#lists are fucking ridiculous and i might not have got it and when i called about the toothache they said fuck off and see a dentist which

[playingonedchess]

characters: lets live together

people on tumblr: this of course means theyre canonically having sex, no what are you talking about i dont do headcanons my blog is all stuff based on canon

[luminatricky]

Vampire? In Gotham! (part 3)

Summary: the batfam have a meeting, Constantine got a little too lost in the sauce when crafting Danny's sob story, and we find out what Dracula's been up to all these years. Oh and the DC version of Vlad is fully dead? More at 9

Relationships: the batfam

on god I spent too much time thinking about danny's vampsona. he's got two outfits so far. no I didn't make a concept board. no I didn't make a picrew. I don't know what you're talking about

(sorry if this is all horribly ooc I struggled a bit with making this intelligible)

Red Hood doesn't usually leave Crime Alley. That's a known fact. But Batman doesn't usually call a meeting that includes Red Hood. The old man learned years ago not to involve him unless it's important with a capitol I.

Pulling into the Batcave, Jason slows to a stop on his motorcycle. He follows the voices of his family to the Batcomputer. Everyone is in full gear, but not everyone is fully present.

Dickhead was ransacking the medical room for...blood bags? Barbie and Replacement carved out a corner to the right of the main computer. They'd set up a foldable table for their personal laptops, sitting side by side as they quietly schemed together. Damian was working hard on some sort of artwork with a similar table to the left. He stuck his tongue out in concentration. Adorable.

Bruce was pulling up a very old case file in the central system. It looked to be a string of serial disappearances.

Jason wasn't the last to arrive for once. The elevator to the manor dings behind him. Alfred and the rest of the brood step out into the cave, carrying weapons and gadgets by the armful. Old looking Batarangs, glorified flashlights, cases upon cases of the anti-toxin epipens filled with unfamiliar blue formula. And wooden stakes.

Like a good grandson he steps up to help lighten Alfred's load, but he only gets two steps in before the old butler gives him a very disapproving eyebrow raise. Jason retreats with his hands up. He turns back to Bruce.

"This better be a bloodsucker apocalypse or you won't see me til Christmas."

Bruce pulls up a detailed list of the weapons and their uses on screen. Everyone stops what their doing and takes a picture with their phones. Garlic Batarangs, flashlights with artificial sunlight, a cure for vampirism. Wooden stakes need no introduction or explanation, except for why his dad - who is very against killing to put it fucking gently - would be giving them a vamp equivalent of a gun.

"Potentially," Bruce says. "We need to draw up new contingencies. But we also need to debrief so we have all the facts to do so."

Surprisingly, both Duke AND Tim groan. Jason understands Duke. The teen does not have the patience - ahem, attention - to learn all the contingencies at once. Which Bruce recently subjected him to from what he's gleaned from the sibling group chat.

But Tim? Making and learning ridiculous lists is the guy's bread and butter, the freak. So why -

"C'mon Bruce. What we know so far about the guy makes it seem he might be genuine. We do not have to plan a murder yet. Murder is messy - and wrong, definitely wrong." Tim tacks the last part on way too quickly for anyone here to believe that's what he actually feels. Hah. Another one straying off the path of the No Kill Rule. He can't wait to hear the details when one of their siblings interrogates him about it later.

Bruce exhales through his nose. He puts the previous topic away in favor of pulling up a picture of a middle-aged man with glacial blue eyes. His face is long and angular, and he wears old style European clothes that screams 'I'm an old rich vampire, come stake me'. Jason snorts - something about his face is so punchable.

"Dr. Alucard seemed genuine at first, too." He pulls up a picture of the same man, but this time with sunken in cheek bones. His salt and pepper hair is fully bleached, and his eyes glow unnervingly. It's a candid of him mid-fight in the Batcave, a furious snarl on his lips, baring some wicked fangs at a young Batman. "Or should I say, Dracula." He's answered with a round of gasps.

Jason's starting to see how every single one of them ended up as (melo)dramatic little shits.

He puts the pictures away. "Around the time when I was first starting out, the Penguin accidentally freed him from where he was sealed in Gotham's cemetery." Bruce begins. Jason wonders with a tight chest just what was wrong with that place. Why do the dead keep coming back to life there?

If he had a nickel...

Bruce pulls up the headlines of the 'Lost Ones' case. Jason opens his mouth to comment, but Dick beats him to it. "They seriously thought it was Batman? C'mon! How incompetent is the GCPD?"

Jason scoffs. "Says the fucking cop."

"Ex-cop, thank you. And I worked in Bludhaven before I figured out they were just as corrupted and rooting that out from the inside was a terrible plan."

"Anyone coulda told you that," Duke snarks. Jason backs him up. "Your problem is you always want to give people the benefit of the doubt when you shouldn't."

"Boys." Bruce interrupts. They all stop at the tone he uses. Alfred clears his throat, and answers Dick's rhetorical question from earlier. "That was unfortunately a common occurrence when Master B was a young bat. It would do you all well to be mindful of keeping your reputations positive amidst suspicion."

Jason doesn't laugh out of respect for Alfred - he was so not talking about him. He needs to do the opposite of spit rainbows out his ass to be effective.

"Oh my God is that why Bruce keeps gatekeeping everyone he meets? He's hazing them like a vigilante initiation ritual?" Steph whispers to Cass. He hears her softly laugh in response as she nods.

"I agree with Grayson. The GCPD are fools to think that if Father were a serial killer or trafficker that they'd ever even know. He is better than that." The demon brat brags.

Bruce huffs fondly. "It's a good thing I'm not." He gestures to the weapons. "We fought. He'd started turning people left and right, making them mind controlled vampire pawns. The Joker got turned-"

Jason's vision floods green. "And you didn't fucking stake him? Even more fucking dangerous -"

"-and I managed to capture him at a blood bank before he could do more than destruction of private property." Bruce raises his voice over him. Jason clenches and unclenches his fists. He itches to shoot something, to break something, to get relief to this God forsaken green-flavored, rage-filled pressure starting to boil over in his chest at the reminder of his murderer.

Blessedly everyone shuts the fuck up as he tries to not blow his top. Bruce should've staked him. He had the perfect excuse all lined up, and the opportunity, and goddamit Barbara wouldn't be in a wheelchair and Duke's parents would be fine and Jason wouldn't have come back evil -

Bruce isn't and wasn't evil, he reminds himself. Not like Jason is. And it's not helpful to blame him for his nature right now when they need to fucking debrief. Woulda-coulda-shoulda's are for chumps.

When he blinks back the green, shoved it down to where it's there but managed, his family haven't moved an inch from where they had been. It's a small but meaningful relief to see that they hadn't taken defensive positions like they would've in the past. They just untensed as Jason's arms stopped trembling from supernatural rage.

No one calls attention to his near-episode further, and he's grateful. "I took him back to the cave. With his blood samples I managed to create a cure for the thralls. They all went back to their everyday lives without any memories of what happened. Joker is no exception."

Which is code for, 'I found a reason to bypass normal ethics and experiment on the Joker for the greater good and yes I still remember which cell he was in. It was the highlight of that week.' It makes him feel marginally better and worse in equal measure. Where the fuck was that energy when he kicked the bucket? (Superman, was where. They already had this conversation)

"At that time Wayne Enterprises had been taking it's first steps into solar energy. When Dracula invaded the cave, we were able to survive due to the stored sunlight that the proto-type gathered."

"Wait. No, wait. Hold on. The urn on the fireplace? Please tell me that's a grandma we don't talk about." Duke pleads. "Please. It's not Kentucky Fried Vampire. Please."

When Bruce doesn't say anything for way too long, Steph nearly chokes on trying to hold back her laughter. Alfred clears his throat. "Batman was rather hurt after the altercation. And Dr. Alucard was rather rude in how he barged in - uninvited! I found it suitable that if he insisted on destroying the decorations, that he should contribute."

Steph full out cannot stop once it begins. Everyone else stares dumbfounded either at Bruce or Alfred. Dick looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. Duke is regretting his life decisions, probably the ones about joining this family. Damian is not comprehending the issue with any of this, expecting a follow up anytime soon. Cass shakes her head, but Jason hears a quiet "grandma dracula is disappointed".

He doesn't know how to feel other than dear Lord please he cannot laugh. No matter how absurd this is. He sounds ridiculous in his helmet.

"...leaving the ashes unattended would spell disaster in the wrong hands," Bruce clarifies once the giggles fall away, "Dracula kidnapped Vicky Vale to use her soul in resurrecting his wife from her ashes. Letting Alfred hide it in plain sight didn't sound like a bad enough idea to try to stop him."

"Precisely, Master Bruce." The butler approves.

"Damn. That's just cold." Dick remarks. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free arm. "I would ask what the hell he deserved that for but he's literally an ancient evil vampire, so." His older brother jostles the blood bags he's cradling. "Hopefully this guy's an unrelated friendly."

Duke whines in the back of his throat. Jason squeezes his shoulder in sympathy.

"Tonight?" Cass redirects.

"Tonight I came across the unknown on our usual route. I had Robin stay back when I spotted him a distance away. He'd been running across rooftops, watching the people below. I followed for half a block before he walked down the side of a building and into an alley right on the border of Park Row."

"Crime Alley." Jason corrects.

"Crime Alley," Bruce amends. "Once there, he paused for a moment, searching the crowds for something. He took out a clear canister filled with a dark red liquid. It had the same viscosity as blood."

"Where's he getting the blood from? There hasn't been anymore blood bank robberies, attempted or otherwise. And no one's turned up with weird wounds, dead or alive." Steph pipes up. Babs lifts her hand up as she adds her two cents. "Unlessss, mystery teeth here is using the same tactic Drac did. If he's just arriving then we shouldn't be noticing anything just yet."

Bruce holds up a gloved finger in a 'I wasn't done' gesture. "When I approached, the unknown claimed that the canister was a synthesizer when asked. I couldn't detect any lie in his body language or voice. He then introduced himself as 'Dante Nightingale', but asked to be called Danny, which either means he's a modern vampire or an old one who is familiar with the times. I then confronted him about stalking humans from an alleyway. He revealed intel that will be worrying if confirmed."

Jason hums. "Sounds like this guy might not be the supernatural flavor of creep, at least," he mutters under his breath.

Tim raises his hand next. "From what B told me earlier, Danny said that there was some weird ghostly-doppelganger-vampire activity that our suspect hasn't seen before. The behavior, not the creatures." Tim pushes up his blue light glasses as he takes a breath. "Anyways. The info on Shades checks out. The JLD records told me all about them. Show of hands if anyone's seen Appalachia Tik Tok?"

Oh Jason doesn't like where this is going. Alfred (surprisingly), Cass, Dick, Babs, Steph, and Duke all put their hands up too.

Tim goes on. "The mimics? Shades are like that, but with a life force sucking aspect. They're basically ghosts who never were alive and didn't form right, so they eat human emotions until they become fully sentient ghosts called Specters. In a really creepy 'I'm going to replace you' way. So. Bad stuff."

Jason shivers when Bruce nods. "Nightingale claims that they're walking the streets in unusual numbers. That he had just arrived and in Gotham and that he was exploring tonight when he noticed something off."

"Ohhhhkay! Just what we needed, yeah? Invisible monsters in Gotham!" Dick says. "Quick, scratch that off the bingo."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Do we have a description? Power set, background check? I need everything I can to narrow down which type of vamp in the database." He's tapping away at his laptop again, not looking up as he types.

Bruce motions for Damian to come closer. The demon brat hands off the artwork he'd been quietly working on as they talked. Bruce observes it, before nodding at where Damian stands at attention like a good little soldier. Damian preens.

Jason blinks away the green.

Their dad scans the sheet with a device, and the image pops up on the main computer. The man in the portrait has pale skin - obviously. Fangs - no duh. Although notably shaped differently from Drac's. Claws a good few inches long and white in color. Jason spies an interesting ring. It's crown shaped and encased in fake(?) ice. Freckles on his rounder face, framed by wispy-looking stark white hair. Skeleton earrings, black turtleneck, a white blouse with a ridiculously low vee neck tucked into green pants. A delicate chain in the shape of a spiderweb wraps around his covered throat in a pleasing contrast.

The man's eyes are a hauntingly familiar shade of green. He sees it often.

The pupils glow a lighter hue of lazarus, shaped like four-pointed stars. Jason would say the guy looks more like a fae took a dip in the Pits than bloodsucker. But what does he know? Guy didn't deny the blood drinking accusations for fuck's sake.

Babs jumps in again. "We had B give Robin a description because apparently his presence is a hell of an EMP. Video feed and coms went down as soon as Batman joined him in the alley. So a few feet away." She clicks a few things on her own screen, and then starts reading down some sort of list she typed up for herself.

"Dante Nightingale, aged nineteen. A farm boy from Illinois. Parents Robert and Jane Nightingale. No other relatives. Totally normal until he was struck by lightning at thirteen and his metagene activated, giving him minor power over ice and sensitivity to heat." She taps something on her computer and a young Danny Nightingale jumps next to Damian's portrait. The black haired boy has a big goofy grin on his even rounder face, splattered with freckles. In this picture, it's obvious that although he's trying to look happy for picture day, the kid had serious bags under his eyes, and a look in those clear blues that just screamed that Danny had seen some awful things. "Then at fourteen, the whole family got into a car crash. Robert and Jane died on scene, while Dante lasted three days in the hospital before going missing entirely."

Babs pushes up her glasses and takes a deep steadying breath. "The nurses on duty reported a change in hair and eye color, as well as strange dental elongation in the canines. Paired with uncontrollable ice stronger than recorded earlier, this led them to believe that Danny's metagene strained under the new trauma and started causing physical mutations alongside the modifications to his original ability. But I think we all know what was actually happening to him."

"...What else do we know about the kid?" Dick asks. Anyone who didn't know him would say that Dick was relaxed, but Jason and anyone else who knew him could clearly see that Danny's story hit a little too close to home. Dead parents in an 'accident' where the kid was there to see. Yeah.

Heh. This looks like a classic meta trafficking case, the more he follows that thought. Not the casual kind most parents have to fear - pick a kid off the street just 'cause they were there, someone will pay for 'em no matter if they're pretty or not.

No. This was targeted. Planned out weeks, months, years in advance. Someone wanted this kid for something specific - enough to murder his parents for and make it look like an accident. Likely, it was to have an ice meta under mind control, considering what Bruce said about Dracula and his thralls. If he's right, Jason might have to go all Buffy Summers and deal with them.

Jason reaches out to catch Duke by the shoulder again and this time he doesn't let go. His newest brother looks at him, big brown eyes wide and fearful. It could've been him, easy. They both think it. They both know it. Fuck, Danny was just a few years younger than he is now.

Jason squeezes. He whispers low to him. "I'd shoot them in the balls for you. Won't let 'em take you. End bloodlines if I have to, to get you back." Duke gulps, and nods. The teen squeezes his eyes shut and Jason pretends he doesn't see him quickly wipe his eyes.

"...Recently, he got legally un-declared dead, and opened a bank account. Looks like one very dead Vlad Masters left his fortune to him sometime earlier. Man owned a goddamn castle. They found a secret lab in his basement with strange equipment when they went looking for evidence. And. Oh. Oh that's not good."

"What is it?" He asked, not wanting to know the answer already.

"Police found a mystery green liquid they couldn't identify but put the composition on file. I just ran it through our systems. 70% match to lazarus water. What's more, there were blood packs close by that were heavily contaminated with the same substance." She looks like she was ready to throw up at the dots they were all connecting.

He might as well. "Alright. Meta kid's trafficked at fourteen and turned into a vampire. Spends the next five years caught by mad scientist vampires who poked and prodded at him like a rat. Then, he murders the assholes, runs off with their money, and moves to Gotham. Fuck's sake." Jason sums up.

Bruce makes a 'I'm not disagreeing with you but I have an opinion' grunt. "That's one possibility. The most likely one from what we know right now."

"But?" Someone prompts.

"But. He mentioned a term called 'Fraid'. He said that someone told him that myself and 'my Fraid' were good people. Nightingale claimed it was a cultural term for found family," Bruce explained. The man's mouth twitches into a frown. "If he was being held hostage all that time, would they have bothered to teach him that? And if they did, experimentation wouldn't be all they had wanted from him. No one would bother to teach someone disposable."

Tim stopped typing for a second, eyes widening and then blanking quick as a whip. Swallowed. Went back in with a vigor.

"So. Either. He got away from his kidnappers, and there's some found family out there somewhere. Or he never got away from them, but he was not expendable. His kidnappers may have forced him into their family." Steph reasoned out.

"Man. This is fucked up." Duke mutters. "You're telling me, kid." Jason whispers back.

Damian bristles. "Father. We have to interrogate him. Nightingale may have connections to the League of Assassins, or a similar organization run by vampires. The lazarus water is damning. We must make sure." The demon brat demands. Which. Fair. More unknown lazarus pits are just asking for evil to pull up with some friends.

Bruce makes an 'I agree with you but I'm thinking' grunt. But before he can respond, Tim cuts in. "So Fraid is definitely what he says it means. But according to the records, only the dead or undead use it. Obviously I did a little digging. Vampires don't count as either of those, even though some sleep in coffins and stuff. No, most vampires count as something called 'death touched'. Meaning they're still alive, albeit really in tune with the other side." Tim shifts, chugging a quick bit of cold coffee. "Only one match came up when I searched for undead vampire. The thing is, it exists, but the file is on the JLD's red tape section."

Which is code for 'don't fucking touch this dimwits if you value your life, call us for fucks sake'. Pleasant.

"Yes Father. If Drake is not once again wildly incorrect and foolish, Nightingale is undead. And it's obvious how." Damian presses.

"I will make the call. Red Robin, keep looking. I'll type up the rest of the abilities and send them to you all. Everyone working with me officially, no one goes on patrol alone. We work in pairs until further notice. Everyone bring with them the anti-vampire precautions we have until we have better options." Batman commands to the group. He zeroes in on Jason, and Jason gears up to rip Bruce a new one for treating him like he's still one his birds.

But that's not what happens. "And Red Hood. Just...be careful."

