart? You’re already shaking,” Brian pointed out. Your vision was hazy, the warm water making you dizzy. “Am not,” You argued weakly. Brian chuckled as he brought himself closer to you, kissing you deeply as the water dripped down his back. You snaked your way to his shaft, pumping it quickly. Brian groaned into your mouth, his cock noticeably longer than his partners. “Are you that desperate? Masky’s cock not enough?” Brian asked tauntingly.

“Want yours. Need yours,” You mewled. Brian ginned against your lips. “Jump for me,” He instructed. You did as he said, his strong hands holding you in place as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back hit the cool marble tiles, Brian quick to rub his shaft up and down your folds. You shivered from the sensitivity, Brian slowly pushing himself inside of you. “Look pretty girl. Watch as your hungry cunt swallows my cock,” He ordered. You looked down, watching him shove himself in deeper. “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?” Brian asked. He brought his hand to your puffy clit, drawing circles around the bud as he pushed in deeper. “Y-yes!” You cried out. You gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

“Cmon now. You can take it, look at that. Good girl,” He purred, his cock bottoming out inside of you. You could feel his tip brush against your g spot, your walls beginning to relax as he played with your clit. “That feel good?” Brian asked mockingly. You nodded profusely, tilting your head back. He began to slowly move his hips, fucking you against the shower wall. “Go f-faster. I can handle it,” You pleaded. You met Brian’s gaze, the two of you unable to conceal your sinful noises as he railed into you. “Oh fuck! You’re so deep,” You moaned. He began to fuck you faster, his hips merciless as he rammed into you. His cock abused your g spot as he pleased, your thighs trembling. His strong hands secured you into place, his face full of pride as he watched you take him.

“Cmon, make those pretty noises for me. Wanna hear you," Brian encouraged. You were a squirming mess under him, begging for more as he railed you against the wall. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your gaze finally meeting Brian's. "Awe you look so cute, so fucked out like this," He cooed. You could feel your nails digging deeper into Brian's chest as your orgasm came dangerously closer. "Bri- i'm gonna cum," You warned, biting your bottom lip. Brian put his hand back on your throat, lightly squeezing the sides. "Go on pretty girl. Cum. You deserve it," He praised. His words of affirmation sent you over the edge, your legs trembling as you came around his cock. Brian could feel himself getting close, his large hands setting you on the ground.

Your knees weak as you fell onto them, staring up at your caring lover. He jerked his cock in front of your face, your tongue flattening out across your bottom lip. Brian groaned as he came, water running down his chest and splashing onto your face. His seed dripped down onto your tongue, your eyes fluttering shut. You swallowed all of his cum without a second thought, your eyes meeting his. Brian took deep breaths, helping you to your feet. You were dazed, your hands going to wash the suds out of his hair. "Not so fast, Lets get you cleaned up," Brian told you. He grabbed your loofa, putting your body wash into the cloth. Your eyes closed as he washed your body, his large hands treating you as if you were fragile glass. "I'm fucked, aren't I?" You managed to ask, your mouth running dry. For a brief moment, the stressful situation had made a grand reappearance in your mind.

Brian washed between your breast, his eyes soaking in every inch of your skin. "I'm afraid you are sweetheart," He agreed. He lowered himself to his knees, his gaze landing on your abused cunt. He knew that it was wise to continue the serious conversation, but he wanted nothing more than to make you feel good. Brian wedged his way in between your thighs, licking a stripe up your folds. "Fuck Brian!" You cried out, your fingers raking through his soaking wet hair. You fell back against the tiled wall again, your legs shaking as he made himself at home in your folds.

He couldn’t get enough of your taste, his large hands keeping your thighs pried apart as he devoured your juices. You were addictive. Your cunt, your moans, the way you desperately pulled at his hair. You were his addiction. One that he couldn’t get enough of. You were close to cumming again, this time it felt different. You tried to close your legs, the pleasure becoming too much for you to handle. “Fucking fuck!” You moaned, your body releasing. Your body shook as you released on Brian’s face, your juices covering him. “Holy shit, I am so sorry, i’ve never done that before,” You rambled, your vision beginning to see spots. Brian was quick to notice how unstable you were, quickly rising to his feet.

“You squirting on my face has got to be the hottest thing i’ve ever seen,” Brian praised. He planted a kiss on your forehead, helping you stand upright. “Now let’s finish getting you cleaned up so you can rest,” He said softly. You allowed Brian to bathe you, his fingertips grazing across your skin so gently you thought he was treating you like glass. There were many problems that were coming. Ones that you knew would be life changing. Ones that couldn’t be ignored or overlooked once you stepped out of that shower. But as Brian gently massaged your conditioner into your scalp, the worry you had began to wash away, just as the suds did.

Because you knew, no matter what, you’d have your hitchhikers.

—> next chapter

314 notes · View notes

k1mdr4cul4 · 6 months ago

Text

dating charlie walker hcs

(some nsfw)

LOVESSS forehead kisses

fantasizes about cutting your clothes off with his knife

always carries your books/jacket/anything for you

you guys stay up all night and watch the sunrise together

sneaks into your room after being ghostface, switches from that persona to cuddly and soft real fast

but also likes to be rough usually after he's killed (whether yk about him being ghostface or not)

10000% a thigh guy

leaves handprints on your thighs when he eats you out (for afab)

you’re the most attractive person he’s ever seen, both your looks and personality

SOOOOO loyal

struggles to unclasp your bra every time

loves animals, he’s always picking up bugs and saying hi to squirrels

#rory culkin #scream 4 #charlie walker #charlie walker smut #rory culkin smut #rory culkin x reader #charlie walker x reader #charlie walker x you #charlie walker x y/n #culkin brothers #jack goes home #clyde electrick children

378 notes · View notes

murdrdocs · 9 months ago

Note

ares fucks you in the most sloppy way ever. like the man is nasty. first of all, yall are probably coming back from some sports bar or a pub, possibly in an alley or something. best believe he's rawdogging it. that man— no, sorry, that GOD, will stick two fingers down your throat, have you gagging, and then with no warning will shove them up your pussy, spit string still attached. he wont just fuck you til your eyes are rolling back but until your drooling all over your own tits. your both covered in sweat (do gods sweat?). you nails r clawing down his back? good. mark him up. they'll be gone by morning anyway. not that the same can be said for you, with all the bruises and hickeys hes littering your skin with. and im not just talking soots, im talking full on handprints... on your hips, your inner thighs, your neck...

also, he will def slap u in the face and grab your cheeks for eye contact. and if yall r in doggy he will have a fistful of your hair pulling ur head back while he chokes you and slams into you.