Instead of acknowledging the icky ooey gooey feelings, Jason snorts derisively. "I'll tell my guys and girls to keep a lookout. If anyone goes missing I'd bet ya a thousand it'll be one of mine. Everyone knows no one's gonna call the cops." He turns around and stuffs his pockets with the gadgets, and Dick threw him a blood bag. "Later assholes."

Jason revs his bike. Tonight, he'll make his rounds, doing what said he would. And hey. Probably hit up that rage room in Bristol he goes to in civvies. Crime's been real quiet recently, and he knows it's likely purposeful.

That pisses him off that they think they can hide from him forever in his own territory.

Tonight's been bad, too. He'd rather go beat up some stupid garbage than risk a pit rage on some numb nut that at most only needs a couple slices to catch his drift. Heh. He's gonna see if they'd let him tape a pic of Dracula to a TV so he can cave his face in post-mortem.

[cleo-fox]

Conquer

Part 2 of 5

Series Masterlist

Series Summary: The king intends to take a bride. You just never thought it would be you. (Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Chapter Summary: It’s no surprise that Loki has a gift for talking dirty and you wish that it didn’t work as well as it does. You wish that—for example—it were a little more challenging for him to talk you into letting him get you off in the limo on your way to a gala event hosted by the Swedish government.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Chapter Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, edging, teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, orgasm delay, semi-public sex, light Dom/sub. (see series masterlist for series warnings)

A/N: I realize that the GIF I'm using for this chapter is TVA!Loki, but the attitude is very much in keeping with this chapter, so I decided to forgo accuracy in favor of thirst. Also, you may be thinking "Part 2 of 5? I thought this was going to be 3 chapters!" Me too. Welcome to what it's like being in my brain: even I don't know what's going on here.

The wedding night isn’t the end of the sex, of course.

The immediate, sharp need for your first coupling is gone, but there’s a dull and persistent ache that keeps you coming back to his bed every night (and several times during the day). Loki is equally ravenous, if not more so.

While you’ve come to terms with the fact that you’re going to fuck him, you still don’t like being the one to initiate sex. It sounds silly, but it feels like admitting to a vulnerability that you’re not prepared to acknowledge, let alone act on.

The problem is that your sex drive has skyrocketed since the wedding.

You’ve heard about this happening—the saying soulbonds are meant to be consummated, but some are more thorough than others didn’t come out of nowhere. You just didn’t think it would be a problem for you, especially once you found out who your soulmate was. 

You were wrong about this, of course—you are constantly horny. Your mind is a cineplex of perversion, constantly playing memories of the times that he has fucked you, ways he might fuck you next, his hands, his lips, his tongue, his annoyingly perfect cock. It makes you want to run your brain through the washing machine, like a couple of Tide pods and an extra rinse cycle might fix this.

But the part that drives you crazy is that he always seems to know when you’re in these moods and he always manages to claim the upper hand. It is—like so many things with Loki—profoundly irritating.

It’s all physical—your conversations are limited to the mundane or the utterly filthy. It’s no surprise that Loki has a gift for talking dirty and you wish that it didn’t work as well as it does. You wish that—for example—it were a little more challenging for him to talk you into letting him get you off in the limo on your way to a gala event hosted by the Swedish government.

You can feel his gaze caressing your body as you walk down the stairs to meet him. Your dress is gold and glittery, and hugs your curves while the slit sneaks just high enough that you know the fashion blogs will call it daring. You keep your eyes on your feet and your hand on the railing as you navigate the stairs in your heels. Normally, Loki would comment on that—something about how you needed proper education in comportment, you were a queen, queens don’t stare at their feet, people expected elegance, blah, blah, blah. Tonight, though, he’s silent as he takes you in, which you know means that he’s particularly enchanted by how you look. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to feel sexy and confident, to enjoy the fact that the most powerful man on the planet has been rendered speechless by how you look.

Are you ridiculously horny? Sure, but you’ve got it under control. You can hold out for an evening and you’re pretty sure Loki hasn’t figured it out. If he had, he almost certainly would have said something inappropriate when he offered you his arm. He’s probably going to be distracted by the gala anyway. Why had you ever doubted yourself?

When the two of you get into the limo, you remember why. 

The moment the door shuts behind you, Loki is pulling you close, his hands cupping your breasts and then sliding down to your thighs while his lips latch on to the spot where your neck and shoulder meet.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as though his intentions are in any way unclear.

“You need to come. I can smell you.” He’s hiking up the fabric of your dress.

Well. So much for him not noticing.

Your cunt clenches. “We’re in public.”

“Those windows are tinted and the partition is up.” His breath is warm on your neck as the fabric of your dress pools around your waist. 

“I can still wait.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can.” His fingers slip between your legs (when did you spread your legs for him?), gently grazing the gusset of your underwear, which you know is embarrassingly wet. “Soaked already,” he breathes, rubbing your clit through the thin fabric. “You need to come.”

“I-I c-can—I can wait until—oh fuck.” 

He pushes the fabric of your underwear aside and lightly teases your clit with the tip of his finger.

“You can’t,” he rasps, lightly nipping at your earlobe. “You’re such a greedy, needy little thing. Your cunt is insatiable.”

He presses his first three fingers together and rubs your clit in a big, broad circle that makes your back arch.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your hands flexing against the seat. “Fuck, just like that.”

“I thought you said you could wait?” he says with that mocking lilt to his voice, the one that makes you simultaneously want to punch him in the face and also ride him hard and fast and a little rough.

“Shut up,” you grit out.

He laughs low in your ear. “Oh, you don’t mean that, I know you love it when I talk you through it.”

You hate that he’s right.

“You love hearing about how tight and wet you are, how hard I am for you.” He drops his voice lower. “How hard I’m going to fuck you.”

You can’t help the quiet moan that falls from your lips.

“Yes, you love it when I talk to you like this,” he purrs. “And I love hearing what an utterly filthy, wicked girl you are.”

You whimper, despite your best efforts to keep quiet. 

“Oh, I like that little noise,” he says, increasing his pace ever so slightly. “Let me hear you.”

“I hate you so much.”

You’ve said this to him before and like all the other times, he simply laughs. “Hate me all you like, darling, but you and I both know that you love what I do to you.”

You bite your lip and try to focus on the pleasure that’s rising in your hips.

“Has anyone ever made you come as hard as I do?” he muses, like he’s just making casual conversation. “From the way that you scream and beg for it, I imagine that there haven’t been very many that were capable. Your cunt has quite clearly been neglected.”

You’re going to ignore what he’s saying. That’s what you’re going to do. There’s no reason to listen to any of what he’s saying.

“The truth is that you need me, don’t you?” he says, nipping at your ear. “You need me because I know exactly what to do to sate your needy little cunt. I know exactly how to make you scream.”

You hate how close you are, hate how the impending rush of your orgasm has basically rendered you speechless, save for a few incoherent whimpers.

He brings his lips close to your ear, lowering his voice to a growl. “What would those pitiful Midgardians say if they knew their queen was such a needy little slut?”

Instead of delivering a stern rebuke, you come hard. Incredibly hard—it is arguably one of the most intense orgasms he’s given you yet, blazing through your body with a ferocity that leaves you shaking in its wake.

And he notices.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he purrs as he rubs you through the aftershocks. “I felt how hard you came, how utterly desperate you are for me to fuck you.” 

“Loki, please,” you breathe.

He tugs at your underwear. “Take this off.”

Your first instinct is to challenge him, but the fabric is now uncomfortably damp and you desperately need him to fuck you, so you lift your hips and slide your underwear down and off your legs without any complaint. He takes it from you and sticks it in his pocket.

You expect to hear the clink of his belt buckle followed by his silky smooth voice ordering you to sink down on his unfairly perfect cock. Even though you’ve just come, you want more. You always do with him. 

(You decide not to think too much about that last part).

Instead, though, he smooths his hair and settles back into his seat, looking out the window. After a moment, you clear your throat expectantly. 

He glances at you, utterly casual. “What is it?”

Your eyes narrow. He’s playing dumb and you both know it. 

“You made me take off my underwear,” you say, biting back a sharper reply.

“I did.”

“So…fuck me.”

He gives an amused little chuckle that makes your palm itch to slap him. “Darling, we’re in public, that would be unseemly.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “You’re full of it.”

His gaze turns smoldering and stern. “And if you want to be full of my cock later tonight, you’ll change your attitude.”

You’re not sure if it’s the absence of underwear that makes you feel more aroused than usual or if he’s awakened some latent perversion you were previously unaware of. Possibly, it’s both.

Your breath hitches and he smiles like he knows he has the upper hand.

“Do you want that?” he says. “Do you want me to fill your tight little cunt with my big cock?”

You’re so far gone that you find yourself nodding before the thought of being contrary can even cross your mind.

“Well, then,” he says, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his tuxedo jacket, “you’re going to have to earn it.”

You huff out an irritated sigh and yank the skirt of your dress back down. “You’re an ass,” you say with a scowl.

“And you’re going to do exactly as I tell you or you won’t be coming at all.”

You stare at him, lips parted in the start of a complaint.

“And however much your pretty cunt is aching right now, I imagine it will be twice as worse tomorrow with no release,” he says. “If I’m feeling generous, of course. I could always make you wait longer.”

You close your mouth, biting back the urge to scowl.

He smirks. “That’s my good girl.”

Your cunt throbs. By the end of the night, your thighs will surely be sticky with your own arousal.

“This is unfair,” you grumble, crossing your arms and sitting back in your seat.

“Behave,” he says as you approach a rather impressive set of gates. “We’re almost there.”

A flick of his wrist sends seidr racing along your skin, smoothing your hair, straightening your dress, and fixing the smudge of lipstick at the corner of your mouth.

Your underwear remains in his pocket.

You have a feeling it’s going to be a long evening.

The Minister for Finance is giving a presentation. You’re not entirely sure that you would have been able to follow it under normal circumstances, but certainly not with Loki’s hand up your dress.

The two of you are seated at your own table—it’s one of the more stupid formalities he insists on, though you suppose it’s advantageous in this instance. His actions are obscured by the table and tablecloth and probably a little magic, but your heart is still racing with the thrill of it. His movements have been slow and deliberate, and the result is that he’s effectively been edging you for the duration of this forty-five minute presentation.

It feels incredible; it’s agony. You love it; you hate it.

“You’re being a very good girl,” Loki murmurs to you at one point and that alone nearly sends you over the edge.

“You’re a jackass,” you whisper back to him.

He chuckles. “If you want me to let you come once we get home, I’d suggest changing your tone, my love.”

You resist the urge to scowl, but only barely. “You made me come in the limo over here because you said I couldn’t wait,” you point out. “What happened to that philosophy?”

“It was supplanted by a desire to see what happens when I tease you for several hours.” A wicked smile curls at his lips. “Besides, I love how tight and desperate your cunt feels when I make you beg for me.”

You always come hardest when he makes you beg for him. You’d never admit it, though.

“I’d think you’d be more concerned about getting caught,” you say. “What do you think that would do to your image?”

“Oh, I think it would do wonders for my image,” he says. “Attentively tending to my wife’s needs despite potential social embarrassment? It’s rather feminist of me, don’t you think?”

“Okay, first of all, that is not what femini—” Your voice cuts out as he rolls his finger in a particularly devastating circle.

“What was that, my love?” he asks, voice thick with faux concern, his true intent easily betrayed by his shit eating grin. “You seem distracted.”

You’re not entirely sure if you’re tensing your muscles in anticipation of an orgasm or in an effort to stave it off. “You’re awful.”

His voice drops. “But I’m making you feel so very good, aren’t I?”

You take a deep breath, trying to soothe the tightening knot in your belly, even as your body is begging you to rush toward it.

“Aren’t I?” His tone turns stern and you hear the implied order loud and clear.

“Yes,” you bite out.

“Yes what?”

You swallow. You’re starting to get close, closer than he’s let you get so far. “Yes, you’re making me feel good.”

He smirks. “You’re getting close, aren’t you?”

You nod, taking another deep breath through your nose. Keep it together.

“I could let you come,” he muses. “Everyone’s watching the presentation. You could be quiet, couldn’t you?” His pace increases just slightly, enough for you to start to feel the tempting, shimmery tendrils of release. “Do you want that, lovely?”

It’s not a good idea, but you nod anyway. 

“I had no idea you were so filthy.” His fingers are massaging your clit more firmly and you bite back a gasp because you know it won’t be long. You’re trying to keep a straight face, but you’re struggling. You are so deliciously close.

“Are you going to come for me?” he asks quietly. He knows the answer.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

But just as you’re about to start to tip over the edge, Loki’s hand retreats and the building pressure in your hips diminishes back to that steady, throbbing ache just as the Minister for Finance concludes his presentation.

Loki is smirking like he expected this. “Ah. Unfortunate timing.”

You may kill him.

“You did that on purpose, you ass,” you hiss at him.

“Oh, you’ll thank me for it later,” he says, his voice dropping low.

You scowl at him, though you suspect he’s probably right.

You get a slight reprieve during dinner, but only in the sense that Loki’s hand is no longer up your dress. Your aching arousal remains, coating the inside of your thighs. Your heartbeat seems to be pulsing in your clit, the muscles of your cunt aching as they clench repeatedly around nothing.

While his hand is no longer up your dress, Loki continues to be as unhelpful as possible.

“Shall I let you unravel on my tongue?” he murmurs to you during the main course. “Or do you need my cock first?”

“I think you need to stop talking,” you say as evenly as you can muster.

“Whatever for?” he asks with the sort of feigned innocence that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Surely you’re not concerned that I’m going to make you come simply by telling you what I want to do to you.”

You take a slow sip of your water.

“Or perhaps that idea appeals to you?” he asks, dropping his voice even lower. “Do you want me to make you come in front of all of these people?”

There’s something about the idea that’s admittedly appealing in a taboo sort of way, though you aren’t quite sure you actually want to pursue it or if you’re just so desperate that even objectively bad ideas sound good.

“Truly, I doubt you could keep quiet,” he says. “You and I both know how much you like to scream for me and I’ve been teasing you for what, three hours now? But perhaps that’s what you want. You were about to come for me earlier. Perhaps you want them all to know what a needy little sl—ah, Stefan! So good to see you again.”

Loki has seamlessly directed his attention to the Swedish official who has approached your table. His ability to be charming and personable is irritating, particularly when he’s often been uttering absolute filth to you mere seconds before. Meanwhile, your brain has completely short circuited—your thoughts stopped being anywhere near coherent when he started touching you under the table during that presentation and your cunt is pulsing. You manage a polite smile and a pleasantly vague expression that you hope hides the fact that all you can think about is Loki throwing you down on the table and fucking you until you can’t walk straight and you’ve screamed yourself hoarse.

“You conducted yourself quite well,” Loki says softly once the man leaves. “I’d never have guessed that you’re hiding such a needy, sloppy cunt under that dress.”

You take a deep breath. “What’s to stop me from slipping off somewhere and taking care of things myself?”

His eyes flash a little dangerously and you hate how much it thrills you. “If you do that, I’ll see to it that you don’t come for a week. At least.”

You are irritated with him, certainly, but you are far more irritated with yourself for being even remotely aroused by his words.

“You’re insufferable,” you hiss instead.

Loki smirks and leans in to whisper in your ear. “We’ll see how you feel a few hours from now when I’m buried in your tight cunt.” His breath ghosts over your ear and it takes everything in you not to shiver. “I suspect I’ll find you much more agreeable. You always are when you need to be fucked.” His voice drops even lower. “And I know how much you need it.”

Your legs are shaking and you wonder how you’re going to make it through the rest of the evening.

You almost come during the concert.

It was probably easier for them to set up the orchestra on the same stage as the presentation, but it means that you’re still sitting at the same table as before, which gives Loki more than enough cover to continue touching you. His hand is creeping back up your dress before the oboe even plays the tuning note and while he’s still going slowly, it’s been four and a half hours and your body is aching for release in a way you have rarely felt.

His fingertip skates across your clit just a little too quickly and firmly and suddenly, you’re poised right on the edge. One more stroke of his fingers, just one more slight movement and you’ll come.

It’s a split second decision, so quick you can scarcely think twice about it. You desperately want to come, but even though you almost let it happen earlier, you know that a stifled public orgasm isn’t really what you want. You want him to hear you scream—you don’t want to hold back.

And you want to be good for him. You want him to reward you for being good, you want to be his good girl—

You shake your head to dismiss that thought and grab his wrist in a silent warning. Quickly, he moves his hand away, sliding it to your knee. Your cunt shudders and aches, the pulsing throb of your arousal even stronger than before.

He brushes his lips against your ear. “Oh, very good, darling. You’ll be rewarded for that.”

“You could reward me now and take me home,” you say pointedly, though it would probably be more effective if your voice wasn’t so shaky.

He chuckles, draping his arm around your shoulders. Every so often, you’ve seen a candid photo of the two of you in People or one of the other celebrity magazines and you’re always taken aback by how normal you look. You imagine that it would be the same if someone were to take a photo right now—you’d look like just another couple cuddling and canoodling instead of…whatever it is you actually are. Soulmates who hate each other but fuck like it’s their job and the rent is due? There’s no easy way to classify your relationship, which you suppose is for the best: this is not the sort of thing that should be common enough to have its own word.

“We still have quite a bit to go.” He brings his index finger—the same one that had just been up your dress—up to his lips and closes his eyes like he’s tasting something divine. “Norns, I can taste how desperate you are.”

You cross your legs in the hope that it will alleviate the pulsing ache between your thighs (it doesn’t). “You’re not helping.”

“Of course I’m not,” he says. “I told you, I want you begging for me by the end of the night.”

“How have I not already exceeded that threshold?”

He smirks. “I like to be thorough.”

Five minutes later, his hand is back between your thighs.

“Let’s try that again,” he murmurs. “Do you think you’ll be able to resist a second time?”

Somehow, you do—and two more times after that. By the end of the concert, your heart is pounding, your legs feel like rubber, your cunt is dripping, and you’d easily sell your soul for an orgasm.

“You’re doing so well, darling,” says Loki. He’s been full of praise and filthy promises and you can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

“Can we please go home?”

He chuckles. “Of course not, that would be rude.”

“I have a hard time believing you’re concerned about rudeness, considering where your hands have been this evening,” you say with a pointed look.

“You wound me.” He stands and offers you his hand. You take it grudgingly, your legs wobbling slightly. “Now. Come help me charm the Minister for Defense. I need him to be much more cooperative about sharing intelligence.”