-ares anon

thats it 4 tonight, i swear celeste <3

i was gonna go to sleep but …. i don’t even know how to add onto this ???

cw impact play/slapping; choking; major degradation; MDNI 18+

i feel like he makes you wait. ares smokes, just because he can, really. so he’s standing outside of the bar with you, back leaned against the brick while he takes his precious time inhaling the tobacco and letting the smoke out into the air. you stand a little bit away from him on his direction, wearing his jacket because he got tired of hearing you whine and complain about being cold. he’s this close to slipping a few dollars (don’t ask how he got them) into your hand and telling you to go play some arcade game like you’re nothing but a nuisance. but luckily it’s then that he reaches the filter and he has the cigarette stomped under the bottom of his shoe.

and then he’s fucking your mouth with his tongue. he won’t let you get close to the smoke (he doesn’t want his fuck toy to have the horrible smokers cough mortals get), but he’ll let you taste it from him. he’s holding you close by the back of your head, palming your skull which fits perfectly within it, nestled between the callouses.

he pulls away with just enough room to tell you to spread your legs, and as soon as you do as told he shoves his fingers into your mouth, stares you down with an eyebrow quirked in challenge as he flattens his fingers out along the very back of your tongue. when you’re starting to choke around them, useless hands wrapping around his wrist for security, he’ll remove his hand and shove it right up into your cunt, mocking you for not wearing any panties like a “desperate slut”.

then he’ll fuck you nasty. he’s trained you for this. he’s made sure you could handle at least half of his potential.

his hips painfully snapping up into yours. the palms of your hands scraping against the rough and dirty brick of the outside of the bar. the straps of your dress pulled down but you’re still wearing his jacket. and every time it slips off of your shoulders he threatens you, telling you that maybe he should let someone stumble upon you two. or maybe he’ll take you out in the street and deface you there. or maybe he’ll just ignore you. if you let his jacket fall he’ll just pretend you don’t exist and leave you to your weak fingers or even weaker mortal men.

and god does he love to bruise. handprints on your ass cheeks are his favorite. he’s taken to wearing a ring on his pinkie just so he can see where it’s cut into your skin.

at one point he’ll give you a little reprieve, blessing you by turning you around and wrapping your legs around his waist. your hands will find their place under his black tee. his hand will find its place around your neck. and you’ll both leave your mark. only his will be gone by the time you wake up next to him while you’ll be forced to wear a scarf or something for a while.

and in the morning, when you’re whining about hurting and needing a break, ares will snicker in your face. he’ll tell you “okay” and grab his shit and get ready to leave, but then you’re pouting and telling him you didn’t mean it. you’re spreading your legs and throwing the sheet off of your body and letting him use you again. and if you dare look away when he’s fucking you in missionary—something he does for you, mind you, he knows how sappy and sentimental you get and how you ‘need’ to see him—then he’s slapping your cheek and digging his fingers into your skin, pursuing your lips and making you look as dumb as he thinks you are while he forces you to stare up at him.

“eyes on me. right here,” he’ll tell you, maybe going as far as to snap his fingers right above his head to gather your attention. like you’re nothing but an inattentive animal.

#aresworld!#celeste writes pjo #ares pjo x reader #ares pjo x you #ares pjo smut #cw impact play #ares x reader

465 notes · View notes

kazutora-kurokawa · 9 months ago

Note

Could you pls do nsfw headcanons for toman division captain & vice captain with a short curvy reader.

💦

Toman Captains + VCs x Short!Curvy!Reader

♡ NSFW, Fem reader, reader is around 5'4 for reference, reader is busty, reader has hips wider than her waist, reader has thick thighs, biting, size kink, breeding, ass slapping, just average smut ♡

Captains: Baji, Mitsuya, Pah-Chin, Nahoya, Mucho

Vice Captains: Chifuyu, Hakkai, Peh-yan, Souya, Sanzu

note: thank you for requesting anon 🩷 I wasn't sure if you wanted Takemichi or Baji as the first division captain, so I just chose Baji. If you want some headcanons for Takemichi just let me know 🫶

note 2: shout-out to all my short followers, I'd grab stuff from the highest shelf for y'all 😚

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Baji

🔥 Bites you all day everyday (he calls it love biting)

🔥 Especially likes to bite your thighs

🔥 He can take your bra off with his teeth

🔥 Grips your thighs when he eats you so you can't squirm away from him

Chifuyu

🩵 Your body is a temple and his preferred place of worship is in between your legs

🩵 Gets hard when he sees you wearing a form fitting dress for the first time, it's like a life changing experience for him

🩵 Takes photos of you just so he can jerk off to them later

🩵 Always grabbing on your tits when he fucks you

Mitsuya

🪻 He bases designs he makes on your figure

🪻 Asks you to model clothes for him and he always ends up taking them off of you as soon as you walk through the door

🪻 Soft and sweet during sex, praises and compliments you every five seconds

🪻 Kisses your tummy and hips when he eats you out

Hakkai

🫐 Likes to eat you out because he doesn't have to make eye contact with you (poor nervous baby)

🫐 He'd be really unsure of himself during sex, but as soon as you start whining for him to go faster he's on cloud nine

🫐 Likes when you ride his thigh and when you're on top of him in general

🫐 He's absolutely submissive and prefers to let you take the lead

Pah-Chin

��️ Always has his hands on your hips, especially during sex

☁️ Likes when you wear his jacket while you fuck, it fits you perfectly and he just thinks you look so cute in it

☁️ He loves fingering you, he gets a great view of your body

☁️ Kisses you on your thighs and clit while he's fingering you

Peh-yan

🤍 He has crazy stamina and always tires you out

🤍 Asks you to wear tight clothing when you go out on dates (he always ends up taking you to a secluded spot to fuck)

🤍 Let's you ride him but he'll be gripping your hips and controlling your pace the whole time

🤍 Has his face buried in your tits the whole time you're riding him

Nahoya

🪷 He's a pro ass slapper and makes sure to slap your ass every time you walk pass him (leaves handprints on your ass too)

🪷 69 (no rapper) is his favorite position, he gets to eat you out, your ass is in his face, and he gets his dick sucked. It's a win-win-win

🪷 Likes your ass tooted up and your face down (y'all know what song I'm referencing?)

🪷 Moans when you grab his hair during sex

Souya

💠 Likes to lay his head on your thighs (preferably while you're jerking him off)

💠 Prefers to be on top because he'll cum quick if you're riding him

💠 Gets overstimulated really easily but he won't say anything because he doesn't want to stop fucking you

💠 Loves when you sit on his face and run your fingers through his hair while he eats you out

Mucho

🎀 Enjoys the height difference between you two and uses it to his advantage

🎀 He'll hold you and fuck you while he's standing

🎀 Loves fucking you against walls

🎀 Knows you can barely handle his dick and loves seeing you whine about how big he is

Sanzu

🌸 Teases you about your height during sex (he'll call you short-stack while he's balls deep inside you)

🌸 Likes when you ride him because he gets to hold you close to him

🌸 Loves to cum inside you, always tells you he's gonna get you pregnant while you're fucking

🌸 Lays on your chest and kisses your tits after sex

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Taglist

@arlerts-angel , @i-literally-cant-with-this , @trevengersprincess , @happy-trenchcoated-impala , @giugiette , @katkitkats

#tokyo revengers headcanons #tokyo revengers smut #baji smut #chifuyu smut #mitsuya smut #hakkai smut #pah chin smut #peh yan smut #nahoya smut #souya smut #sanzu smut #mucho smut #I need these men IMMEDIATELY!!!

712 notes · View notes

jedi-hawkins · 6 months ago

Text

Callsign: Omega

post-s3 finale head cannons (spoilers, duh)

Omega, she’s become one of the most famous pilots for the rebellion.

She names her x-wing “Havoc 5” for her brothers

Of course it has their ct numbers written across the back, right behind the cockpit, for they’re always watching her six. She can't see them when she's flying, and frankly doesn't look at the worn numbers there every day, but they're there always.

The belly of her x-wing is covered in tally marks. The blue ones are for each clone she’s helped free, an ohmage to a clone her brother Echo told her about, ARC-5555. The black ones are for every other being she's helped free. And the red ones, those are for the lives that have passed on and become one with the Force.

On part of her landing gear is a blue pawprint.

On her helmet she only has five things painted, a knife, a crosshair, a tooka doll, a handprint, and a pair of goggles.

On the shoulder of her flight suit, she adds another CF 99 patch, just like the one on her jacket.

She goes by callsign “Omega” for she is the last. The end. The final thing her enemies will see, the last thing the Empire will feel as it falls. She is the being that brings an end to the suffering that so many clones have faced as wards of the Empire when she shows up to liberate them. Omega.

Bonus: The first time she returns to Pabu, Hunter immediately notices the nose art she's chosen to paint on her shuttle, the one built from the Marauder's salvage. It's a stark replica of the nose art that once adorned the original ship, back in the Clone Wars. His stomach plummets and he can't even find the words. As his daughter strolls down the ramp, she immediately bursts into laughter at the look on his face.

Her brothers, Crosshair and Wrecker stroll into the courtyard, the larger of the two asking loudly, "What's so funny, 'Meg?"

"I think that is what's so funny." The lankier one replies, gesturing to the nose of the shuttle with his left hand. He's forgone his prosthetic today. Some days he wears it, others he chooses to wear his cap with pride.

Wrecker scratches his beard and both his eyes widen, "WAIT- IS THAT?"

"So, it would seem." Crosshair says, placing a toothpick between his lips. "Breathe, Hunter." He says pointedly at his brother, who still looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"I-uhh. It's good to have you home, Omega." He finally stutters out.

He wraps his arms around her tightly as always, but his eyes are still glued to the hull of her shuttle. "Done some decorating, I see?"

"Yeah." She replies simply, giving Wrecker and Crosshair their own due hugs. "You like it?"

"It certainly is... something." Hunter gets out, stumbling over his words yet again.

"I found the image in some old Republic files we recovered, it reminded me of something I saw as a kid, but I don't remember where." She says, coming to stand beside Hunter again.

"Ehhh... Omega." Her father groans, running a hand through his greying hair. "Do you... Do you remember what the Marauder looked like when we first met?"

She turns to him. "No, why do you ask?"

Hunter finally peels his eyes away from the shuttle to face his daughter. "That picture you found... That was... That was the Marauder, that's where you know it from. You only saw it once. We scrubbed it off as soon as we decided to come back to Kamino for you."

"Really? I had no recollection." Omega tries to stop the grin from spreading across her face, but she can't help it, and Hunter, still perceptive as always scoffs at her.

"Why you little..." He growls at her, stifling his own laughter.

"I think she knows..." Crosshair chimes in, running his hand through his silver locks.

Wrecker's jaw drops, "Wait, you know where that's from?"

Omega shakes her head at her brothers. "Of course I know, I never forgot how awkward you all were when I asked about it. It didn't click exactly why until I found that old picture. Thought I'd bring it back for old time's sake, eh Hunter?"

Hunter's eyes widen as words escape him once again.

"Kidding," Omega teases. "I just wanted to see what your reaction would be."

Crosshair steps closer to the shuttle to examine the paint job. "Though this has been wildly entertaining, it might be best for you to scrub it, 'Mega."

Omega crosses her arms. "Why? You did it first little brother."

His eyes narrow at his sister, he's the only one she ever pulls that with and though he secretly loves it, she can't know that. "I mean it." He says sternly, pointing his toothpick at her. "Otherwise, Hunter is going to have an aneurysm every time you come home."

Omega looks to the clone beside her, just barely an inch shorter than her now. She places a hand on his shoulder, "Of course I'll scrub it. Echo thought the idea was hilarious. Plus, it gave me an opening to show you this."