The only good thing about schmoozing with Swedish officials is that Loki can’t have his hand up your dress while doing so. Even so, he still finds ways to be constantly touching you—a hand on your lower back, your elbow, your shoulder, your waist. These things shouldn’t be erotic, but he somehow manages to make them so. Every brush of his fingers against your bare skin is agony: you are burning for him.

You watch the clock tick through another hour and a half while trying not to let anyone on to the fact that you’re keen to leave. Time feels like it’s dragging—even when the event officially ends, it still takes another thirty-seven minutes for you to say your farewells and make your way out to the front where your limo is waiting.

Your legs are shaking as Loki helps you into the limo. He slides into the seat next to you and you find yourself leaning into him, unable to resist any longer.

The door shuts.

“Loki—” you start to say.

“When we get home,” he says promptly.

“You can’t possibly—”

“Oh, I can.” He pulls you into his lap. “I’ve been hard for you all evening,” he purrs in your ear, settling you so that the thick column of his cock presses hard against your ass. “Do you know how many times I nearly dragged you off to some empty room to take you up against the wall?” He brings his mouth down against your neck, teeth pressing against your skin just hard enough to almost hurt. You tilt your head to the side to give him better access, guiding his hands to your spread thighs.

“Do you know why I didn’t?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Because you make terrible choices?” you say before you can think it through.

His low laugh rumbles deliciously against your throat. “No.” His hands slip underneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skating along the tender skin of your inner thigh. Your hips roll forward almost unconsciously, your breath hitching. 

“I didn’t because I know that you need to scream for me,” he says. “Just as much as I need to hear you.” His fingertip grazes your slit. “And you know that we can’t do that properly in the car.” His finger strokes your clit and you moan. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, tracing a slow circle over the sensitive skin. “I don’t think that I’ve ever made you this wet.”

“Loki—”

“I’m not giving you permission to come yet,” he murmurs, adding just a little more pressure. “I need you to be good for just a little longer.”

You let out a whine that you’re not at all proud of as he moves his hand away to gently massage your inner thighs. “Loki, please.”

“Be good.” His voice promises pleasure and punishment and everything in between and you feel drunk with desire.

“I’ve been so good,” you say, bringing his hand back to your cunt. “Please just let me come.”

“When we get home.”

“Just once. Please.”

He chuckles and brings his lips up to your ear. “You know that I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You know I always take care of your needy cunt. I always make you come. You just need to wait a little longer.”

“I need to come now.”

“Think about how good it’s going to feel if you wait just a little longer.”

“It would feel good now.”

“It will feel even better in our bed.” He rolls his fingers in a slow circle on your clit. “You know it will.”

You whimper, rolling your hips with his hand.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this desperate,” he says. “I’m rather partial to it.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you grumble.

“Oh, I’d advise you watch your tone, darling,” he says low in your ear, sliding a finger inside you, his thumb taking up the rhythm on your clit. “I don’t want to deny you, but I may have to if you keep being so pert.”

As if to make a point, he slides another finger inside of you and you find yourself once again on the edge. You grab his wrist, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you try to hold back the rising tide within you.

“Oh, good fucking girl,” he growls and the pride in his voice makes your cunt clench hard on his retreating fingers. “You want to come so badly, but you’re being so good waiting for my permission.”

“God, this had better be worth it,” you say as you wait for the pulsing ache between your thighs to recede.

“It will be,” he murmurs against your neck. “You know it will be.” He shifts you in his lap so you face him and guides your hand to his cock. “Do you feel how hard you’ve made me? I’m aching for you.”

You rub his shaft, working your way up to catch the tab of his zipper between your fingers. He looks at you, eyes hungry, a smirk curling at his lips.

Slowly, you pull down the zipper.

“Oh you wicked thing,” he purrs, a low groan escaping him as you wrap your hand around his shaft and slowly begin stroking him. He’s rock hard and throbbing, and your hand quickly grows slick with his precome.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear. “I want you to fuck me,” you say, flicking your tongue against his earlobe.

He chuckles. “Are you trying to flip the tables on me, darling?”

You’re a little miffed that he figured that out so quickly. “Would that be so bad if I was?”

He laughs again. “You’re adorable.” He slides a hand along your inner thigh and back under your dress. “But I think we both know who’s really in charge here.”

Even the possibility of his hand touching your cunt has your breath quickening and your hand faltering in its rhythm on his cock.

You’re not about to admit defeat, though.

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” you say, trying to keep the quaver out of your voice. You give his cock a few long, indulgent strokes. “We’re nearly there already. All I’d need to do is move a little closer.”

He chuckles, his hand sliding up to lightly tease your folds. “I would have made you warm my cock the whole ride back,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, “but I don’t think you could have done it without coming. You’re too sensitive.”

Your lips part like you have something to say, but all rational thought and the entirety of the English language has fled your brain and even more arousal is pooling between your legs.

Loki smirks like he knows all of this and he briefly strokes you from your entrance to your clit before withdrawing. “Ah, we’re nearly home,” he says, moving your hand away and patting your thigh before tucking himself back into his trousers. “Let’s make ourselves presentable, shall we?”

You climb off his lap and straighten your dress, but don’t even bother trying to fix your hair or makeup. You stumble out of the car a minute later, hoping that you don’t look like you’ve spent the entire evening poised on the brink of orgasm.

Loki, of course, is annoyingly put together. He wraps an arm around your waist and leads you forward.

“Oh, the things I’m going to do to you when we get to our rooms,” he says under his breath as you make your way into the foyer. 

“That had better be a promise,” you say.

“I thought we established that I’m the one who gives you orders—”

“We established nothing—”

One of his advisors—Sigurd, the same one who spoke to you in the hotel when he found you—is approaching Loki at a brisk clip.

“Your majesty—”

Loki barely takes his eyes off of you. “Later,” he says, waving a hand in Sigurd’s direction.

“Sire, it’s urgent.”

Your heart sinks. Loki stops and turns to Sigurd, eyes sharp, mouth pulled into a firm line. “It had better be.”

Despite the intensity of Loki’s expression, Sigurd looks unbothered and remarkably calm. “We received new intelligence on the matter you inquired about earlier, your majesty.”

Loki’s expression darkens and you realize with a sinking sensation that he has to go deal with whatever this is. “A moment,” he says to Sigurd before turning to you.

He lowers his voice so that only you can hear him. “Go to our rooms,” he murmurs. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

You nod and he leans in, brushing his lips against your temple. “Be good for me.”

A thrill runs through you.

By the time you get back to your rooms, though, you’re a little annoyed. He’s been teasing you for hours and when you finally get home, he suddenly has another work thing?

It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating.

Though admittedly, he did look pretty surprised and annoyed by Sigurd’s sudden appearance. It’s probably not fair to blame him for that.

Probably.

You take your time getting undressed, mainly in the hope that it will somehow hasten his return or trick you into thinking time is passing quickly. Not that you’re looking forward to him returning for any reason other than sex. You still hate him—you just really need him to fuck you. That’s all it is.

You hesitate for a long time over the collection of silk nightgowns in your wardrobe. Should you put something on? Should you just wait naked on the bed? A silky green number catches your eye. He’d probably like that. He’s pretty predictable when it comes to that sort of thing—put on his colors and he goes feral. With any luck you won’t be wearing it for very long, but you might as well do what you can to facilitate that outcome.

You contemplate underwear and decide there’s little point, given that tonight’s set is still tucked into his pocket.

You situate yourself in the middle of your bed and try not to think about your throbbing cunt. It would be so easy to get yourself off, but you know that it won’t be as good.

You need him.

You try to ignore the thought. It’s just physical. That’s all it is. You’re on edge from being teased all evening. It doesn’t mean anything.

You wait.

It’s late when you finally hear the door click open, followed by the tap of his dress shoes on the floor.

You sit up in bed, your eyes roving greedily over him. His suit jacket is gone and his tie is draped around his neck, shirtsleeves rolled up. You are loath to admit it, but it’s incredibly hot.

Before you can even get any words out, he’s striding across the room, eyes hungrier than you’ve ever seen them. His clothes disappear the second he hits the bed, followed swiftly by your nightgown. Seconds later, he’s on top of you, mouth seeking yours, cock pressing insistently against your stomach. Your hands are just as greedy, skimming up his back and combing through his hair.

“Have you been good for me?” he murmurs as he nudges your thighs apart.

“Yes.”

“Did you touch yourself?” he asks, his voice stern.

“No,” you say.

He knows you’re not lying and the hungry smile he gives you almost makes it all feel worth it. “Good girl,” he growls. “Do you want me to fuck you now?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he drags his cock through your slickness. “Please.”

He chuckles as he lines himself up at your entrance. “I know, darling, I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Your cunt is so slick and sensitive from his hours of teasing that just the act of him sliding inside of you feels like you’ve reached your own personal nirvana. 

“Oh, fuck.” Your voice comes out in a whimper and your legs tighten around his waist to hold him in place because he feels so overwhelmingly good.

Loki lets out a low groan as he eases inside you, catching his lower lip between his teeth as his brow furrows. “Perfect.” He leans in to kiss you as he starts to move. His first thrust is slow but even so, it draws a whimper from your throat. He’s always felt good, but this is transcendent.

“Oh god, please don’t stop,” you gasp.

“I won’t, my love.” His voice is tender as he moves with an aching, slow precision. “Not until you’ve had your fill.”

For the first time this evening, you let down your guard. Every time he’s touched you tonight—even before the gala in the limo—you’ve had to hold back to some degree. You haven’t been able to give into it, to let yourself be completely unbound and unguarded. But now when he’s moving inside of you, you have the freedom to just be and feel and it’s exquisite. Every thrust of his hips, every reverent caress of his hands, every sigh or groan is an opportunity to discover a new kind of heaven.

“You were magnificent tonight,” he murmurs, sliding his hand between your bodies to rub your clit. “Even with my fingers playing with your pretty cunt under the table, you looked every inch a queen. My queen.”

He’s never talked to you like this before and it makes your body sing. You arch, rolling your hips with him as the building wave inside you rises impossibly high, as though every orgasm you almost had this evening is starting to arrive all at once. The tension in your hips is equally fantastic and unbearable, a supernova of sensation that may destroy and remake you all at once.

“Filthy girl, I can tell you’re getting close,” he purrs, tilting his hips so he hits the spot that makes you tremble. “You act so prim and proper in public, but it takes so very little to turn you into my perfect little slut when I get you alone.”

You are approaching the peak, the whirling center of the storm building inside you. “Loki—please, I can’t, I’m gonna—”

“That’s it, darling. Soak my cock like a good girl.”

You always come the hardest when he’s inside you and this is no exception. The pressure in your hips is suddenly and spectacularly ablaze with a shimmering euphoria that draws a raw and primal moan deep from inside your chest. You are a fountain of sparks, all the tension and desire of the evening finally reaching its apex. You have yearned for this all night and the resulting blaze is spectacular.

His pace is still slow, but Loki’s eyes are wild and you get the sense that his composure is hanging by a thread. Though his eyes occasionally flutter shut as your cunt convulses around him, his gaze is locked on you in a kind of wonder. 

“Do you have any idea how good you feel when you come on my cock?” he rasps.

Even in the throes of utter bliss, you need to hear his voice. “Tell me.”

“I would create entire worlds and walk through the fires of their destruction just to feel you come.”

You shudder out a sigh. “More.”

He picks up his pace just slightly. “I would flatten mountains and raise valleys and reverse the currents.”

“More.”

He’s hitting that aching spot inside you again and the rolling tremors of the aftershocks are starting to coalesce into another building wave. You moan and his hand moves back to your clit, slick fingers pressing and rolling in just the way you need.

His eyes shine, bright with lust as his hips and fingers work diligently to unravel you again. “I would take down the stars and bring the heavens to the earth…”

His words are making you dizzy and his movements are coaxing the pressure inside of you into a cyclone that you know is going to take you down.

“Loki, please.” These are the only words you know because your entire world is him moving inside of you, inevitable as the sunrise, the architect of the heavenly destruction and renewal that is building and building in your hips.

He shifts so his weight is entirely on his elbows, bringing his lips up against your ear so you don’t miss a single word. “I would lay my crown at your feet and forsake my name…just to feel you come on my cock.”

The coil in your hips snaps and unfurls into a starry, sparkling oblivion that has you crying out his name over and over like he’s your ending and beginning, the center of your universe. Your eyes are shut against the onslaught of intense sensation, but you can feel him reaching the blissful height he’d been speaking of. He groans and slurs out a few incoherent oaths before succumbing to you and filling your pulsing cunt with his hot release.

His mouth is on yours and he’s kissing you like he means it as he slows to a halt. You lie together for a long moment, hearts beating wildly against each other. 

This felt different than other times. There was an intensity there that had nothing to do with the sex. You don’t know what that means, other than it’s definitely not any kind of feelings for him. It must be something else. You’re certain it’s something else.

“I didn’t realize I’d be called away upon our return.” 

You’re so distracted by your thoughts that the sound of his voice startles you slightly.

“Oh, um, yeah, I figured…it seemed unexpected,” you say.

He lifts his head to look at you, green eyes intent. “Trust that there are very few things that could have pulled me away from you in that moment.”

He’s being sincere. It’s not what you expect and that scares you a little, though you can’t quite articulate why. The idea that he would care whether you thought he’d intentionally extended your wait hadn’t even occurred to you. You don’t really know this side of him. 

“So, it wasn’t like…making a proclamation designating June National Peanut Butter Month.” You know you’re deflecting, but you don’t know what else to do.

He frowns. “That can’t possibly be a real thing.”

You shrug. “It might be. Lots of governments do stuff like that. Maybe you should consider it.”

His smile is slight, but brief as he stretches and slowly eases out of you. “I will leave that to others.”

There’s a beat of quiet and you suddenly find yourself desperate to fill the silence. “What did they need to talk to you about?”

He looks at you sharply and you wonder if this was the wrong thing to say. Loath as you are to admit it, this conversation has fostered a flicker of warmth between you, a fact you only notice now because of its sudden absence.

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says as he rolls off of you. It’s not unkind, but it’s also not warm, and the discussion is clearly closed.

Part of you mourns the loss of that little spark of closeness, but a larger, louder part is intent on pretending it never existed in the first place.

“Suit yourself.”

You’re annoyed and you roll off the bed and go about your evening routine with a little more clattering and stomping than is strictly necessary. There’s a lump in your throat that you don’t understand and you’re full of feelings you can’t define. You eventually settle on the bed with your back facing him, glaring at the wall like he can see you.

But then he reaches for you in the darkness, his arms winding around your waist, nose nuzzling against the nape of your neck as he pulls you to his chest. And instead of reading him the riot act, you let him hold you and let yourself relax into his embrace, fingers twining around his. You sleep better like this, you tell yourself. That’s the only reason you’re allowing it. It’s nothing to do with him.

You’ve told yourself that every night since your wedding and every night, it gets a little more difficult to believe.

Next chapter coming soon

[inoreuct]

i just got a brainwave. ZOSAN DANCER AU.

zoro mainly does hip hop, sanji mostly does ballet, they’re both attending this prestigious dance academy; zoro’s a scholarship student and he thinks sanji’s an absolute fucking snob. he can’t stand the prissy rich boy three studios down, golden with all the money from his royal background— he’s a vinsmoke. he’s a prince. it’s right there on the student name list, clear as day.

he’s only seen sanji from afar and yeah, sure, maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge but the blond infuriates him with his stupid hair flips and his heart eyes and his mirror-hogging and the way he kneels down to retie the girls’ pointe shoe ribbons for them so that they don’t have to. he’s tall and willowy and strong and fucking talented and every time zoro sees him he wants to kick a hole through the drywall.

now, zoro doesn’t really practice in school often. he enjoys lessons well enough, but he and his crew dance their best in the streets. so when he signs up for a practice slot the one time and gets there (already fifteen minutes late, mind you) just to realise there’s a very familiar annoyance in his studio? he’s pissed. he slams the door open right as sanji executes a spinny jump thing that reaches a frankly ridiculous height, sinking to one knee with his head thrown back, the air ringing after the music’s final crescendo.

zoro doesn’t give a shit. he’s tired and hungry and needs to get his fucking step sequence clean before next week’s dance battle, and thus opens his mouth and shatters right through the thick quiet as he barks, “vinsmoke!”

and he doesn’t know why, but sanji’s gaze flicks to him and he freezes in place. the blond’s expression, just moments ago composed and focused, is dripping with something that zoro can’t quite name, but he has to stop himself from gulping when sanji gets up and beelines straight for him, jabbing a manicured finger right into his sternum without reserve.

“don’t. fucking. call me that,” the blond grits, damn near seething, jaw so tense zoro’s honestly afraid he’ll crack a tooth and it’s almost funny, but he suspects that he really did cross some sort of line, and he might be rough around the edges but he isn’t an ass.

“okay, i’m sorry,” he offers, cautious, hands up in the air. the words taste weird in his mouth, but sanji looks slightly less livid so he counts it as a win. “what do i call you, then?”

the other man looks torn between kicking zoro soundly in the shin (which zoro can already tell would hurt like a bitch) and storming out of the studio, but he huffs loudly and turns away. “black. sanji black.”

zoro hums carefully and slowly inches his way to the corner of the room, setting his duffel down much gentler than he normally does. he should really leave this alone. he has a solo he needs to practice for and dinner to catch after. so what if sanji renounced his supposedly royal last name? it didn't make him any better than every other stuck-up dancer with a superiority complex.

(he decidedly doesn’t leave it alone, because this is the first time that he’s seen cracks in the blond’s porcelain-doll facade, and he can’t help but want to dig his fingertips in and pry. he’s never claimed to have a sense of self-preservation.)

“so…” he starts, facing the barre that he’ll never use and watching sanji through the mirror. “your parents—”

“not my parents, i’m estranged,” sanji cuts in, blunt and terse, emotionless to the point where zoro knows he cares much, much more like he wants to seem like he does.

he watches sanji sit in the middle of the wooden floor and fiddle with the elastics on his weird sock shoe hybrids, going into splits with no apparent effort and pressing his torso flat to the ground. a bright blue eye meets his and zoro looks away sharply, yanking on the zipper of his duffel and grabbing his snapback to pop the closures just to look busy.