She gently reaches into her bag and brings out a holoframe, turning it so Hunter can see. It looks just like any other quick photo taken in a Republic shipyard. Troopers are milling around in the back, by the looks of the landscape it might've been Ryloth. The focus of the photo, however, is a black Omicron-class attack shuttle and five clone commandos posed in front of it in red and black armor.

Their helmets are off, their faces young and confident, proud of their most recent mission. Though, the sniper has a rifle held in his right hand, and the one crouched in front doesn't have his goggles on. But it's clear who it is, all five of them. And on the nose of the attack shuttle behind them, is the striking portrait of the last senator of Naboo.

390 notes · View notes

forthechubbies · 1 year ago

Text

Seven Days to your heart {Rated: X}° Drabble Redemption Pile

Idol! Jungkook x Chubby!Reader

! Toxic relationship,Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, and aggressively loving Jungkook

It took place during a romantic meal with candles. Naturally supported by jungkook, your covert sweetheart. The seductive thrill of secrecy quickly started to fade. And you both uncomfortably aware of it. -

" Jungkook. "

He may be so childish at times, "No. "I hate it when you sound like that," He declares with a cute-pout.

You scoffed. "Well, this is not going away." You do something you'll soon regret when you finally reach across the little coffee table to meet eyes. Your boyfriend's bulging red eyes made your heart swell as you said, "Look at -." Is this why it's so dark in here? "..

You signed, planting a small peck to his forehead. " We need to talk about it. "

Your love is disintegrating right before your eyes. The last thing jungkook needs is to be in a relationship given the international rumors, his separation, the threats, the stress, and his work. He hardly ever has time to take a shower.. -

" I'm doing this for - "

"My own good—what a load of bullshit." He struck the table as he got up and walked away.He patted his pockets.

You stared at him at first, unable to speak. "Bullshit! You're only kidding yourself if you believe this will work." As you were tidying up jungkook's mess, you spoke the truth. "You don't even have time for yourself. not to mention me.

"You haven't even tried, you-! The fuck!" A white pack of cigarettes fell from Jungkook's jacket's pockets after a strong shake. "A lot of idols wed regular folks. Why can't we be like them?" As he walked to the porch to smoke, he yelled angrily.

When did he start smoking? As hot as he looks you couldn't help but worry . " because you receiving death threats when we hadn’t even went public about any of thing.." You can't find the words to express the feeling in your heart. "Just think for once. "

He chuckled. " I'm not worried about threats, sweetheart., " he promised; releasing smoke through his nose.

It's tough to believe a hard headed man-like him can walk this earth. " Are you even listening to me?! "

" I guess I have to love you harder than if the problem is you want more attention." The alcohol must finally be getting to him, he blew his pull before pulling you in close. "Whatever my baby want. She gets.."Kook snaked behind you; trapping you in his arms.

Your attempt to ignore him as he lapped up the vulnerable region between your ear and neck backfired as you rolled your eyes. He nearly won, but you changed your mind.You pushed him away and said, "This isn't a negotiation; kook," as you made your way to the entrance. "We are done."

The brute idol clutched you back by your plump waist as you dashed to the door with your heels clicking. Jungkook didn't take long to push his hands up your dress and stick his tongue down your throat.

The entire evening was hazy. As jungkook threw you over his shoulder, the last flashing memory was of the entrance door.

Next morning

Due to Jungkook's absence, you welcomed the sun alone.

While you slept off your tiredness, a series of messages informed you of what was occurring. He was laughing and grinning while you were out only a few hours before, he had left your poor soul with bite marks, handprints, and among other things.

Sleeping with your supposed ex is not how you want to start your Monday.

#bts smut #bts x chubby reader #chubby reader #poly ot7 #yandere jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook x chubby reader #yandere jungkook #bts mafia au #bts mafia fic #seven au #jungkook seven #jeon jungguk #jungguk x reader

907 notes · View notes

mrsbarnesxxx · 5 months ago

Note

Either poly!marauders x fem!reader or remus lupin for characters!<3

Reader talks back in public to them/him and gets told off or yelled at or punished(😏😏😏)

Hope your day goes swell love!

A/N: I absolutely loved this request! I'm always a bit lost on how to write actual smut, so I'm sorry!

Warnings: Suggestive content, hints at poly! relationship, cursing?

His brow quirked at your words, "You wanna say that again love?"

"I said I don't have to listen to you." You repeat. You don't know why you were acting this way. It's not like the request he made was unreasonable. It wasn't like he asked you to stand on your head and juggle.

He nods, jaw clenching and unclenching. "Love, I'm only going to ask you one more time."

"I already told you, I don't need a jacket." You say crossing your arms. You hadn't chosen the best place to have this argument either. The two of you were currently standing in the middle of the common room, his friends standing behind him. It wasn't like you were being quiet either. For some reason his request infuriated you, it was like he thought if he said jump you were supposed to jump right then.

"Love, it's 30 degrees outside. You need a jacket or else you'll get sick." You ignored him. You wouldn't even look at him. His jaw tightened once again before he turned around smiling at his friends. "Why don't you guys go along without us. We'll meet you there." He said through tight lips and even his friends knew not to ignore him.

That got your attention. You were in trouble now, you felt the blood rush from your face, you got dizzy at what those implications could be.

They nodded and headed through the portrait hole, muttering quietly to themselves.

"Let's go find you a jumper, love." He says grabbing your wrist and guiding you upstairs. His grip wasn't tight, he didn't want to hurt you.

"Which one do you want love?" He asks holding up two jumpers. You point to a tan and brown patterned one. He helps you slip it over your head before pressing a kiss to your head and pulling you back downstairs. The two of you walk to Hogsmeade in silence. You're honestly shocked you're still going. Usually by now, he'd have you bent over his lap, ass covered in handprints, but instead, he guides you gently into the three broomsticks and over to a table with his friends.

He stays like this for the afternoon. It's almost like he's forgotten about your attitude...almost. You know he'd never let it slide, but for now, you soak in his attention and kind touches.

By the time you make it back to the common room, you've forgotten about your argument with Remus this morning. That is until you bid them goodnight, kissing Remus on the cheek and heading for the stairs. Remus's hand encircles your wrist as you walk away.

He tuts softly, hand combing through your hair gently, "Didn't think I'd forgot, did you poppet?" He whispers into your ear causing goosebumps to arise across your body. "Can't let you get away that easily. Come on."

He pulls you up to the dorms, the others had already headed up there. You couldn't even imagine what he had planned. You guys reach the dorm and he pulls you into a passionate kiss. You melt into him, shocked at how soft he's being with you. It only causes your anxiety to build at what he has planned.

He drags you to the bed and pulls you so you're on top of him. Your back resting against his chest. He spreads your legs over his own. Your skirt riding up exposing your panties to everyone. You frantically try to cover yourself, but Remus catches your hands holding them down.

"No love. Let them see. Let them watch as I tease you. As I bring you to the edge of pleasure only to deny you. As your pussy flutters around nothing, desperate to be filled." He says loud enough for them to hear, his hand coming tom trace lazily over your clothed cunt.

"Get comfortable boys, it's going to be a long night." He says addressing his friends. The others didn't know who they wanted to be more. Remus as he started kissing down your neck, or you as you sat there, being tortured by Remus.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin smut #remus lupin x reader smut #mrsbarnesxx #mbxxrequests #mrsbarnesxxx #domremuslupin #softdomremuslupin #can you tell I love soft dom remus lupin

254 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.7k

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰💜

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has battled his way to you and is yanking Aegon back by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston yells, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his blood-soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it��s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don’t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader

336 notes · View notes

fcthots · 1 year ago

Text

Thinking about sugar daddy jason todd rn. Like you meet him during his crime lord era and he’s cold as hell but you’re just so pretty and he can’t help it. You flirt with him once and he’s like “you’re mine forever.” Mf would meet you once and be SOLD. He immediately says that you’re moving in with him, you don’t even question it really.

He’s often cold towards you but you’re into that. Like you’ll say you’re cold, fishing for him to buy you an expensive jacket, but he says “come sit in my lap and ride or shut up about it.” He fucking loves teasing you too. That’s when you know he’s losing control. He’s all “you like that baby? look at you, can’t even think you’re so full. you’re gonna work for everything I give you, yeah?” He’ll fuck you so rough and then buy you so much shit to make up for it. Like “sorry about the handprints on your ass, here’s a $10,000 diamond necklace.”

I want him. So bad.

#the embodiment of ‘the mask stays ON during sex’#saph’s thots #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd smut #red hood smut #red hood x reader smut #jason todd x reader smut #sugar daddy!Jason Todd #sugardaddy!jason #red hood #red hood x reader #sugar daddy Jason todd #jason todd x you #smut

967 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

Text

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR SIX

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, mentions of harassment, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

→ wc: 4.8k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

6:00 ───ㅇ─────────────── 24:00

HOUR SIX - 9:00 PM

Eddie holds the front door to apartment 2C open for you, finally letting go of your hand for the first time since you’d plead with him to leave the drunken men at the bar. You can’t look him in the eyes, head tilted downwards as you brush past him and don’t even stop to overthink the smell of his cologne taking over you when your sore shoulder bumps his chest.

The adrenaline is wearing off. The fear is settling like a heavy knot in your abdomen.

It was a part of the experience of being a woman, they’d always told you. Men would gawk, boys would be boys, and it was always something you’re supposed to laugh off. You’ve felt wandering hands of strange men during night outs with your friends, you’d been on the receiving end of one too many attempts at flattery that crossed a line. You’d never done anything about them; you were always taught to smile and move past it. Don’t engage them. Don’t give them reason to lash out.

And the men you had chosen to trust and surround yourself also did nothing.

You don’t blame them. Steve, a brilliant example, was usually oblivious. But he did what he could, throwing a casual arm over your shoulder and somehow blinding these men with charisma and charm as he subtly would pull you away from them in the midst of lighthearted laughter.

Eddie is the first man in your life to have ever defended you so vehemently. He’s the first to not smile and nod it off, to not reduce himself to a simple bystander. Not only did he do something about it, but he had lashed out as you normally craved to.

If you hadn’t interfered, he would have punched the guy, Jason. You’re sure of it.

He’s still angry, footsteps heavy as he yanks off his jacket once the front door is locked, and you can’t quite decipher if his irritation is at you or the situation. If he’s still fuming about the fight, or if he’s still not quite cooled off from the entire interaction that had taken place outside.

When he gently grazes at your throbbing shoulder, fingertips hovering over your skin as he pushes the collar of your shirt out of his line of sight to see the handprint, you start to find your answer - it’s the latter.

“C’mere,” he murmurs gently, walking towards the kitchen and grabbing a stool from his breakfast bar to drag behind him. He settles it near the counter across from his fridge, flicking on the fluorescent overhead lights of his kitchen.

When he nods to the stool, you sit wordlessly.

You’re shaking, still trying to let your brain catch up as you grapple with what exactly happened.

Jason had grabbed you, roughly. He’d been trying to get you to go home with him. He was drunk. He had just been resorting to his instincts, he was just a boy being a boy.

Eddie’s actions are beginning to soften now that he stands before you. You can see him flexing his hand that had held yours, tightening it before stretching it back out. He does it a few times. Tightening and stretching, tightening and stretching. You don’t comment on it.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” his brown eyes are staring into yours as he asks you, full of something resembling care, cautious as he gages you.

The simple act of him asking for permission cracks something in your chest. It’s not a bone, it’s not a shard of glass, it’s not a vine of hope.

But it’s something, and certainly not something bad, so you nod.

When he pulls on your shirt this time, he allows his skin to come in contact with yours. You feel the chill of his rings sweep over your hot shoulder, and your eyes flutter shut in an effort to ignore the electricity that begins to pulsate down your spine. It shocks from the base of your neck into your lower back, leaving a trail of rippling tingles in its wake.

Had his palm against yours elicited this same reaction? Had he felt this when your hand clutched his bicep?

You remember the last time you were in this kitchen, the way the two of you had been fighting and that aching to see him bleed as you once did. The ache is long gone.