…god, fuck, zoro wants to ask so bad. estranged. that word is rapidly reshuffling his worldview regarding the man currently yanking off his knitted leg warmers behind him and tossing them to the side. he wants to know how much of all of it is real; the money, the rumours, the gleaming reputation that surrounds sanji like a shield. he’s their academy’s golden boy and a shoo-in for the principal position at its sister ballet company, once he graduates. zoro had thought of him as an absolute primadonna— put bluntly, a pompous brat. a classic silver spoon child. but even just sitting here and stewing in his thoughts, the ability to cling onto the image he’d admittedly half made up in his head is rapidly slipping away from him.

it’s painfully obvious that sanji can talk the talk and walk the walk. jump the jump? “hey, what was that spinny jump thing you did just now?” jesus christ. zoro winces; his voice is so loud against the silence that he nearly puts his head in his hands.

“mm?” sanji’s voice isn’t even strained as he sits up from where he’d had his face pressed to his knees, forearms around his feet. how a person could even fold that far forward, zoro would never understand.

“the— the jump thing. when i came in.”

“oh, the double entrelacé?”

zoro squints. “the fuck kind of name is ontrolassay?”

“it means interlace in french, you—” the blond seems to struggle with choosing an insult before he finally lands on, “—goonhead. although i wouldn’t expect you to be able to appreciate it.”

the KT tape on zoro’s calf rolls back at the edge as he rubs over it absentmindedly, and he quickly stops. that shit isn’t cheap. but he’s more concerned about why he'd been doing it in the first place, because he only does that when he thinks, and zoro has enough self-awareness to know that when he thinks too hard it usually doesn’t end well. he’s all instinct— and something in the back of his mind is telling him that sanji is tired.

the blond isn’t just a pretty boy with no bite, that much is obvious. but now, with the sky dark outside the full-length windows and the air still and silent, it’s easier for him to see the weariness that sanji hides with all his fawning and flirting and smiles. he eyes the other man in his peripheral and clocks it settled bone-deep in the weight of sanji’s eyelids, the parting of his hair, the curve of his back.

he turns around properly to look at sanji over his shoulder and thinks, ah, fuck it. he’d been late to begin with and he’s spent so long here fiddling with his fucking hat under the guise of doing something important that half of his hour-long slot is gone, anyway. “the crew and i are going for pizza. come with.” a smirk pulls at his mouth as he cocks his head. “or are you gonna die if you eat something other than rabbit food?”

the blond looks up with an arched brow and a scowl. “you fucking wish,” sanji scoffs, but after a moment he gets up and starts tossing things into his bag. “it better be makino’s. arlong’s pizza dough tastes like sardines no matter what you get.”

zoro would have been impressed if sanji knew any neighbourhood pizza places to begin with, but this sounds like he has experience. “of course it’s makino’s, curly. we have standards.”

“i wouldn’t have known,” sanji sniffs delicately. “and curly?”

“yeah.” zoro shrugs, the strap of his bag digging in over his baggy tee as he stands. “your hair, your brows, your spinny jump thing—”

“double entrelacé.”

zoro makes a like i said gesture with his hands, grinning broadly. “spinny jump thing.”

sanji sighs as he tosses his hair out of his face. zoro gets a glimpse of two sapphire eyes, blue as the heart of a flame. “you’re a barbarian.” the blond shoulders him aside and snaps the lights off, pulling the door shut as he fishes out the keys. “and you’re buying.”

zoro hums non-committally and deliberately neglects to mention that makino’s fond of both luffy, his best friend, and luffy’s godfather shanks— which means that the whole crew basically eats free on late weekdays like these. on a side note, shanks has a thing with his own dad, mihawk, but they refuse to admit it. it’s infuriating. maybe he’ll rope sanji into helping to get them together before christmas because he has a bet running with nami and it is not looking good for him.

they walk out into the brisk night air as he flips his snapback onto his head, picking up the pace when he sees sanji shiver. “i drove, c’mon.”

“oh, you’ve been driving,” sanji says airily, raising his brows again as he digs around in his well-loved canvas bag for his cardigan. it’s pink and it’s cashmere, because of course it is. “driving me crazy.”

zoro doesn’t even realise he laughs until after it’s left his mouth and sanji is looking at him with wide eyes, blue, blue and more blue. he clears his throat. “let’s hope i don’t crash, then. did i mention i’m half blind on the left side?”

he cackles as sanji squawks at that, half-terrified and disbelieving, and on the way to makino’s he explains how he’d gotten into a scooter accident with luffy as a kid. (“of course you did,” sanji mutters, rolling his eyes. there’s no malice to it.) his crew’s already waiting for him when they arrive; to his dismay (or is it?), sanji hits it off with them marvellously.

zoro finds out that sanji’s biological family is royal, sure. royal assholes. sanji had run away one day and the bastards hadn’t done a damn thing to make sure he was alright, which, he supposes, made sense considering sanji had literally run away. (he isn't given a reason. he doesn't push.) and yet vinsmoke judge still refuses to let sanji change his name, which means that sanji’s father zeff had never been able to legally adopt him. he pays his own school fees working at zeff’s restaurant; not as a waiter but as a chef, and at this point zoro resigns himself to seeing this guy around a lot more because luffy’s already vibrating with excitement and in this friend group, luffy somehow always gets what he wants. sanji’s in it for the long haul now.

but it doesn’t seem like such a horrible thing anymore. zoro almost feels bad for thinking that sanji had been some kind of spoiled brat the whole time, and isn’t that something? the blond is quick to laugh and hardworking and snarky and proud, yes, but it’s deserved solely based on how much he’s trained to get to where he is— he’s damn good and he knows it, and zoro can appreciate that.

(he takes that last bit and shoves it into a box that he locks up tight and buries deep, deep down. he will Not be thinking about that tonight.)

he’s impressed all over again as he watches the sanji inhale an entire four cheese pizza and five garlic knots to boot, and he laughs when the blond gives him a petulant glare.

“fuck off, marimo, i’ve been training all day. m’fucking starving,” he groans through another mouthful of garlic and cheese, elegantly hiding his mouth behind his hand.

oh, hell no. “marimo?” zoro deadpans. “really?”

“not inaccurate,” nami hums from beside him, and he nearly smacks his forehead to the table. he cannot let these two get along. that would be the beginning of his own personal hell.

it’s too late. “small and green and fluffy,” sanji coos, faux-condescending as he reaches out to pet zoro on the head, and zoro snaps his teeth at slender fingers. he listens to sanji meld effortlessly into his friend group and wonders just what he's gotten himself into.

(there is warmth blooming between his ribs. he knows it will grow no matter what he does.)

they get closer as the weeks go by. zoro learns that sanji hates oregano with more vitriol than should be possible towards a herb. he learns the blond’s favourite brand of dance shoes (he knows that they’re suede slippers now, considering he got beaten over the head with them). he learns that sanji’s left arm never healed completely right from where his oldest brother snapped it when they were children, and he has to dig his nails into his palm so that he doesn’t punch something. sanji drags him into an empty studio one day and tells him to lift his leg as high as he can, which devolves into a stretching session that zoro is more inclined to call torture. sanji is adamant that having at least some degree of flexibility will help him dance more fluidly and loosen up his muscles. zoro tells him to eat shit.

(he goes home, and stretches, and he’s mad as hell because sanji’s right.)

the whole crew goes to the ballet course’s end-of-semester recital and nearly gets kicked out with how loudly they scream when sanji finishes his presentation. zoro throws a rose along with everyone else and pretends that he doesn’t.

(sanji pretends that he doesn’t find the exact one zoro tossed and press it to his nose as he sits in the dressing room backstage, his classmates bustling around him not enough to break his bubble of makeup mirror lighting and silky red petals and the memory of keen grey eyes, watching from the darkness of the audience seats.)

(zoro had been the first one to stand when he’d bowed. he’d cheered the loudest. sanji saw him. sanji heard him.)

zoro doesn't realise how much he talks about sanji until his sister threatens to peel the skin off his face if you don't ask him to come watch nationals, zoro, i swear to all that is unholy— and he shudders. perona is... terrifying. he also loves her terrifyingly much, but that won't stop her from peeling his face off, so he drops sanji a text with the details of the national finals of the dance battle that he was supposed to be training for that fateful day. he's too chickenshit to do anything else. too much of a coward to ask him face-to-face.

they win. their friends and family flood the stage. zoro looks for one face only. he feels a hand on his shoulder, whips around with his heart pounding and oh, he's here. radiant under the stadium lights, hair gleaming like brazened honey, eyes bluer than the sky and his smile even brighter. zoro opens his mouth to say something. anything.

sanji crashes into his arms and kisses him, and he feels like the fucking king of the world.

(the wolf-whistles only register when he realises sanji's legs are wrapped around his hips, his hands beneath strong thighs, but sanji is flushed so brilliantly pink and he looks so happy that zoro doesn't even care. luffy's elbow loops around his neck, nami crashing into his back, usopp coming in fast from the right, and sanji wiggles down to slide his arms around zoro's waist and tuck right up against his side. the trophy shines in his fist as he raises it high above the crowd and his nakama press in tight around him, and zoro screams and cheers with them until his throat goes hoarse.)

(mihawk and shanks get together three days later. sanji and zoro split the money nami begrudgingly forks over and then buy the whole crew pizza.)

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Twelve

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R  Chapter Rating : PG-13

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Some vague injury details/broken bone mention. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 5.2k

A/N : The aftermath of the last chapter.

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN

MASTER LIST

Chapter Twelve

You were woken by the door rattling at your back.

Someone was trying to get into your room.

If it hadn’t been for the pain in your arm and the fact that you’d slept on the floor, you might have been able to convince yourself that everything that had happened last night was just some fucked up nightmare.

But hadn’t been, it had happened. Billy had hurt you.

The door jostled again, this time accompanied by a voice desperately calling your name.

Karen.

You managed to move yourself away from the door but you didn’t have the strength to stand. You felt broken and devastated, and all you wanted to do was lay down on the cold floor and go back to sleep.

The door swung open and before you could even look up, she was on her knees beside you, assessing your injuries. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at her so, instead, you stared at your dresser, steeling yourself for the I told you so that you were certain was coming. It was your fault and you both knew it; she’d tried to protect you, tried to keep you safe but you had to act like you knew better. 

And this was the result.

You were hurt and Billy - god, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how he felt, knowing that he’d done this to you. Fortunately you were too upset to think about it.

It took a few seconds for you to realise she was talking, until she gripped your face and turned you to look at her.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” she said firmly.

When she got to her feet and offered you her hand, you tried to lift your injured arm without thinking. The pain had your eyes watering and, again, you found yourself wanting to just curl up and sleep until it all went away.

“Hey... hey, it’s okay, we’re going to get you taken care of, okay?” She said softly, moving to your other side so she could help you up with your uninjured arm. “You don’t have to be afraid, everything’s going to be alright.”

Once you were finally up, she helped you pull some loose sweatpants over your pyjama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt over your camisole. You stepped into your Uggs and Karen cautiously draped a jacket around your shoulders.

You were in a daze - you were in shock - as she slowly led you from your rooms and out into the penthouse. You breath caught and you faltered, taking in the destruction; there was broken furniture and shattered glass everywhere and Karen tried to usher you through it as quickly as possible.

“Where is he?” You dared to ask as you stepped into the elevator.

“He’s not here, you don’t have to worry.”

“Is he... okay? Is he safe?” As upset as you were, you were still worried about him. “I don’t - I don’t understand what happened. He was covered in blood...”

“Yours? Did he bite you?” The calm demeanour she’d been forcing threatened to break.

“No, I think it was someone else’s… or maybe his. He looked like he’d been attacked, I don’t -” you stopped as the elevator doors slid open, realising that you didn’t have permission to go out. Karen noticed your hesitation. “I’m not supposed to go out without permission.”

Some part of you knew that it was a ridiculous thing to care about given the state of your arm and after everything that had happened, but you followed rules, it was how you were raised. And, after the confusion of last night, you desperately wanted something stable and well-defined to cling to.

“You have permission,” Karen told you, “I’m here because Billy asked me to take you to a hospital.”

“You - you spoke to him?”

“About an hour ago. He wouldn’t tell me what happened or where he was, he just said you needed help,” she explained, ushering you out of the elevator and towards her car. “Curtis is out looking for him and Frank is going to help as soon as the sun sets.”

You fell silent as you got into the car, losing yourself in memories of the last couple of days, thinking about how he asked you to stay, and how he told you that he wanted to be yours. As much as you tried, you couldn’t understand how you’d gone from that to him hurting you.

At the hospital, Karen took care of everything and, when asked what had happened, you’d surprised her by telling the doctor that you’d fallen. He didn’t look entirely convinced but he didn’t push for the truth, instead focusing on dealing with your injuries. Your wrist was fractured as a result of a dislocation, the swelling all the worst for being left overnight. It was set before your forearm was put in a plaster cast, and you were given a prescription for some painkillers.

It took hours before you were finally able to leave.

When you returned to Karen’s car, there was a familiar face waiting for you.

“I told you he was dangerous,” Madani stated.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Karen asked, putting herself between you and the Homeland agent.

“Agent Madani, I’m with Homeland, Ms Page. I’ve been trying to keep your friend here safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“Her employer.”

“Billy didn’t do this,” you said, almost managing to sound like you believed it. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“I left you alone and this is what happened,” Madani answered back. “Look, just say the word and I can bring him in for this, press charges and we can get a dangerous -”

“No,” you snapped, “I’m not doing that.”

“I get that you’re scared but I can get you out of New York, I can get you back to your parents and your fiance. They just want you home safe.”

“No. I’m not going back to them,” you told her, quickly stepping around Karen and heading for the passenger door. “Just leave me alone.”

You got into the car and pulled the door shut, watching as Karen and Madani spoke for a minute more. You didn’t try to listen in to what they were saying, you didn’t want to, but judging by the look on Karen’s face, she didn’t want to listen to Madani either, but she took the card that was handed to her and put it in her pocket.

She got in the car and pulled away, leaving Madani on the sidewalk.

Neither of you said anything for a few minutes, but you could tell there were things that needed to be said, questions that needed to be asked.

“You have a fiance?” Karen asked, keeping her eyes on the road and missing the way you bristled. “Does Billy know?”

“No. And he’s not my fiance, he’s just someone that my parents want me to marry.”

“Is that why you took this job? To get away from them?”

“They owe him money - more than they could ever pay back - and he decided that he’d take me as partial payment,” your voice threatened to break under the weight of finally saying it all out loud.

“And your parents agreed to that?” She asked in disbelief and anger.

“Yeah...”

“So you can’t go back home.” A statement, not a question. “Is that why you’re protecting Billy?” 

“No,” you answered without hesitation. “I’m not protecting him, I’m just... I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You care about him.”

“And he cares about me. At least... I thought he did,” you said, blinking back the tears that were desperate to fall now that the shock had well and truly worn off. “He asked me to stay here in New York with him after my contract ends. I think I...”

Karen didn’t press you to finish the thought, you were pretty sure she already knew. You loved him. You’d fallen in love with Billy Russo, with the man who’d hurt you and left you feeling devastated and betrayed. You remained silent for the rest of the drive.

You arrived back at the penthouse to find Lissa waiting for you, a file in her hands. She gave Karen a curt nod before turning her attention to you. There was a noticeable hesitation before she said anything, taking in the state of you, her gaze lingering on your broken arm.

“Mr Russo informed me that you would like to terminate your contract,” she finally spoke, offering you the paperwork in her hand. “He wanted me to extend his... regrets and he has generously decided to offer a severance package of fifty-thousand dollars.”

“What?” You stared at the file in her hand, refusing to take it.

It felt like someone had just pulled the floor out from under your feet, like you were falling with no idea of when you might hit the ground. Lissa started to speak again, explaining again that she believed you had decided to quit.

“No, I -”

“Maybe you should consider it,” Karen offered.

You shook your head. “No. I’m not quitting. If Mr Russo wants me gone, he needs to come back here and fire me himself.”

“I was under the impression that you and Mr Russo had already had this conversation, he was very explicit in his wishes that I help you with whatever you need in order to leave his service.” You could tell from her tone that Lissa didn’t like being caught in the middle and that her patience was running thin.

“Then Mr Russo must have misunderstood. You tell him that I’ll be here until he has the guts to come and face me.”

Lissa let slip an audible huff of annoyance, finally pulling back the file she’d been offering you.

“Fine, but I cannot promise that Mr Russo’s offer of severance will still be available to you at a later date.”

When you didn’t respond, Lissa brushed past you and got into the elevator.

The second she was gone, a sob clawed its way from your throat. Your whole life was falling apart around you and you felt helpless to stop it. Karen wrapped her arm around you, taking you back to your room and sitting on your sofa while you sobbed. You didn’t understand why any of this was happening, things had been so good, things had been amazing, and it had all fallen apart without rhyme or reason.

She told you that she’d be staying with you for a few days and, eventually, convinced you to go have a relaxing bath while she ordered some food for you both. You did as she asked, feeling too overwhelmed and emotionally drained to even think about objecting. The whole day had seemed like a blur, like some horrible nightmare that you just wanted to wake up from. 

Then, over Chinese food, she tried to distract you with small talk, and got very little in return. You blamed the painkillers the doctor had prescribed and told her you were just tired. After eating, all you wanted to do was go to bed but Karen wouldn’t let you, and it wasn’t until you heard someone out in the penthouse that you knew why.

She led Frank into your kitchen and your heart threatened to stop. You found that you could barely even look at him, remembering the last time that you’d seen him and all you’d learned about him since the night of the party.

“Look, I uh - well, I know last time we saw each other things got a little awkward,” he started, folding his arms as he leaned back against the counter, “but I gotta ask you some questions, try to figure out where Bill is.”

“You haven’t found him yet?” Frank shook his head and your stomach started to knot with worry. “I don’t know what to tell you, he left for work and then -”

“Work?” Frank repeated. “He told you he was goin’ to Anvil?”

“Yeah, I convinced him to try and fix things with you. Didn’t - didn’t you see him?” 

Frank shook his head again. “Did he say anythin’ else? Can you think of anywhere else he might’ve gone before...?”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t want to say it any more than you wanted to hear it. 

Before he attacked you. Before he lost control.

“No... I don’t know...” you answered, trying to think but you were so tired. “He was talking to someone the other night about finding Krista.

“And you told Karen he was hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Exhaustion and frustration filled your tone as you raised a hand to cover your face.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know you’ve been through a lot and I wouldn’t be askin’ but I need your help and I think Bill means somethin’ to you, so maybe you know more than you think,” he said, his voice softening a little. “He’s like a brother to me, I just want to find him and make sure he’s okay.”

You lowered your hand and managed to nod, taking a breath and trying to organise your thoughts. 

“He was covered in blood. His shirt was ripped and he had scratches on his neck, like nails or claws...” you forced yourself to keep talking despite the lump forming in your throat. “I tried to talk to him and get him to calm down but - but it was like he wasn’t even in there...”

Your voice caught and, for a moment, you thought you might start crying again. But that was the last thing you wanted. You’d cried enough. Now you just wanted the pain and misery to be over and done with.

“What about the Homeland agent?” He asked, and you glanced at Karen. Of course she’d told him.

“She keeps turning up, asking me for information about Billy, about the women that worked here before me. She thinks that he killed them.” You looked at Frank, gaze unwavering. “He didn’t, did he?”

“I ain’t gonna lie to you and say Bill’s harmless, but he didn’t kill any of those girls,” he told you flatly, meeting your gaze and holding it, leaving you with no choice but to believe him. “And if I’d thought he’d do anythin’ like that to you, I never would’ve let him hire a new one.”

“Because you turned him,” you muttered, “because you feel responsible.”

“He tell you that?” He sounded surprised that you knew. “It ain’t ‘cause I feel responsible, it’s ‘cause I know what this’ll do to him. Bill ain’t as tough as he makes out. This is gonna break him. Once he realises what he’s done to you it’s gonna kill him.”

You fell silent, knowing that Frank was right, that all of this was going to hurt Billy just as much as it had hurt you. And, in a lot of ways, it was your fault. If you hadn’t kept pushing him, if you hadn’t kept telling him that he could control without understanding it, maybe this would never have happened.

“Promise you’ll find him?” You asked quietly, sniffling and fighting back tears. “I just wanted to help, I thought I could help -”

“I know, I know you did,” Frank tried to settle you. “I’m gonna find him, okay? And ‘til I do, Karen’s gonna stay here with you.”

Finally, Frank decided to leave and Karen relented, letting you return to your room and climb into bed. She found a quilt and set herself up on your sofa and, as much as you hated her seeing you so broken and defeated, you were glad that you weren’t alone. Hiding under the covers, you pulled Bill the Beagle and William the Bear towards you and fell into a restless sleep.

The next day Karen insisted that you went out for breakfast with her. And breakfast turned into walking around New York and a trip to Times Square. At any other time you would have been amazed by the sight but you couldn’t manage to muster much excitement, even though Karen was doing everything she could to try and cheer you up.

She kept you out all day and, when you arrived back at the penthouse, it was like nothing had happened. Someone had been in and cleaned everything and had replaced all of the furniture that had been broken.

But there was still no sign of Billy.

Karen ordered pizza and, not long after you’d finished, Frank turned up. He had no news about Billy and no more questions to ask you, so you excused yourself and went to your room to read.

The next few days were more of the same. Your heart stopped every time Karen got a call or a message, hoping that it would be news about Billy. You were still hurting, you still felt betrayed and angry, but you were worried too, and all you could think about was what Frank had told you, about how devastated Billy was going to be when he realised how much he’d hurt you.

And, every night, despite Karen’s discouragement, you drew blood and left it in the fridge, on the off-chance that he came home.

On the fourth day, Karen decided to change tact, taking you out to dinner and then taking you to a bar to hang out with Foggy and Matt.

Foggy welcomed you with a friendly hug before pulling back and taking a good look at your arm.

“What happened?” He asked.

You shook your head and offered a shrug, “I fell. It’s alright though, it doesn’t really hurt anymore.” The lie came easier this time and Karen seemed to notice

“Well, I was going to say we could play some pool, but -” Foggy started.

“You and Karen can play,” Matt interrupted, “we’ll watch.”

You didn’t want to argue and, by that point, you were tired of Karen watching over you like a hawk, expecting you to break down at the slightest thing. Matt took your arm and you led him to a table near enough to the pool table that you could keep talking to Karen and Foggy while they played. 

Your eyes drifted around the bar - it wasn’t the sort of place you would have pictured Karen in, it was dirty, sort of a dive. Not that you had much experience of bars, in fact, you could count on one hand how many times you’d been into a bar. You wrapped your good hand around your beer and lifted it to your lips, grimacing at the hoppy taste.

“How’d you fall?” Matt asked casually, like he was talking about the weather and not a broken bone.

“I just tripped. I’m kind of clumsy,” you lied.

“Huh,” he hummed, “yeah, I’m always falling over my own feet too.”

“So, injuries aside, how have you been?” He asked, smiling. You were about to answer when you heard Foggy loudly complain about Karen sinking a ball. Matt laughed. “He’s always been a sore loser.”

“I’m not a sore loser, Karen’s cheating,” Foggy called from the pool table.

For a moment you managed to laugh but the feeling of levity was short-lived and you were soon sinking back in your chair, taking another slow sip of beer.

“Y’know,” Matt started again, “Karen’s a good friend to have if you’re ever in trouble, but I like to think me and Foggy are too.”

“Where are you going with this?” You asked cautiously.

“It’s just - and I hope you don’t think I’m overstepping - in my line of work, I meet a lot of people who’ve been hurt falling and I know that sometimes they need some help to make sure they don’t have any more falls.”

You put your beer down and were about to head to the bathroom to escape the awkwardness of the conversation when Matt gently grabbed your arm.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean anything by it,” he told you, “I just want you to know that I’m here if you ever need anything.”

“It’s not what you think,” you tried to explain.

“Karen called us for a night out to cheer you up, people have been looking for Russo all week, and you show up with a broken arm... it all paints a pretty clear picture.” He pulled his hand back from your arm. “But if you’re sure you don’t need help...”

“You know that people are looking for Billy?” You asked and Matt nodded. “It’s not - he’s not what you think.”

“I think that maybe he’s not what you think,” Matt offered in response, “and I think someone like him could be bad for a nice girl like you, could talk you into doing things you wouldn’t normally do...”

Your cheeks started to warm, trying to figure out just what he was implying. Did he know that you and Billy had been fooling around or -

No.

No. 

You didn’t even want to think of the possibility that Matt had somehow figured out you’d been wearing the toy at the party.

“Thank you,” you decided to say, trying to change the subject, “for being nice and trying to look out for me. I appreciate it but, really, I’m fine.”

Matt gave a nod and, for the time being at least, it seemed like that was that. You stayed quiet, watching Karen and Foggy play, occasionally explaining what had happened to Matt so he didn’t feel left out. And, as you sat, a thought started to worm its way into your mind.

“Hypothetically,” you said suddenly, “as a lawyer, do you know if it would be possible to get a restraining order against a federal agent?”

He seemed reluctant to answer, taking a moment to think about the question, obviously confused. 

“Well, I guess it depends,” he offered in response. “If they’re harassing you, then maybe. But if they’re working on a case, then no.”

“Oh.”

“... should I ask why?” 

For a few seconds you thought about everything, trying to decide what you could and couldn’t tell him - or if you could tell him anything at all. Then you let out a sigh.

“There’s this Homeland agent who keeps turning up and asking me questions about Billy,” you finally admitted. “She thinks he might have killed some people, but I know he didn’t.”

“How...” he paused for a moment, obviously trying to find a delicate way of wording it, “how can you be so sure?”

“Because one of them tried to bite me at his party.”

“What?” There was a spike in his voice and you couldn’t tell if it was shock or anger, but it was enough to put you on edge. “Is that why you vanished? Karen said you’d had too much to drink and went to bed.”

“A vampire tried to bite you?” Foggy chimed in, obviously overhearing the conversation.

You felt your cheeks start to heat as everyone’s attention turned to you.

“Start from the start,” Matt said, “tell us what happened.”

Letting out a sigh, you started to recount meeting Krista, and how Madani had approached you about Billy’s ‘missing’ former employees. Foggy and Karen grabbed chairs and sat down while you went over it all, explaining how out of control you’d felt when she’d spoken to you, how you’d almost willingly let her bite you.

“So she somehow got past Russo’s security to try to kill you?” Foggy asked, trying to put it all together.

“No, I don’t think she wanted to kill me. I think she wanted to turn me,” you tried to explain

“Wait, what?” Karen finally spoke up. “No one told me that part.”

“I - I didn’t mention it to Billy,” you admitted, and when Karen gave you a questioning look, you continued; “I think she knew that turning me would hurt Billy more than killing me. He hates being a vampire and he knows I don’t want to be turned...”

“I think the first thing we need to do is get you out of there,” Foggy stated, trying to be the voice of reason.

“No, I - I don’t want to leave. I can’t leave...”

“Foggy’s right, I know Russo pays a lot but it’s not worth risking your life over,” Matt joined in, “if it’s just the money -”

“It’s not just the money,” you told them, wanting to put an end to it. “I can’t leave him. I don’t want to.”

“Ah,” Foggy muttered, finally putting it together.

“I appreciate the help but, I just need this Homeland agent off my back while I figure out what’s going on,” you said with a shrug, as if it was really going to be that easy.

“Me and Foggy know a few people in the DA’s office, we could have an ask around and see if we can find anything out.” Matt offered before taking a slow drink. “But you’re sure Russo didn’t -”

“He didn’t hurt anyone.”

Karen gave you a look, not entirely happy that you were lying to her friends. But you weren’t thinking about yourself, about your arm, just Billy. Any hurt that you felt was between you and him.

Not long after, you told Karen you were feeling tired and wanted to go home, so you finished up your drinks and said goodbye to Matt and Foggy. On the slow walk back to Billy’s building, Karen got a call and, despite her deliberately hushed tone, you managed to catch the gist of what was being said.

Frank had found Billy.

When she finished the call, she didn’t say anything for a few seconds, obviously choosing her words very carefully before opening her mouth.

“Frank’s found him and he’s okay,” she started slowly, “he’s going to try to bring him back to the penthouse tomorrow night -”

“Tomorrow?” You interrupted, not even bothering to conceal your dismay. It had already been so long, now she was telling you that you had to wait another day before you could see him and try to figure things out.

“He needs a day to make sure Billy is alright, that he’s... safe to be around,” Karen explained before hesitating. “And he’s asked if you’ll stay out of the way...”

“What? No. Why?” Quickly becoming frustrated by the situation. “He needs to see me, he needs to see that I’m okay. You can’t just expect me to -”

“But you’re not okay,” Karen said, and you stopped in your tracks. “You’re not okay. Nothing about what happened to you was okay, and if Billy sees you like this...”

“It’s fine, I -” but you knew it wasn’t fine. Worse, you knew she was right. “I just - I want to see him. I need to know he’s alright,” your voice threatened to break. “It was my fault, I shouldn’t’ve -”

“No,” Karen said firmly. “None of this was your fault. Don’t you dare blame yourself. I know that you care about him but that is not the way to protect him.”

She started walking again and you fell into step beside her. Soon enough you were back in the penthouse, crawling into bed, and trying not to think about Billy coming home. You played the conversation with Karen over and over in your mind, wondering if there was anything you could do to protect Billy, wondering if maybe you should have taken his offer to leave after all.

(What if you were just making everything worse?)

The next day passed so slowly, and Karen made obvious attempts to distract you; first taking you for breakfast, then taking you out to a little gallery in Brooklyn to look at some art. When you got home, you drew some blood and left it in the fridge with the rest of the blood that had been piling up over the last week.

As much as you wanted to stay out in the penthouse as evening gave way to night, you let Karen convince you to go to bed, reminding you what you’d agreed to.

But, ultimately, you found that you couldn’t do it.

The moment you heard the elevator, you were out of bed and rushing out to the penthouse, despite Karen calling after you, telling you to wait. You came to an abrupt stop when you saw them; Frank practically holding Billy up as he dragged him out of the elevator. The second Billy’s eyes found you, taking in the sight of you and your broken arm, you saw nothing but pain and shame. He tried to pull back, and tried to slink back into the elevator, trying to get away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Frank growled, pulling him, making sure he couldn’t run.

Billy let out a pained sound that had you taking a step forward, wanting to do nothing more than help, but you quickly faltered when you realised that there was nothing you could do. You were useless and, if anything, your presence had made everything worse, just like Karen had warned.

Blinking, you realised that there were tears in the corners of your eyes, ready to fall at the slightest provocation.

You wanted to go to him, to tell him that everything would be okay, that you’d forgiven him. But had you? Could you forgive him when you still didn’t even know what had happened?

Karen’s arm wrapped around you, both of you watching as Frank dragged Billy into his rooms and closed the door.

As if realising that there was no way you were going to go back to bed, Karen led you over to the sofa and you both sat in silence as the minutes ticked by. You struggled and strained, trying to hear what was going on and if Billy was okay, but no sound escaped his rooms.

Your heart leapt into your throat when the door finally opened and Frank stepped out.

“What the hell, Karen?” He asked, annoyed that you hadn’t done as you were asked.

“It wasn’t her fault. I - I needed to see him,” you told him, feeling your cheeks start to heat. “What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?”

The question seemed stupid - worse still, it made you feel stupid. Of course he wasn’t okay, you’d seen the way he’d looked at you, the way Frank was almost carrying him. Part of you almost hoped that Frank would lie, that he’d tell you everything was fine and that Billy was alright. 

“He’s had a rough few days,” Frank answered, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “I’m gonna stay here tonight, make sure he doesn’t decide to wander off again. You can talk to him tomorrow, if he’s feelin’ up to it.”

Your mouth opened, wanting to ask what you were supposed to do if he wasn’t feeling up to it, what you were supposed to do if he never wanted to speak to you again, but you didn’t. All you could do was nod and agree to Frank’s terms, knowing that arguing wouldn’t get you anywhere. 

“Why don’t you head back to bed?” Karen suggested. “I’ll get Frank some blankets and keep him company out here.”

As much as you didn’t want to go, in case Billy came out of his room, you felt awkward and in the way. So, again, you nodded before slowly getting up and heading back to bed, where you’d spend the night staring at the ceiling and worrying about Billy.

Chapter Thirteen

End Note : 😅😅😅😅 Sorry that there's no Billy in this one. I needed to give them time apart so they could both really suffer. Don't worry, next chapter I promise you'll all get the answers to some of the questions you've had about what's going on.

As always, thank you so much for reading/commenting/liking/reblogging. Your support and kind words mean the world to me! I hope you all have a great weekend!!

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters! If tagging doesn't work for some reason (aka Tumblr being dumb) I post most Fridays around 7:30 gmt.

Tag List : @vaguekayla @thdcre @rensolodriver @house-husband-of-castlemurdock

@snowkestrel @danzer8705 @noortsshift @aoi-targaryen @lincerad

@vxnity713 @readerinsertsaremyguiltypleasure @dreadfulxives18 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @glamourbabe17

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@ashy-kit

[thriftedtchotchkes]

hi ur writing is so so good, makes me go insane ur amazing

okay so could you do a normally dom!joel but one day he has the day off and reader doesn’t, so all he does ALL day is think about her. When she gets home he’s worked himself into a frenzy, desperate asf. So instead of his usual dominant self he’s desperate!joel whining and whimpering for her to touch him, make him cum, moaning in her ear and grinding against her.. all of that fun stuff 🤭

thank u for ur time, pls excuse the depravity 🙏🏾

hi nonie! loooved this request so much. i got a similar one from @luvrxbunny, so i combined them a bit and made it a lil longer. hope you both enjoy!

omg ur so amazing ily pls pls pls pls pls pls pls can i have dom!joel with a praise kink 🙏🏾 he doesn’t even really realize it but reader does and she’s just pummels him with praise while he’s fucking her and he does feral, moaning and grunting in her ear i’m sorry im so feral

way too damn needy

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-outbreak, language, smut, dom-turned-sub!joel, gentle-dom!reader, praise kink, masturbation, phone sex, blowjobs, face fucking, lil fluff

word count: 2.8k

What a way to spend his only day off in weeks. The weather’s perfect for playing his guitar on the porch, and he thought he’d even squeeze in a swim before getting started on building that new bedside table for Sarah. He had plans. 

But instead, Joel’s stalking around his living room like a caged animal in an endless loop of waiting, waiting, waiting.

It’s like he’s been transported back to his teenage years when every guy in a relationship followed his girl around like a puppy, always at her beck and call. Wondering what she was doing, if she was thinking about him. Except he wasn’t even that guy in high school. Not then, and definitely not now.

There’s really no logical reason for him to be this wound up, totally unable to do a single thing on his to-do list just because you’re not home. Leave it to your company to be the only one in the entire country that doesn’t give their employees Labor Day off.

That’s probably a gross exaggeration, but what does he care? He’s been tragically affected by this clearly personal transgression, and has to wait…two more hours? Seriously? You normally leave around 5:30, which means you’re home by six, and he’s not sure he can wait that long.

The sad fact of it all is that he’s already wasted almost the entire day not enjoying all of those relaxing activities he’d planned for. What’s even sadder is that he’s been half-hard for most of it, intermittently pausing his ridiculous pacing to grind the heel of his hand into his crotch for relief. Petulantly waiting for you to get home and take care of it for him.

Well, another hour’s gone by, it’s 5 pm, and he’s officially past his limit. At this point, he's probably better off handling it himself, at least until you're finally back. Then, you’re all his. 

He’ll fill you up with every last bit of pent-up frustration he’s felt since you left the house this morning, making you regret not just calling in sick. You might have to tomorrow after he’s done with you.

Joel drops onto the couch, laying to face the door so he’s the first thing you see when you walk in. Pulling his boxers and jeans down just enough to get his cock out, he wraps his hand around himself, immediately hissing out a breath through his teeth. Shit, he’s been hard for hours and just that slight touch already has him leaking precum all over his fingers. 

For a moment, he worries that maybe he’s a little too worked up, that he’ll cum way before he gets the chance to make you sorry for making him feel so desperate. So needy. And that makes him mad.