Because all it takes is one look at his face when you finally find the bravery to open your eyes again, and you can see his scarlet written plainly in his expression. You’ve been bruised, but he’s been pricked. Your hurt and his hurt are one in the same in this moment as he takes in the shape of a handprint, plain as day, red and angry despite the layer of clothing that had attempted to separate you from the drunken stranger.

“I should go back down there and kill him,” he says under his breath, his eyes never leaving your shoulder.

“No,” you whisper with a small shake of your head, “You shouldn’t.”

The sound of your voice has his head snapping up, eyes locking with yours once more. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t.”

Because he’s not worth it, because he was nothing more than a drunk boy. Because if you go down there, I’m scared you’ll get hurt.

You don’t say a single thought that comes to mind, especially the last one. You just shrug.

“I should have punched the fucker when I had the chance,” he grits out, his eyes landing back on the soon-to-be bruise, “I should have knocked his teeth out for laying his hands on you. If I ever see him again, he’s a dead-man walking.”

You can see his anger building once more with every shaky breath, eyes glazing over and shoulders tensing. You don’t even think before you’re bringing a shaking hand back up to his shoulder, landing without much hesitancy, delicate in its weight against him.

He glances down at it in shock. It’s as if he didn’t expect your touch, or maybe he does feel those same shockwaves set his system off balance from something as simple as your hand on him. Either way, you don’t see his shiver as he brings his free hand to cup over yours.

“Just one reason,” he presses, palm impossibly warm against the back of your hand, tone finally wavering, “For or against me going back out there. Say the word, and I’ll put him six feet under.”

“Don’t,” you’re insisting now, and when you squeeze his shoulder, he returns it against your hand, “He’s just some guy. He was drunk, and he probably didn’t know any be-”

“If you say he didn’t know any better, I might actually get mad at you.”

Eddie’s a man. He hasn’t learned the art of letting go like you have. He has the privilege of being angry like this right now.

You don’t respond, and he sighs, taking a step back as your hand falls back to your lap, “You should ice that. I’ll grab an ice pack.”

You watch his tense back as he turns to his freezer, the way his shoulder blades flex against his t-shirt as he digs for the promised ice pack. It's a wide, unfamiliar terrain, an expanse that you can picture yourself running the very tips of your fingers over.

In a moment of weakness, you imagine what’s beneath the shirt. You imagine your fingertips tracing over bare skin and freckles, possible scars that have stories for another night.

As quickly as you think it, you push the image away.

Once he brings the ice pack to you, wrapped in a paper towel, he’s moving back across the kitchen and leaning on the counter opposite of you beside the fridge. He crosses his arms and legs alike, simply staring as you press the cool material onto the injured space.

“Why are you defending him?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows furrowing, “He… He was an asshole. There was no excuse for how he was treating you, someone he doesn’t know. Why didn’t you just tell him no?”

“Easier said than done,” you hum as you focus on treating your shoulder rather than looking at Eddie again. You’re coming to learn that looking at him is a dangerous game, always risking to find another feature of his to learn.

Dimples, cologne, shoulder blades - if the list grows too long, it’ll only be harder to discard the new information after tonight.

“You’ve never had a problem saying no to me,” he points out with a cock of his eyebrow. You’re grateful that his tension is lightening up, falling back into an easy rhythm between the two of you rather than being furious.

But you can’t stop thinking of that scarlet across his face. A red to match the own beneath your skin. And you didn’t even have to crack open his chest to see it - it was presented to you in a moment of weakness, a moment of grudges forgotten and protectiveness fierce.

You step out on a limb once more with Eddie. Something tells you that you won’t regret it.

“Because you don’t scare me.”

Five simple words, but their weight is not lost on him. His face falls, and before you can mentally prepare yourself, you’re looking into his honey brown eyes.

They’re doe-like. They aren’t hard like Jason’s had been, full of whiskey and righteousness, but sincerity. Your words affect him.

And so you continue on, “If I say no to you, I’m not scared you’ll lash out. Not physically, at least. You’ve been mean to me, don’t get me wrong, but… but no meaner than I’ve been to you,” you take pause, you let your words settle onto his shoulders as your hand had, “You’re a lot of things, Eddie, but you’re not one of the guys who hears convince me when I tell you no.”

“Because no means no,” he quickly says, tilting his head, “You shouldn’t take that shit from anyone.”

He pushes off the counter, still looking at you as he crosses the space he’d placed between you two.

You could freeze up, but you don’t. You’re not scared of him. You never have been, and you don’t think you ever will be.

“If a man ever acts otherwise,” he continues, “If a man ever lays his hands on you, if he ever does take it as convince me, you call me. You call me, and I’ll show him just what convincing means.”

He’s standing in front of you now, and you hadn’t even noticed your knees spreading, leaving a space between your thighs for him to easily occupy. He stops short of it though, not pressing into your space, not yet.

“Is this that scary dog privilege Nancy is always going on about?” the corners of your mouth quirk, looking up at Eddie through heavier lids.

The fear is gone. And all that’s replaced is exhaustion. It tugs on your limbs and mind alike, catching right up with the alcohol from the night.

“Scary dog privilege?” he echos, starting to grin as well. He takes another step forward, and the spice of his cologne is back.

It’s stronger here, outside of the bar and in his own space.

“She’s always saying we should invite you out to bars and stuff,” you explain, smile splitting wider, “Says guys would bother us less with you around.”

His smile falls, and he grows serious again, “Do guys bother you a lot?”

“It’s the bars in a college town, it’s norm-”

“Jesus Christ,” he interrupts, “Okay, yeah. From now on, tell Nance to invite me,” he groans running a hand over his face, “I can’t believe you’re trying to tell me that shit is normal. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”

“It’s not always so scary,” you try to convince him through feeble laughter, “Most nights don’t end in bruised shoulders, you know. It’s just… I don’t know. It is normal.”

“Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “Fuck that, but that’s just the way it is.”

He isn’t convinced, it’s written all over his face. His head is tilting again, and he’s looking with those warm brown doe eyes, and you know he isn’t convinced.

There’s a tension in the air that you can’t handle. You have to break it.

“What if I don’t want you to join girls’ night?” you ask him, keeping a teasing tone.

“Too fuckin’ bad.”

“Maybe I don’t want to utilize your scary dog privilege.”