It should be your fingers covered in precum, your plush lips sucking him down to the hilt, and your pretty pussy aching with the need to have him inside you. Funny how you’re always so good for him, except today when he needs you the most.

His hand starts to move languidly before he can stop it, the slide wet and tight, just like he knows you’ll be. But it’s not you, and that makes him even angrier. If he can’t feel you the way he needs to, then maybe your voice will hold him over until he can. 

The phone only rings twice before you pick up.

“Baby, I’m busy right now. What’s up?” you answer, slightly out of breath. 

It’s cruel, but Joel honestly doesn’t give a shit if you’re busy. Not when his mind is this clouded with thoughts of you on your back, breathing much heavier than you are right now. But he manages to keep that to himself.

“You comin’ home soon?” he asks gruffly, still tugging on his cock, head thrown back on the armrest of the couch.

“Uhh, probably leaving in about…a half hour?” Your voice lilts like you had to double-check the time. “Everything okay?”

“Any chance you can leave now?” he tries again, side-stepping your question. 

The desperation in his voice is obvious, and it makes him feel even more pathetic. He wonders if you can hear it. Part of him hopes you can.

“Why, did something happen? Is Sarah okay?” you ask, clearly concerned. 

“S’fine, everythin’s fine. Just miss ya, s’all," he lies shakily.

Of course, he misses you, but nothing here is fine. His angrily weeping cock is a testament to that. He's all but fucking into his own fist now, hips bucking off the couch as he pants into the phone.

“Joel, what—are you touching yourself? Jesus,” you mumble, and he can hear your heels clacking against the floor like you’re walking somewhere. Quickly.

“Been thinkin’ about ya all damn day. Dunno why you went into work on a fuckin’ holiday,” he grunts. “Should’a been here with me, on your back, beggin’ for my cock like a good girl.” 

You inhale sharply and, though muted through the phone, he hears it loud and clear, dribbling more precum down his shaft. Unfamiliar voices start to filter through the speaker, so he’s guessing you can’t say much. 

And that’s okay. He has no problem filling the silence. Joel loves talking to you while he’s getting off.

“Had me feelin’ needy today, babygirl. Y’know I don’t like that,” he says dangerously. Your heels hit the ground faster, and he subconsciously matches his strokes to your pace. “Thought I was losin’ my mind for a while there. Was just about ready to let you do whatever you wanted to me when you got home, s’long as I got to fuck that tight pussy of yours.”

A door slams in the background, then all he can hear is you panting heavily in his ear. But when you finally speak again, your voice sounds different. Less like his good girl, and more like someone who knows they hold all the power.

“Oh, poor baby,” you coo, catching him off guard. “Did I leave you alone too long?”

He can tell you’re mocking him but, for some reason, his resolve starts to slip away more and more with every violent throb of his cock. Maybe it’s desperation. Or maybe he just likes it. 

“I’m so sorry,” you continue, murmuring sweetly in his ear. “I can make it all better…but only if you wait a little longer. Can you do that for me? Be my good boy.”

He bites back a groan, gripping the base of his cock hard to keep from cumming then and there. That's...new. And sexy as hell. He's still frenzied to the point of no return, but you also might've rewired something in his brain because he suddenly realizes he does want to be your good boy. Badly.

Fuck, he hopes you get home soon.

That last half hour of work was torture. You spent the entirety of it, and the car ride afterward, marinating in your soaked underwear, anticipating everything Joel has in store for you when you get home.

You're not sure what came over you on the phone, but it sounded like he enjoyed it. A lot. It’s a dynamic you’d never thought to try in your relationship, not with Joel’s domineering personality. The fact that he went along with it at all must mean he’s going through it, and that’s something you’re a little too excited to see.

The house is quiet when you walk in, save for the sound of your keys dropping into the bowl by the door. You turn to hang your bag on a nearby coat rack, and that's when you see him.

Joel, still lying on the couch exactly where you assume you left him after your call, with his hand squeezed tight around the base of his cock. He looks like a goddamn mess—sweating, hard as a rock, and leaking all over himself. His eyes are a little wild, more so than you've ever seen them. Christ, poor baby. You didn’t think your absence would affect him this much.

“Aw, sweet boy. Is all this for me?" you smile softly. He sucks in a breath, visibly twitching in his hand, and your smile widens. “Sit up, I can’t play with you like this.”

He complies immediately, and it sends a shiver up your spine. You love how well he’s listening, even though he almost looks like he's in pain after being in this state for so long. For that, you think he deserves a reward.

So, you give him one—the one he’s been waiting for all day. You undress for him, maintaining eye contact as you slip off your stuffy business attire, finally ridding yourself of your oppressively sticky underwear. 

Dropping to your knees between his legs, you gaze up at him affectionately, mouth inches away from his drooling cock. 

"Tell me what you want," you lean in, pressing your lips against the smooth, velvety skin. "Still wanna fuck me? Get me on my back, begging for it?"

Your tongue darts out to taste him, and you moan, licking a wide stripe up to wrap your lips around the tip. He's salty and heady, and so fucking delicious, but he still hasn't answered you. Instead, his fingers thread through your hair, guiding you down halfway and back up, shallowly fucking your mouth.

"I—fuck, please...," he's struggling with his words, whimpering around each syllable. "—baby, I waited...been good, did what ya said."

You nod your head understandingly, or at least try to as you continue to let him thrust into the inside of your cheek. His eyes are hyperfocused on the way your skin bulges around him, each stroke sending a shockwave of pleasure straight down his tightening balls.

"Christ, you feel good. Worth waitin' for, so fuckin' worth it," he rasps, his fingers tensing in your hair. "Need ya to—," he repositions your head so he can thrust further, deeper until he's nudging the back of your throat, "—ngh, make me cum. Suck harder, baby, please."

Soft, hiccuped moans escape his parted lips, increasing in volume when you start to drool around him, down your chin and onto your breasts. You can tell he's about to burst, feeling his skin growing taut against your tongue.

"M'gonna—haah, gonna...," desperation clouds his eyes, still dictating his every thought and move. 

But you don't let him because that's not what he said he wanted earlier. He's allowed to buck into you a few more times before you pull off with a loud pop, and the needy, frustrated whine he lets out almost makes you reconsider. Almost.

"I'm gonna make you cum, I promise, but not with my mouth," you tell him, voice tinged with disappointment, wrecked from the force of taking him like that. "You were doing so well for me. Come down here, keep being my good boy and I'll make you feel good."

Plopping down on the carpet, you spread your legs so he can see how wet you are for him. It's only gotten worse since earlier, slick coating your thighs, shiny and all the more inviting. You lay back, trailing your fingers up your belly to your breast to tweak a nipple, sighing as you reach out to him with your other hand.

Again, he obeys, his desire to empty down your throat all but forgotten. His shirt is quickly discarded, followed by everything below his waist, and then he's shifting onto the floor between your legs.

"There's my sweet boy," you coo, running your hands up his chest through a smattering of coarse, dark curls, and it rumbles under your palms as he mewls sweetly at your praise. 

He leans over you, hovering like he's waiting for permission to touch you, but he doesn't need it. The only thing you're trying to do is guide him, not control him. You want to make sure he gets exactly what he was so patient for. 

"Wanna feel you, babygirl. Let me—," he amends what he was about to demand, "...can I touch you?"

You bite your lip nodding as you smile up at him, and he wastes no time dropping down to bury his face into the crook of your neck, sucking wetly as he presses his body flush against yours. You writhe underneath him, just as pent up as he is by now, the realization triggered by how incredible his naked body feels on top of you. 

"Fuckin' hell, you're soft," he moans into your ear, propped up on his forearms. His cock brushes against your inner thigh, and his moan turns guttural, raw like it clawed its way out. "Mmph, I can't—"

He lurches up to crash his lips into yours, kissing you sloppily, hungrily, as his hips finally dip to drag against where you're soaked and aching. But not for nearly as long as he's been, and right now, he comes first. You need him to know he can have you. That he doesn't have to wait anymore.

"Don't...don't fight it. You've been perfect, you deserve it," you gasp out, and his hips jerk, your words forcing a low keen past his lips and into your mouth. "Take, baby. Take what you need."

Joel doesn't take, he seizes, laying claim to every part of you. Like he's afraid he won't get another chance if he doesn't take full advantage of what you've given him right now.

He faintly reminds you of a puppy lacking object permanence, believing the next time you leave, he'll be stuck waiting for you to come back to him forever. God, you're not even sure how you fucked him up so badly, but it's clear by the way he's handling you that he won't let you go again.

He moves quickly. One moment, he's leaning back on his heels, digging his fingers into your waist to yank you up onto his thighs, and the next, he's fucking into you as hard and fast as a bullet train. His cock somehow feels thicker, heavier than it ever has when he breaches your cunt, and the stretch has you clawing at the carpet beneath you.

"Missed you all day, wanted you all goddamn day," he growls, plowing into you forcefully enough to make your brain go fuzzy. "Fuck, babygirl, you got no idea what I've been through."

Christ, that feels—it feels...Christ. He's hitting something. You have no idea what, but it feels ungodly, like if he keeps going just like that, you'll cum without his fingers on you at all. It's happened before with Joel, but it's rare—and it's only when he's deep, lighting up all of your nerve endings at once. Fuck, he's being so good today.

"S'okay, you're okay," you gasp, clenching down around him when he suddenly pounds into the spot dead on. "I...I'm here now. Just keep going there, right there."

He nods frantically, gritting his teeth as you continue to tighten around him.

"Good boy," you mumble deliriously, your back arching completely off the ground as your orgasm rocks you. 

"Shit, you—'m not touchin'...fuck, baby, you cummin'?" 

It hits him all at once, what's happening, and then he's cumming, too. He's loud through his entire release, alternating between drawn-out moans and hiccuped whimpers as he fills you up with a whole day's worth of pent-up frustration.

Thrusting until your aftershocks have subsided, he grinds in deep one last time, letting you milk him completely dry before he pulls out. You're boneless underneath him, your eyes glazed over while his are finally clear for the first time in almost ten hours. 

He lowers your body onto the floor and crawls over next you, pulling your body against his. His embrace is warm and pleasant, and enough to pull you out of your post-orgasm stupor. Wriggling in his arms to get more comfortable, you tilt your head back from where he'd tucked it under his chin to grin up at him.

"So you missed me, huh?"

He rolls his eyes, back to his usual, not-totally-depraved self, but you already know the answer. He just spent the last hour showing you exactly how much.

"Thought I already made that clear," he confirms gruffly, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "Next time, could ya maybe just use your vacation days? Please?"

"Sure," you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. "I'll save them up just for you." 

You reach up to scratch your fingernails across his beard, your other hand petting the soft curls at the nape of his neck. A soft noise rumbles low in his chest, but he tries to play it off by clearing his throat. Playfully raising an eyebrow, you continue your ministrations and it happens again.

"Baby, quit, 'm not a dog," he deadpans, even as he leans into your touch, his body betraying him.

"You sure about that? Because you sure were needy like one today."

[userbangel]

seeing the reviews on serializd for btvs 6x19 is crazy. it is an unremarkable and dull episode, but it seems like the only reason why it's rated so low is because they're mad they can't wash spike's rancid balls anymore.

"IT WAS OUT OF CHARACTER" were we watching the same show? did you guys close your eyes and plug your ears with wax when his scenes were on? let me list the many, many examples that prove spike was not this amazing love interest in s5/s6 you all have cooked him up to be:

5x07: Goes to kill Buffy because she rejected him.

5x14: Chains Buffy up and says, "If you don't admit that there's something there, some tiny feeling for me, then I'll untie Dru, let her kill you instead."

Also 5x14: Has a creepy ass shrine filled with photos of her and her fucking clothes. He stole her fucking underwear.

Also 5x14: Gets angry at Buffy for rejecting him and says, "Why do you bitches torture me?"

5x18: SEXBOT. ENOUGH SAID.

6x07: "I hope you dance till you burn. You and [Dawn]."

6x09: Harasses Buffy about them kissing again, she tells him goodbye and he still follows her, ending their conversation with, "It's only a matter of time before you realize I'm the only one here for you, pet. You got no one else!"

Also 6x09: Realizes the chip doesn't work for Buffy, finds her and starts a fight, then says, "You came back wrong."

6x10: "And the next time you come crawling, if you don't stop being such a bitch, maybe I will bite you."

6x13: At the bronze, Buffy tells him "don't" when he's touching her, and his response is, "stop me," and he has sex with her. How respectful...

Also 6x13: Encourages her physical/mental isolation, "That's not your world. You belong in the shadows...with me."

6x17: "It's why you won't tell your pals about us. Might actually have to be happy if you did. They'd either understand and help you, god forbid ... or drive you out ... where you can finally be at peace, in the dark. With me."

6x18: Threatens to sic another vampire on Buffy if she doesn't tell her friends about them.

there are probably more examples i could find, but it would be absolutely ridiculous for anyone to look at this list and still think spike is some blameless wittle baby who was the victim of a so-called "character assassination."

and you know what else i find funny about seeing red? i see all this sympathy for james marsters, all this outcry for what joss "did" to spike, but i have rarely, if ever, seen anyone direct even a fraction of those emotions towards buffy, much less sarah michelle gellar herself.

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

@monkess requested soft kissing and my brain just ran with it. this is post-mastermind

To the outside world, Blitzø is not soft. Loud? Yes. Abrasive? Always. But soft?As if. He's bristling spines and bared teeth. A dog that learned how to bite first, canines locked firmly around a fragile neck.

There are very few people that can make him feel settled enough to relax the front. Fizz, once they got over their past misunderstanding and fell back into easy friendship. Mox and Millie, who he took under his wing and who understand him on a fundemental level. Loona, who stole his heart the moment he saw her snarling and alone in the back of a kennel.

Before Stolas, that would have been the end to the list. For a long time, even, it was. And then came Stolas' confession. Asmodeous' crystal. Their fight. The party. The month of drowning the complex twist of feelings in junk food and bad TV. The trial.

Almost dying put a lot of things into perspective. Watching Stolas take his place? It was like being drenched in ice cold water, drowned, electrocuted and then set ablaze.

In other words: painful, traumatizing and so ridiculous he might have laughed if he hadn't been busy sobbing first.

Realizing that they could have seperated forever on bad terms, that Stolas had been willing to die for him even after everything he'd said, had collapsed any of the walls that had remained between him and his feelings.

He was an idiot.

An idiot with a very lost and alone bird to take care of. Which, as it turned out, came surprisingly easily. Taking care of Stolas, that is. He's done a lot of things to Stolas in bed. He's used teeth and claws, gone at him with knives and beartraps, the list goes on. He is used to being cruel in all the ways that please. But he finds he is suddenly reluctant to be anything other than gentle.

He helps Stolas groom the stuff that gets thrown at him out of his feathers—after putting a bullet through the offenders' skull; most people caught on quick not to fuck with his bird—gives him blankets and pillows to build his nest; even brings home shitty plants for him to nurse back to health. He teaches him how to cook the basics, explains who and what to avoid now that he's not living safe in a palace.

Taking care of Stolas is not the chore he once thought it would be. It lightens something in him every time the heavy cloud of depression parts to let Stolas smile or hoot in laughter. He feels good whenever Stolas rambles excitedly about the plants in the apartment, or when he tucks himself up in Blitzø's office to read through the paperwork Moxxie is finally relieved of.

For a while, it's enough. He tells himself it has to be enough. Stolas is in a vulnerable position and now is not the time for Blitzø to fuck it all up with his feelings. He's an asshole but he's not that much of an asshole. He thinks.

Then, one day, he finds himself staring at Stolas, eyes gone wide and body unnaturally still. His cheek is still warm from where Stolas kissed him and his ears still ring with the sound of Stolas calling him darling.

Fuck, he's missed that. How long has it been since he heard Stolas practically sing endearments? Too fucking long, that's for sure.

It's clearly taken Stolas by surprise too, by the way he's standing just as frozen, still half bent towards Blitzø. His face is slowly turning red, the shock white of his pupils shifting about the room almost frantically.

"I—I'm so sorry, I've overstepped, I don't know what came over me—"

Blitzø is still staring at him.

Stolas straightens and backs towards the door. His paperwork is inside Blitzø's office so where he's going is anybody's guess. He's grounded though, with no magic and no way to fly. He can't outrun Blitzø. Not like this.

There's a shrieking, undignified noise torn free from Stolas' beak when Blitzø pounces. He gets a hand behind Stolas' head before they hit the ground, keeping his pretty brains from being rattled. Stolas is so lanky that his legs knock against the door and send a picture frame clattering to the ground. It's a special edition horse club collectors item but in this moment Blitzø could care less about the fucking thing.

"Stolas," he finally says, tail twitching slowly behind. "Pretty bird."

Stolas' beak snaps shut with a loud click. His normally white face is nearly crimson. He's big enough to push Blitzø off but he just lays there, talons opening and closing out of pure nerves.

"Blitzø," he croaks out. "What are you…" He trails off as Blitzø leans in closer, eyes gone wide and pupils blown out.

"Really wanna kiss you," Blitzø admits. "The things ya do to me, birdie, christ on a stick."

Stolas warbles.

"Been trying to be good, but good's really not my style. Then you—" his spines shiver as he forces himself to take a breath. His claws dig into the floor. "You gotta tell me if you're just fuckin' around here, Stols."

"I'm not, I—" Stolas swallows. He looks uncertain and so far from brave but he still lifts his chin in determination. It's part of what Blitzø loves about him. That even when scared and completely out of his element, Stolas still goes for what he wants. "I'm not 'fucking around', as you put it. I meant it when I said always."

A low growl rumbles up from Blitzø's chest. "You said you'd always save my life."

He smiles helplessly. "The reason was rather implied, darling. I'm afraid my heart is yours, whether you want it or not."

Blitzø's growl rises in volume, until he's practically thrumming with it. His tail lashes as he bends the last few inches to claim Stolas' mouth. For all the tension in them both, for all the time that's passed, it is not hot and heavy as expected. It's slow and desperate, a reminder that they have been here before, that they are both alive and have made it back to one another once more.

"Mine is yours too," he gets out. "It's a fuckin' shitty ass prize but you got it."

Finally, those talons slip up his back, smoothing down his spines in slow delicate lines. His eyes slit as he purrs so hard it shakes his entire body.