He takes a final step, and now, he is standing in the space your thighs had allotted for him, “Sweetheart, let me make myself very clear. It doesn’t matter how pissed you make me, how crazy you drive me. I don’t care if we’re being civil or not, if you’re my…. My enemy or whatever the fuck you think I should call you – I meant it. If a guy like that asshole tonight ever bothers you, I’m kicking his ass.”

You know he means it. For the same reason that you know that you’re not scared of him.

He’s infuriating. He gets under your nerves and he will argue with you at every chance he gets, and yet, Eddie Munson carries an air of safety. It’s never been clearer to you than now, after spending so many hours with him, after seeing so many different sides to him that you hadn’t been privy to before.

“What if it’s not me? Guys flirt with Nancy too, you know.”

“Byers can handle his own, and so can Nance.”

“And Robin?”

“I’ve seen her slap Steve on a dare. I have faith in her.”

“You don’t have faith in me?”

His eyes widen at your question, nearly at a loss for words, “I-I didn’t… I didn’t mean… It’s not that.”

“Then why does your protection only extend to me?”

Your knees fall closed the slightest amount, and they bump his hips. He doesn’t move - he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Fine. If you don’t like it, I can also protect Nance and Buckley.”

“I never said I don’t like it,” you breathlessly correct.

You’re going too far. You don’t understand how the two of you ended up here; the shards of civility still linger in your chest and gut, but they might as well have vanished. It’s easy to forget about his cruel words when he’s this close, when he’s making promises like that.

Cruel words. The two of you need to discuss earlier. You need to know why he said what he did. Because now he stands before you with promises of protection and molten eyes, and you no longer believe him.

If he truly hated you, if he truly believed the answer he’d given you, he wouldn’t be saying these things. He wouldn’t care this much.

“Can we talk about what you said?” you whisper, and like that, the moment shatters. Once soft eyes turn hard, and he takes several steps back until your knees’ feather light touch disconnects from him.

“There’s nothing else to say,” you’re surprised he doesn’t play dumb. He knows you’re talking about him hating you.

“Nothing else to say?” you scoff, trying to bite back any of your own cruelty, “Eddie, you said you hated me before you even met me.”

“I know what I said-”

“And I don’t believe a damn word you said now. So, why the cop out answer?”

His eyes narrow, “You obviously believed me, or you wouldn’t have stormed off.”

You swallow hard, nodding, thinking over your next words carefully, “Because it hurt. Because it felt like we were… we were making some sort of progress, and all of a sudden, you’re telling me I never stood a chance at being your friend.”

“You asked me, and I was honest.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“How would you know if I was being honest or not?”

The back and forth is suddenly making you want to scream. Because you know - you know he was lying, or he wouldn’t be so suddenly defensive.

“Why can’t you admit it?” you finally break, sighing hard as you look at him, shaking your head softly, “Why can’t you just admit it was a cop out answer, and tell me the truth?”

The ice pack that had been reduced to being long forgotten slips from your shoulder, landing on the floor with a riveting smack. Eddie is quick to bend over and grab it, as if he was fleeing your stern look before he stands up straight, hand stuck out in your direction with the offering of the pack.

“Just because it wasn’t what you wanted to hear doesn’t mean I was lying,” he says, waiting for you to take the ice pack.

You take the pack roughly, and your fingers make contact with his palm. The same palm that had pressed to yours, the same palm that had guided you down the dark street and kept you close until you were back in his apartment.

You know he was lying.

“It’s not a matter of it not being the answer I wanted,” you snap, temper growing thin, “It’s a matter of you lying to me, and I don’t understand why. It’s a matter of you saying shit about how you’d protect me, no matter the circumstances, and yet also saying shit like that. It doesn’t fucking add up, and it doesn’t take a genius to see through your bullshit.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You did.”

You’re back to square one – just like that. Two stubborn idiots, both two headstrong to back down.

You’re tired. You’re exhausted of this, of one step forward and three steps back. It was never a dance you were fond of, and your desire for it doesn’t suddenly grow as you sit here in Eddie’s kitchen, arguing and pushing his buttons for answers.

“What do you want me to say?” he bites, honey eyes now a dark and stormy shade with the clouds hanging over them heavily, “Do you want me to say there was just some magical moment it clicked? That there’s something you can fix, you can change, to make me not hate you?”

“Yes!” you finally shout, throwing your hands up, still clutching that damn ice pack, “Yes, I actually do want you to say that. What is so wrong with us being friends? What is so wrong with us, at the very least, not being enemies?”

“Everything!” his volume raises right along with yours, “Everything is wrong with that?”

“Why? Tell me what’s so fucking wrong with it, and I’ll let it go. Hell, I’ll leave you alone the rest of this night, the rest of your life, if it means you being honest for once.”

“When else have I lied to you?” he seethes, and you immediately miss the moment his anger wasn’t directed at you. You miss when the two of you toed the line of being on each other’s side and not opposing forces. For a brief moment of false serendipity, it hadn’t been you versus Eddie, and it killed you to admit that it had been nice.

It kills you to admit you want that, not whatever this is. You don’t want to scream at each other anymore. After tonight, you’re done. You don’t want this back and forth, you don’t want the constant bickering, you don’t want to play this game anymore. The dance is over for you. Really, it should have ended in Steve Harrington’s apartment, the night you’d thrown a glass at Eddie. The night you decided you actually hated him, not for the sake of hating him because he hated you, but because he had truly cut you.

“If you’re lying about why you hate me, how am I supposed to believe a word you say to me tonight?” you finally ask in a quiet, even, resentful tone.

If he can’t tell you the truth about this, then his words mean nothing to you. All the talk of protection, all the promise of defending you, means nothing.

The crack in your chest this time is not pleasant.

“Ask me anything. Ask me, and I’ll be honest,” he suddenly demands.

Even in his anger with you, he doesn’t crowd you. There are still boundaries.

I’m not scared of you.

Even now, as he glares down at you, you’re not. Eddie Munson doesn’t scare you, but the pounding of your heart, how badly you need to hear him tell you the truth, does.

You could ask him the same question from the bar: Why do you hate me?