Stolas lets out a soft hoot of delighted laughter. "I confess, I've never won anything before. I quite like this prize."

"Yeah, well, good," he mutters, as he nuzzles in close. "Not getting rid of me now, birdie."

Long arms fold around him, eliminating what little space remains between their bodies. "Good," Stolas sighs.

Drop me a stolitz prompt in my ask box and I might write it.

[skeedelvee]

Carry On Countdown Day 15 - Sweets

For this year's COC I've decided to put together daily fic rec lists! Let me know if you find any new favorite reads from these <3

For todays prompt I've gone with fics that prominently feature sweets/baking

The Boy Next Door by @monbons

Rated M, 46,862 words

Simon is a disaster. An utter disappointment. (Or at least, he feels that way.) Looking for a fresh start and some direction, he moves in with his Gran, who happens to live next door to the most mysterious boy Simon has ever met. A boy who never leaves his home. A boy no one ever visits. Determined to befriend his lonely neighbour, Simon ends up changing both of their lives in the process.

Camomile Sea by @sillyunicorn

Rated T, 6,274 words

Baz is content with life. He's got a cuddly cat, supportive friends and family, and plenty of GBBO to watch. What happens when he matches with someone with a sweet smile and puppy dog eyes on a dating app?

At the speed of light by @orange-peony

Rated E, 26,330 words

The bell goes ding, and I close my eyes. I hear the scraping sound of the chair in front of me. I inhale deeply as I try to mentally prepare for another five-minute-slot of pure agony as another imbecile tries and fails to seduce me. “I’m an arsonist,” I declare, my well-rehearsed opening line to discourage the next loser. “Nah, I reckon you’re just an arse,” the stranger in front of me replies. I finally open my eyes, and my vision is filled with a mass of bronze curls, freckles and moles. He’s sitting there with his legs spread wide, jutting his chin out and waiting for me to say something, a dare in his blue eyes. I try to ignore the fact that he’s a fucking wet dream come true and raise my left eyebrow at him. He’s not even wearing a pin to signal who he might be interested in. And he just called me an arse.

The Bother about Brownies by @aristocratic-otter and @hgari

Rated T, 4,845 words

Baz is tasked with creating a dessert for the triplets' school cake sale. Brownies are such an easy recipe. What could go wrong? Everything.

Large Black Coffee by @basic-banshee

Rated G, 19,280 words

“I glance at the cup before I raise it to my lips, and one eyebrow goes up when I see what ridiculous insult he’s written on the cup today.” Every day Baz comes in to get coffee, and every day he finds a new insult on his cup.

Pancakes and... CPR? by Takitalks

Rated M, 1,219 words

Baz wakes up to the sounds of Simon dancing around the kitchen, cooking pancakes with headphones on. But what exactly is he listening to?

Without Complexities or Pride by @mandilorian

Rated E, 15,463 words

Baz and Simon are heading to a garden party organised by Daphne in Oxford. Baz's parents are trying, so what's the harm in showing up and spending the night. Nothing interesting ever happens at a country house party, right? (So many things can happen at a party, it turns out.)

If you have any recs that fit the prompt that I've missed, feel free to leave them in the comments! There's plenty of gaps in my reading so there's a good chance I may not have read it

Also I've had a hard time finding if some people are here on Tumblr, so if you know someone who hasn't been tagged, feel free to leave that in the comments as well <3

@carryon-countdown

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Don't Need No Butterflies When You Give Me the Whole Damn Zoo

Roy Kent x Teacher!Reader

Warnings: Language, flirty Roy being flirty

1.3k words

Teach Me Tonight Masterlist

“Twenty-three, twenty-four,” you mumbled to yourself as wriggling students piled onto the bus, chattering and calling out to friends they wanted to sit with.

Once all twenty-four kids were onboard, you turned to the chaperones, avoiding a certain pair of brown eyes as you tried to remind yourself that you were working.

“You can all go ahead,” you announced. “Sit anywhere you like.”

The chaperones moved past you, murmuring thank yous as you waved them aboard. A couple mums, a grandmother, a dad, and one ridiculously handsome uncle. The last one stopped, raising his thick eyebrows at you and nodding towards the bus.

“Ladies first,” he insisted in that gorgeous voice, placing his hand on the small of your back.

Your knuckles were practically white as you gripped your clipboard, letting Roy Kent urge you to climb up the bus steps. Pretending that you weren’t blushing furiously, you confirmed numbers with the driver and took the window seat by the bus door. To your surprise, Roy nodded to the seat next to you.

“Think I could join you?” His thick eyebrows were knitted together . “Pheebs decided to sit with Kokoruda. Don’t want to look like a fucking loser, sitting alone.”

Your lack of hesitation was almost embarrassing. “Of course,” you squeaked, scooching closer to the window. “But if a kid gets carsick, I will have to bump you for them.”

His smile had your stomach doing flips. “Well, here’s hoping no one gets sick then.” He took the empty seat, letting his fingers brush against yours as he got comfortable.

The drive to the zoo was simultaneously the shortest and longest ride of your life. Roy quietly chatted with you, telling you how excited Pheobe was for the trip, how relieved he was to have a day away from Jamie Tartt; he was even thoughtful enough to ask you about the novel you’d mentioned during your lunch together, asking you if you’d made any progress in the thick book. It was almost… disappointing when you pulled up at the zoo and had to jump back into teacher mode.

Once you managed to get everyone inside the zoo, you made sure each child knew who their adult was and gave each chaperone their group list and a map of the zoo. You gave quick instructions about where to meet for lunch and dismissed groups to go enjoy their morning, doing your best to ignore the way Roy’s eyes lingered on you.

Before you could lead your group in the direction of the giraffe exhibit, Jack’s dad placed a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Should we get your number?” he asked, wearing that smirk you often saw during drop-offs. “In case we need to get in touch with you. Emergencies and such, you know.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw Roy clench his jaw as Phoebe tried to steer him towards the lions.

You shook your head quickly. “It’s fine. If you need me, just use the messaging app like normal. I’ll be checking it all day, I promise.” Your smile was tight as you took a step back, away from his hand that loitered a bit too long; Roy was still frozen in place, just staring at you.

Roy knew you didn’t like the attention from dads like Jack’s; even if you hadn’t explicitly told him, he’d figure that you weren’t the type of person to like their lingering gazes and overly friendly touches. You were too good, too kind, too sweet. But still, seeing the sharkish smile aimed at you had his chest feeling tight and his skin burning.

His chest tightened in a different way when you smiled at him before leading your group on its way. You might not like attention from students’ parents, but you seemed to be just fine with attention from smitten uncles. And for that, Roy was grateful.

It was an easy morning, leading your students from exhibit to exhibit. Just before lunch, your students insisted on a trip to the reptile house. Deciding that you had enough time, you let them wander through the dark hut, gasping and pointing at the snakes and lizards and other creepy crawlies.

Suddenly, as you leaned against a rocky wall and did your head count, you realized there was double the number you were expecting.

“Not a fan of snakes and lizards?”

Roy Kent appeared next to you, looking cooler than you felt as he leaned casually on that same wall.

You chuckled and folded your arms. “Snakes and lizards, yes. The tarantula in that corner over there, not so much.”

“Don’t worry,” Roy tutted quietly, loud enough for only you to hear. “I can protect you.” His hand found your lower back, his thumb brushing the spot where the back of your shirt rode up just a little to reveal a peek of bare skin.

Your breath hitched at his touch, prompting raised eyebrows from him. While his face was amused, his eyes were soft, assuring you that, if you asked, he’d stop touching you, he’d step back and put a respectable distance between you.

But you’d never ask that.

Instead, you smiled shyly up at him, thankful for the darkness that hid your furious blush. “Thanks, Coach,” was all you could manage.

“Anytime.”

The two of you stayed like that, watching the children explore the reptile exhibit with small smiles on your faces, neither of you knowing what to say next. Finally, the alarm on your phone went off, reminding you about lunch. Roy reluctantly let go of you, but walked close as your little groups scampered ahead to the picnic area.

“You’re fun to watch,” he murmured after you answered a student’s random question about why the sky is blue. “With the kids, I mean. Fucking natural.”

His praise had your blush returning. “Thanks.” Feeling bold, you nudged him gently. “But might want to watch the language around the kids, Coach.”

He laughed at your reprimand. “Sorry ’bout that.” He leaned in close, his gruff voice dripping with flirtation. “Don’t suppose that means I have a detention now?”

Every ounce of boldness melted away. “Oh, I, um…” You cleared your throat. “Better make sure everyone has their lunches, hmm?”

Roy watched you as you strolled from table to table, checking on your students and chaperones, the picture of amiability with your smiles. You were in jeans; he hadn’t seen you in jeans before. He liked you in jeans, he decided. Those jeans would probably look great with a Greyhounds kit. One with a number six on the back, perhaps.

The tips of his ears burned when you glanced over and caught him clearly staring. Your shy grin assured him that you didn’t mind; heck, you almost looked like you were enjoying his attention. After checking on the other groups, you finally made your way over to his table, beaming down at Phoebe and her classmates.

“Everyone’s good here?”

The kids showed off their sandwiches and chips and desserts, assuring you that they were set. After acting adequately impressed by their lunches, you nodded to Roy.

“And you, Coach? Got something to eat?”

Roy shrugged, sheepish grin on his face. “Was so busy making Phoebe’s lunch, I fucking forgot to make mine.” He laughed at the grimace on your face. “Effing forgot to make mine,” he corrected. “Sorry.”

By the time he finished apologizing, you’d already reached into your little backpack and pulled out your sandwich, already cut in half, and offered it to him. “Want some?”

“Thanks,” he huffed, taking half and pretending his heart didn’t skip a beat at your thoughtfulness. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he took a bite; how the fuck did you manage to make a simple ham and cheese sandwich taste so good?

You watched him eat, amused by the image of Roy Kent, football legend, infamous grouch, chomping on half a ham sandwich, with his little niece snug against him. He was a one-of-a-kind guy, different from anyone you’d ever dated. Heck, different from anyone you’d ever met.

As you smiled at each other across the picnic table, you couldn’t help but wonder: was Roy Kent ever going to ask you on a proper date?

Taglist:@infinetlyforgotten @gothicwidowsworld@taytaylala12@amieinghigh@klaine-92@misshall14@rosesheerio@goose-101@gee72sstuff@alainabooks143@lwritesstuff@hayden-maximoff@optimisticsandwichgladiator@veryprairieberry@scott-mccall-could-lift-mjolnir@jaymum@shakespeareanwannabe@axelsagewrites@kidd3ath@brainscabs@v-nest@just35yrsandtrying@idk1234567 @ohwauwdoritos @wearethecanadians@deliriousfangirl61@laukora1030@its-a-show-stoppin-number@blue-bujo @ohwauwdoritos @seatbacksandtraytables@amieinghigh @libsybum @dark-academia-slut @tweasley20 @missemilygilmore

[boy-gender]

How do you deal with guilt around being a man, and like generally feeling like you're "betraying women" or choosing to be something bad by transitioning? It's something I've really been struggling with..

I sort of have two answers for you.

The first is a bit glib, but I think you've got some bioessentialism to unlearn, anon. I know that it's probably not a belief you arrived at yourself- rather, a bunch of hateful radfem douschebags have so often repeatedly said shit like that, that you're a traitor, you're failing feminism, youre just trying to escape the patriarchy, you're mocking what women are, men are evil and youll become evil especially with testosterone. That kind of crap.

Genuinely I do not give it any thought. It's ridiculous on the surface, so I write it off as misguided and inane. There is no logical way to justify grouping an entire half of the population together, deciding that the one thing they have in common (being men) is somehow the defining trait about them (because nothing else is being taken into account, like their sexuality, ethnicity, trans or intersex status, poverty level, where they live, whatever) and then also deciding that one common trait is the root of all evil. I've personally had a lot of experience with people doing this with certain mental illnesses- particularly cluster B personality disorders- and deciding like "yes this one thing about you makes you evil. You have Evil Person Disorder," and seeing how stupid that was, I just applied it elsewhere. Humans are far too diverse, nuanced, and contradictory for any flat rule like "all X people are bad" to ever be accurate. If it's not accurate, it's not useful, so I don't judge myself by it. I literally just block the people spewing that shit and let it slide off like water on a duck. I have enough warped internalized beliefs from my upbringing- I'm not adding more when I can immediately and obviously see their flaws.

So my advice is to block anyone you see saying that shit. You might be beginning to internalize it because of just how often you see it- so you need to cut that off at the source. Radfems are not and never will be allies; they do not have "some good points." Their movement was specifically designed by conservatives to uphold white supremacist capitalism, and nothing that comes from that is ethically correct. I'd suggest picking up Mothers of Conservatism by Michelle Nickerson. A lot about the origins of the radfem/female separatism movements are detailed there, created by fundamentally conservative women. With this new 4B movement shit on the rise, it's helpful to understand how fucked up and wrong they've always been from the beginning. My second answer to you is to look at what manhood means to you. If you don't think you can be objective about this, ask a friend to help. List the traits you associate with what *you* personally want to be as a man, what you hope you transition towards. Do you want to be a financial provider? Do you want to defend your community? Do you want to be generous? Brave? Do you want to be an expert in a special interest? Do you want to make lots of friends?

Make a list of those traits. Then look at them, divorced from the idea of gender. Is being a financial provider "bad?" Is being generous bad? Or brave? Or having lots of friends? Are any of these things bad in isolation, or does your guilt about them come from their association with manhood? Is that /your/ association, or did other people cause you to think there is an association?

For me, I had two formative male relationships as a child. My father, and my maternal grandfather. My father was an abusive piece of shit who liked to pick me up by the throat and slam me into walls, threaten our pet cats, scream at me until I dissociated, called me slurs, hated my opinions on anything, belittled me, believed only in capitalism, is a social darwinist capitalist schill, hates my mom, treated me like a servant and punching bag, and is a miserable fuck with no friends.

My grandpa was an old man who loved scotland and tartan and scottish terriers even though he never had one, loved each of his cats which he had all the time. He collected coins and read about history, he made model planes. He watched judge judy with me and talked about the cases and if we agreed with her rulings; he watched the news from multiple different outlets a day and taught me to weigh them against one another. He loved sitting on the porch and watching neighborhood kids play, and he drank a lot of lemonade. He was a brilliant chemist, provider, raised 4 kids in near poverty, then raised 8 grandkids after that. He would sneak me chocolate malt balls as a "vitamin" and he would tease my grandma by pretending to pick up and lick his plate after dinner. He taught my uncle to garden who then taught my cousin, so all my life gardening has been "mens work" to me. He was soft spoken, curious, patient, and mischevious. He loved my grandma for 60 years until he died.

These men have nothing in common except that they were men. Being a man didnt make my grandpa evil because he chose not to be. Being a man didnt make my dad evil either; he's an evil fuck because he made that choice. They are both sentient beings, who can use logic and emotions alike. One chose poorly. It never made sense to me as a child to assume all men would be like my dad or like my grandpa, because they were both men and they weren't at all like each other. Some categories are just so broadly diverse that they aren't really helpful- if I ask you to picture a mammal, do I mean a monkey or a mouse? Does "sea creature" mean a giant ass blue whale or a tiny piece of plankton? "Man" as a category is too broad to make assumptions about. I know it sounds circular and reductive, but the only thing that makes someone a man is...being a man. Nothing else.

I find it helps to look at a diverse array of men, to see all that men can be, especially men not like myself or the men I know. What does it mean to be a man in rural Yunnan farm country? What did it mean to be a man in medieval europe? What is it like being a gay black man from california, or a hunter living off the grid in appalachia? What does it mean to be a man in a culture where long hair is masculine, or where harvesting plants is masculine, where being a doctor is masculine? What about cultures where adornment is masculine? Hell, what about animals? What's it like to be a male lion vs a male house cat? What do I think about male cardinals, who are the bright lovely red ones, whose color is meant to draw a predators eye to them and away from the female cardinals and their nests?

To me, gender is an all you can eat buffet. It's customizeable. You can pick up or ignore or throw away any traits you want or don't want. Grab things that are feminine in your culture and incorporate them into your manhood in a subversive, gender nonconforming way. Take things that are masculine that make you happy, that you're reclaiming in a way because you may not have been allowed to do/be them before. Fill your gender with the ideals and aesthetics you like. You are fundamentally changing manhood by being a man, by being a different kind of man than any other man. If there are 4 billion men on the planet, there are 4 billion different 'microgenders' of man.

Seems silly to write off an entire 4 billion people as inherently evil and incapable of either goodness or change. It's just illogical. For me, that's enough to discard the idea wholecloth. If it doesn't make sense, I'm not wasting my time with it. That's not an ability everyone else has easily though, so you take the time you need. Try to look at yourself as objectively as possible, as an outsider. As you transition, have your actions become more evil? Are you committing sexist acts? Have you literally betrayed all the women you know somehow? Do you feel yourself becoming less kind, less patient, less interested in equality or the preservation of life? I'm betting, since you're nervous about it enough to ask, that none of those things are happening to you. Do not let yourself be gaslit into believing you are becoming something you're not. Look at your actions, your words. Look at your values and how you live up to them. If you don't see any sudden discrepancy, then you know anyone who tells you you're becoming evil by becoming a man is straight up lying to you. They're projecting an idea onto you that doesnt fit reality; trying to put a round peg in the square hole. Be curious, be objective. Do not be misled, and for those who try to mislead you, hit them with a chunky block button.

[brokenpieces-72]

Graves Circumstance

Part 3 | Navigation

TW: anxiety, some violence, let me know if I missed any

As you walked around you found yourself experiencing some anxiety. Graves noticed you bracing yourself against posts and benches. Phil stopped every time asking if you needed to take some time. It took little for him to help you sit on the ground to let you breath through it. Right now his primary concern was you. You were waiting for the police station to call you in to retrace your steps and hopefully find where you had been held for so long.

“You sure you want to do this today?” He asked. You needed to do it today, but Graves didn’t want some kid traumatized all over again.

“No… but I want to… I need to.” You said. Phil was impressed. You had guts, and a strong will. Recovery would take time, and he wasn’t about to force anything. Almost didn’t want you to go retrace your steps. Worried you might rush in and crash. If this is what you thought was best he wasn’t going to argue. He checked his phone and still no call or text. Maybe the cop from last night had said something.