You could get your answer of crystal clear honesty right here, right now. You could ask him what you ever did to get under his nerves like this. You could ask him why he’d been kind at all the first night if all he ever planned to do was throw brutal punch after metaphorical punch for the rest of your relationship. You could ask him anything, and he would answer you honestly at this moment.

So, of course, you fuck it all up.

“Yeah? Okay, fine. Let’s start with why you have porn magazines with marked pages of models that look like me.”

Wrong question. The moment for honesty slips from your grasps.

He laughs bitterly, throwing his head back as he finally turns from you, “Fuck you. Truly, fuck you.”

He starts to walk away, and you discard the ice pack onto the counter before standing from the stool and following him, “You said ask you anything, and you’d answer honestly. I want an honest answer.”

He stops suddenly and turns to face you, making you nearly collide with his chest. There are no hesitant hands to land on your bicep, not outreach from him to steady you. All he does is stare, hard and hateful, as his chest heaves.

“It’s all a fucking game to you, isn’t it? This entire thing is just one giant joke. I try to give you what you want, I try to offer honesty, and you throw it in my face.”

“It’s not,” you correct with venom, “I want the answer to that question. You owe me that much. After everything you’ve said tonight, about hating me before we met, about celebrating my death, I think I’ve earned that answer.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. For a moment, the hatefulness breaks, and you see Eddie for who he is – a guy who can’t say what he means. Maybe his dishonesty isn’t from a place of getting under your nerves, but because he can’t even be honest with himself. A part of you must have known it, must have known you wouldn’t be getting any honesty from him, and that’s why you went with that question. You couldn’t handle another lie or excuse as to why things had to go as they did.

“Sweetheart, I think we both know why.”

Honesty is a bitch. Hand in hand with karma, you realize now, it is capable of stunning you into silence.

What the fuck does that mean?

“I obviously don’t,” you wave your hands between the two of you animatedly, growing frustrated, “If I knew the answer to any of the questions I have for you, this argument wouldn’t be happening.”

A chuckle of disbelief. A streak of crimson that bleeds from your wounds of civility.

You see it clearly now; even if Eddie has let you believe he also bleeds, the two of you will never share the same shade of scarlet. Your hurt and his hurt do not go hand in hand. It never has, and it never will. The two of you are not stars that align once every hundred years, you are not a rare phenomenon to witness.

You’re two people who hate each other. Who hate without reason, apparently.

“Fine,” you gasp out, now being the one to take steps back, “Fine. You don’t like that question, Munson? I have hundreds more. Why do you hate me? If what you said wasn’t a lie, why were you ever nice to me when we first met? Why would you give me that false hope? Why do you pull stunts like that in the kitchen, promising things you can’t do? Why do you seem to enjoy hurting me?”

Like a tired candle, his anger immediately flickers out.

It’s not from the breath he lets out, it’s from your gust of your own honesty.

Why would you give me that false hope?

Now that you’ve broken the dam, it’s flooding out. There will be no answers, so you don’t worry about what spills from your mouth now. He’s made it clear that honesty is an illusion, just like civility, and you’ll always have to watch it slip between your fingers. The buds of hopefulness on your vine will never be nurtured to bloom, and are doomed to wither before they reach potential.

“Why were you so cruel that night at Steve’s?” your voice breaks, “Why did you say those things you said that night? Why do you avoid me? Why can’t you stand me? I’m tired of it, Eddie. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I…” the syllable is the only noise he makes. The rest of his sentence dies on his tongue.

The air of safety has left the room. There’s no safety, no friendliness, in the air you two share. Suddenly, you’re back to six months earlier, standing and looking at him with wide eyes as shattered glass crunches beneath both your feet, nothing but hurt to take the place of what once was wrath. It’s just you and him, bystanders forgotten, moments of hope bursting into flames as they eat away at your stomach and heart alike.

“This is why,” he whispers, no longer meeting your heavy gaze.

“What?” you snap, “This is why, what?”

“Why we can’t be friends.”

You know what the cracks in your chest are now. Vines, decaying and breaking of fragility until they’re nothing more than dust.

“You’re right, we can’t be friends,” you choke out, trying to not cough on the vines’ dust, “Because you can’t be honest with me. Honesty was never an option, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” he looks impossibly small. It’s no longer a fair fight with his sagging shoulders and shining eyes, “How can I give you honesty when all I’ve ever done is hurt you?” he pauses for only a moment, before he’s starting back up, whispering your name before continuing on, “All I’ve ever done is hurt you. I have only given you reason after reason to hate me. And you just- you kept giving me a million second chances. You want honesty? Fine – I don’t deserve your second chances.”

“No, you don’t,” you say before you can think it over, before a small voice in your brain can say but I will still give them, “But is it really a second chance if you never let me give the first chance to begin with?”

Your words have a certain finality to them that you immediately wish to take back. You want to grab the words from the air between you and tuck them back into your chest, hide them away from him. Because you’re admitting to him once more that you always wanted something more than this, something better than this with him. You wanted friendship. You wanted civility. You wanted him to like you, to laugh with you like he had that first night, even if it had only been once. Part of you even wanted to go back in time and take back ever joining his friend group, invading his life, so you never would have had to endure that sudden departure into cold shoulders that eventually transformed into brutal words and harsh insults.

You should have never taken that 8 AM math class. You should have never let hope flower in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, “I regret it.”

You don’t know what exactly he regrets, don’t ask him for any more honesty, as he turns heel and walks down the hall. He walks away from you, into his room, shutting the door. Both on you and the conversation.

And yet, you still follow him down the hall. You still press your back to the wall across from the door, and you still slide down onto the floor across the room he’s now locked himself away from you into. You could leave. You could tell your friends that the deal is off. But you don’t.

You sit and you wait and you let your own sentiment of regret rest on your tongue.

You regret it, too. You regret everything that led to this moment. You regret whatever you did to Eddie Munson to make him hate your guts.

But mostly, you just regret pushing him so far. Somehow, you still let the blame fall on yourself as you stare at the closed door, wondering what could have been if you just stopped asking questions you couldn’t handle the answers to.

When the groupchat texts you for the photo proof of the hour, you don’t reply. Instead, you click onto your individual text thread with Steve, and type your answer there.

YOU: i fucked up.

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #oof

2K notes · View notes