“You ready to keep walking?” He asked. You nodded.

“When we go to the station, if you ever feel unsafe or like you need to brace yourself, you speak up. If you can’t, then pat me on the arm, or squeeze my hand or something. Okay?” He asked. You nodded again, and he helped you up to your feet. Just in case you held on to his arm.

Phil wasn’t exactly a patient man, but this was beyond ridiculous. It was the afternoon and no call from the police asking you to come in. Phil tried calling them and got a voice mail. A police station with a voicemail? Really? A small town but come on.

Graves decided to take you there directly, fed up with waiting. When he took you there they explained they had some other things come up. For fuck’s sake, they had a minor come to their precinct carved, bruised and almost naked, and they’re telling him this now? This was a problem. If he had to tell his boys he couldn’t show for some things they would understand but this wasn’t something any station would just put on hold. Had they even gotten in contact with your parents or next of kin? No? Then what hell is he supposed to do with you?

“Mr. Graves we can take care of them, assign an officer to them for witness protection instead.” The cop offered.

“One of your boys already did last night and I told him no.” Phil argued. “Now why the fuck isn’t this case being examined more closely? Or is this not the first time a young kid comes to your station like that?”

“Mr. Graves may I remind you that you have no jurisdiction here, nor are you my superior. So either get out and wait until we call you or leave Y/N with us.”

“I have half a mind to take them to the next town.” Phil continued. “If this doesn’t get sorted soon I’ll sort it myself.”

“And you have no authority Mr. Graves.” The cop said. Phil wouldn’t admit it but he wanted to hit the cop in the face. You were too young to be dealing with this kind of shit.

“I don’t get a call by tomorrow morning I’ll go with them myself. Authority be damned.” Phil warned before storming out of the station, retrieving you on the way out. He was pissed. Something is fucking around and he’d had enough.

Phil got you into the truck and sat in the driver’s seat. No information on you. No information about your case. No one seemed to give a shit. Graves sat there trying to think of what he could do next. Something Phil doesn’t like is when people put him in a box. If he can’t get the cops to help then he’ll help you himself.

He looked in the rear view mirror, and saw you staring out the window. Something didn’t sit right. If you’d shown up to a police station like that, and in a small town like this, the cops would be sending out warnings to locals, there would be manhunts for your captors. More alarms would sound, so why was your appearance only chiming bell? These guys were treating it like it was just another case on their list. At this point he wanted to call Laswell but after everything that had happened she was busy. And he wasn’t someone she’d be willing to talk to.

“Kid?” He asked, noticing you get comfortable under the new blanket. Wait wasn’t that in his bag at the motel? Whatever not important. You perked up to listen. “Let’s take a small trip.”

He put the truck in drive, and headed back to the motel to gather your stuff. You’re fidgeting in the seat, like you wanted to say something. He knew what you wanted to ask, but right now he was banking on your trust. No doubt his reaction to the news broadcast didn’t help your trust issues.

“Need you to trust me here kid.” He said reaching the motel easily enough.

“T-trying.” You said.

“Need a minute?” He asked. You nodded and he got into the backseat. You weren’t tearing up and breathing hard again. “Can you name five things you can see?”

“Uh… the car seat… your brown hair… the motel door… that tree… the door handle.”

“Four things you can touch. Can you name those?”

“The blanket… the seat… my hoodie… warm socks…”

“What are three that you hear?”

“Your voice… um… my breathing… I think my stomach…”

“Two things you can smell? Can be anything.”

“The truck… your after shave… I think it’s your after shave.”

“Body spray, but good enough. What’s your…favourite taste?”

“… dark chocolate.” You answered. Graves nodded.

“Alright, I’ll get you something to eat but right now we’re gonna get our stuff and blow this stand.” He said.

“No fucking- kid stay in the truck.” Graves said putting the truck in park.

“What’s going on?” You asked, as he undid his seatbelt.

“Stay in the truck.” He repeated, pointing to you before closing the door. He stormed over to road block where a couple of cops were standing behind concrete barricades. Hell no, they did not get to pull this shit with him.

“The fuck is this shit?” He demanded.

“Sir, please get back in your truc-“

“Tell me what the fuck is going on first!” He barked at the officer.

“When you tell me what the fuck is with your attitude then I will, until then why don’t you cool off in your truck first?” The cop barked back getting in Graves face with the barricade between them. Graves stared the cop down, pressing his lips and taking a minute. He was a commander, not a sergeant and didn’t like being pushed around. Right now he didn’t get that luxury. He had to reel it in a little.

“I’m sorry officer…?” Graves said, taking a breath.

“Hodgkins.” The officer replied, his face stoic. The more names, the better. Certainly would report them for this crap.

“Been a long day, just trying to get home. My kid misses their mama very much.” Graves exclaimed. Hodgkins glanced down at Graves hand, not seeing a wedding band.

“Are they now?” Hodgkins asked, doubt very heavy in his voice.

“Joint custody. Not the favourite parent.” Graves said, with a half grin. Hodgkins leaned over to try and get a look at you in the truck.

“Small avalanche, pretty much covered the road.” The officer said, as if it were obvious and right behind him. Graves didn’t like that. “There’s a motel in town, you can call your ex to let her know you’ll be late. Sure your kid can understand, that leaving town right now is not an option.”

That last part was a warning and threat, one Graves didn’t take kindly. Phil gave the officer a curt nod, thanked him for the time and got back to the truck. You jumped when he opened and closed the truck door, before turning the truck around and driving back into town. Graves was thinking and fuming. The tension could be hit with a hammer.

“…kind of wish I stabbed him with the fork?” You asked. Graves’ gritted teeth loosened when you said it, smirking.

“Yeah. It’s getting late, and you need a proper dinner.” He said, changing the subject.

While the two of you walked back to the motel Graves was the one scanning the area. He seemed distracted as well. If you wanted to look at some stores he went with you, if only just to look around and kill time.

At one point you come across some plush animals. Your face seemed to light up a little seeing the cute little toys.

There’s a beagle plush with little bandanna around its neck. Graves doesn’t mind getting it for you. He noticed on the drive back his demeanour probably scared you a little. You hadn’t tried to say much of anything and you were often pawing at a blanket or pillow. You were a teenager sure but something you could hold and squeeze couldn’t hurt to have.

At dinner, Graves was able to get takeout and brought it back to the motel with you, while you were thinking of names for your new friend. By now Graves was your living shadow, watching over you, not letting you out of his sight.

“Bailey? No…” you thought out loud.

“What’s wrong with Bailey?” Phil asked.

“Doesn’t look like a Bailey.” You answered. “What about Bagel?”

“Bagel the Beagle… sounds like a kid’s cartoon.” Graves commented.

Once inside you took off your shoes and flopped onto the bed.

“Just in case kid, could you sleep in the further bed tonight?” Graves asked. You looked up at him and then at the closed and tightly locked door. You crawled off the bed and sat on the edge of the other one.

As Graves set the food down on the small counter you figured now would be better than never. “Are we stuck here?”

Graves shrugged off his coat. “If I can’t track down dynamite to blow up that barrier then I’ll find the components.”

Your eyes go wide realizing the situation. You were still trapped. Your cage had merely expanded and given you new privileges. No no, you were so close. Without realizing you were rocking and clawing at your arms, muttering to yourself. Graves came to your side immediately.

“Hey. Look at me. Look at me y/n. I’m not gonna get you out of this. You understand?” His words were firm and stern.

“… it can still find me!” You said, panicked. “I’m gonna get you out of this. I will do everything I can, you got that?” Graves said firm, holding your shoulders. You sniffled, trying to tell yourself that was true. You looked past Graves and eyes widened and your cried out. Graves turned to see a figure peering in the window before trying to run off. Phil was faster. He reached the door and opened it to find an older man. The guy looked startled, but Graves had him by the shirt and against the wall.

“Who are you?!” He demanded.

“Dude, I’m sorry! I swear I thought it was my room!” The guy said, terrified. Graves stared him down.

“How long have you been at the motel for?”

Graves asked. The guy was confused, and Graves shoved him into the wall again.

“Dude I swear! I’m sorry if I scared your kid! I was just checking, my buddy said he got us a room! I just misread the number!” Graves let the guy go, and requested his phone. The guy gave it up quickly, hands up, and pressing against the wall. Graves found the text messages, and sighed. He returned the phone.

“Thank you for your time.” He said, letting the guy tremble some more while he returned to you. He shut the door and locked it drawing the curtains again. When he turned around you were gone.

“Shit… kid?” He called. Graves was cautious now. The guy hadn’t gotten far from the room when Graves caught him. Graves peeked around the beds, and couldn’t find you. He turned the light on in the bathroom. “Kid I’m coming in.”

Graves looked around the door and even drew back the curtain of the shower. Not there either. Then he heard a sound from the counter in kitchen area.

Graves got to the counter and knelt down. He kept his voice down. “Kid it’s me. Gonna open the cupboard now okay?”

Graves opened it and found you inside, curled up tighter than he ever thought possible. You looked uncomfortable and a little stuck. “Ya need some help there partner?”

It was a little awkward but Phil got you out of the cupboard and told you what happened. You just stared at the curtains as he spoke, thinking every shadow that passed seemed to linger for too long.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving @cutiecusp @shikigami-the-paper-spirit

[theloganator101]

The Great BNHA Review: Characters or Check Lists?

Oh Characters...

The bread and butter to all stories.

The thing that gets a story from Point A to Point B, the thing that allows us to connect with the story and helps it feel alive. You can pretty much make any character for your story, from the gentle and kindhearted to the more rough around the edges... to making them likable or unlikable. There are many ways to write a character and how they can make your story come to life.

And by bringing this up you know where this is headed... that BNHA utterly failed at expanding their characters into being people we're supposed to care about.

I could make a long fucking list of how BNHA failed every single one of it's characters it introduced but to keep that from happening, I'm just going to either list certain characters or just group them together since some of them share one common thing that's holding them back from being good.

Starting off with!

Shota Aizawa:

He was supposed to a hardass with a hidden heart of gold for his students, but what he ENDED up as was a walking hypocrite who hated Izuku for no other than he was associated with All Might and couldn't control his quirk... and then CONTINUED to give Izuku a hard time and labeled him as the "problem child" like... I don't even have the energy to get mad here, I'm saving THAT for another time in this review.

Oh and then there's him holding up this ridiculously high standard for his students to reach or else he fails them... which is exactly what happened when he failed Sero in the finals but allowed Bakugou to pass for doing the same.

Which again his hypocrisy gets in the way of that!

And not once does he ever get called out or punished for his blantant abuse in power and instead gets complimented and praised for his methods as if he's the next Einstein.

Fucking end me.

The Todoroki Family:

Oh how Hori totally fucked you guys over in the end... Natsu I'd give a pass since he ended on a more believable note, but sadly I can't say the same for Rei and Fuyumi.

As they were never allowed to think bad of the guy that made their lives hell and were instead to jump on the forgiveness train and take Endeavor's side so they can be a "Happy family" again. Which... no, that's literally stockholm syndrome.

Class 1-A:

... (Sighs)

Oh my babies... oh my favorites... look how that monster Hori ruined you all...

He tried to have this found family dynamic for them all, only for it all to fall apart since... you know, they barely interacted at all and got any screentime.

And it also didn't help that Hori had all of them as bystanders to Izuku's suffering, make fun of his interests, and follow Bakugou when he led them to beat him into coming back. So it really doesn't work when you have these things on your mind and fails to convince you that they give a shit about Izuku and his wellbeing.

And the worst part is that they ALL look like they have stories waiting to be told, but we don't get any of that. At most they're only used to fight against the minions while the Cash Cow Triplets fight the big hero.

Every Female Character in this Series:

Oh boy what even is there to talk about? Since they barely have any personality of their own and are only made to be fanservice for the pervs that likes watching anime girls in bikinis. They definitely deserves much better and to be in a story that'll treat them with respect and dignity.

ESPECIALLY to those like Hagakure and Miruko.

All Might:

Oh All Might, how the story did you dirty.

If there's anyone in this story that I feel sorry for the most (That isn't Izuku) It's All Might.

All because of how he started off at the beginning, people clung to the idea that he's a quirkest asshole who Izuku needs to steer clear from... even though he's literally the one to save Izuku from literally living in misery.

All Might deserves to be an actual mentor and father figure for Izuku, not fucking Aizawa who openly expressed his hatred for the boy.

The League of Villains:

I already made a post on how the narrative did them dirty and I don't feel like repeating myself, so I'm just gonna leave a link here while adding this.

What was even the point of building them up to be forgiven by their foils if they were just gonna die in the end? It was all just a big time waster.

And of course, we can't talk about characters and how the author failed them without talking about...

Izuku Midoriya:

Oh Izuku... the most tragic and wasted main character I've ever seen in an anime series.

He started off so strong only to get worse as the series went on. He should've been the shining definition of what a hero SHOULD be! He should've been the one to realize how fucked their world was and strive to change it for the better and to prevent others like him from suffering like he did.

But... we didn't get any of that.

We don't get acknowledgment of his past, we don't get him rising from his pain and become something more. Instead we get a watered down version of him at the beginning who has NO reaction or introspection to anything whatsoever, not to the world they live in, to the way things are handled, and even to him losing OFA.

For some odd fucking reason, Izuku is never allowed to grow out "I'm worthless" mindset or realization that everyone in his life has failed him in one way or another. He just praises it all like the fanboy he is and just stays where he is.

And then there's the fact that he just flat out refuses to ever acknowledge his past in any meaningful way, as whenever he DOES bring it up, he talks about his past self as if he's a different person from him. To which I can kinda see how this could be symbolic of something... But it just doesn't work as it only makes him look horrible for forgetting his roots and just wanting to fit in with the other people with quirks. To which it somewhat feels like "Fuck the quirkless they're useless so why even focus on them?"

He's a hollow version of the idea of his character, just blankly reacting to things in front of him and praising Bakugou for being the best thing to come around. He honestly deserves better and deserves to be with a writer that won't bully him and give him the depth and development he needs.

Now who else am I missing...?

...

Oh yeah!

Katsuki Bakugou is still trash.

Look forward to the next part.

(Roundabout starts playing)

[roosterforme]

Old Habits Die Hard Part 11 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: You decide to give Bradley the opportunity to talk about what happened. You end up learning more than you bargained for.

Warnings: Angst and swears, maybe fluff

Length: 3300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (fuckboy college student Bradley)

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What was wrong with you? You had agreed to let Bradley stop by later in the evening so you and he could talk. You didn't really want to talk to him, because you knew you would end up a crying mess. But there was no way he was going to worm his way back to you. Not after what he did last weekend. 

And yet, you found yourself touching up your makeup before he got there. And you decided to stay in your skirt and sweater instead of changing into leggings like you usually would after class.

"You're ridiculous," you told yourself in the bathroom mirror. You looked so sad, and you just knew you were going to have to kick Bradley out later if you started crying. 

Janessa was already out for the night, so at least you would have some privacy. But maybe that was worse, since you didn't even know for sure what Bradley wanted to talk about. He had told you he wanted to be your boyfriend. You weren't lying to him when you told him you would have said yes. 

Sighing, you exited the bathroom and picked up one of your graduate exam practice books to help you pass the time. You had narrowed your application list down to just four schools. Three of them were a bit outlandish, including the University of Chicago, but you were hopeful that one of them would be willing to give you a scholarship. Then you'd keep the University of Virginia as your last resort, since you were almost positive you'd be accepted to stay on in the math department here. You had a 4.0 GPA, and now you just needed to ace your exams. 

You jumped off the couch when you heard knocking. Time to get this over with. You unlocked the door and were met with sad, brown puppy dog eyes and a face that you immediately wanted to kiss. And he was holding more flowers.

"Come in," you managed to say in a steady voice that didn't betray your nerves and the butterflies in your tummy. Why had he picked you? What was even special about you in the first place? Nothing. He could have used his voice and charm on any other girl, and you kind of wished he would have. Why the hell was he here anyway?

As he nodded and walked into the living room, you took a deep breath. He smelled so good. He was still wearing that ugly Grateful Dead shirt, and you knew how soft it was. You wanted to rub your cheek against his chest and feel it again for yourself. You wanted to change into it for bed. 

"These are for you. Since I messed the other ones up earlier," he told you, holding out the flowers.

You took them, saying, "Well, you didn't mess them up, but thanks." You set the flowers down and nodded for him to sit.

You followed him over toward the couch where he stood, looking at you. "What did you want to talk about?" you asked, crossing your arms as casually as you could. 

He ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room before his eyes settled back on your face. "Me, you, everything. I don't know, Sugar. I fucked up with you. And I don't know if you can forgive me, but I wish you would."

He looked so serious, you thought you might as well call him out on it. "I'm not sure how to respond to you right now. You look and sound sincere. But I'm not really in the market for being tricked or fucked over again."

Bradley's face fell and he rubbed his eyes like he was in agony. Then he dropped his arms to his sides. "I've always been sincere with you. Always." His voice was pleading as he added, "Maybe not with everyone else. But with you, yes. So please, please don't start treating me the way everyone else does. Okay?"

"Okay," you agreed, although you weren't really sure what you were agreeing to.

"You treated me like I was important. Like I fucking mattered to you." He rubbed his hand over his mouth and looked at the ceiling. "You don't know how sorry I am that I fucked this up, Sugar."

You swallowed every snarky remark that you had spent the last few minutes coming up with and took him gently by the hand. Immediately his other hand dropped to his side and he was looking at you again.

"Let's sit down," you whispered, and he nodded and sat on your couch, pulling you down and keeping his hand in yours. You took a breath to speak, but he was already going.

"I was so jealous of that fucking guy. I don't even know who he was. But I immediately thought the worst. And I know that's not fair to you, because you're... you. You're just better than everyone else. I think that's why I like you so much. You're smart, and your opinion matters. And you treated me like I was worth being around. Like," he said with a shrug, "I was worth your time." He swallowed, and your eyes dipped to his Adam's apple and his scars. 

You thought for a second that he must have been pretty badly mistreated if your opinion means so much after knowing him for a month. You thought about his door and his mom and how he always seemed to be at odds with his fraternity brothers. 

"You're worth my time," you said softly. He was looking at you again, his eyes sincere but laced with pain. "And you are important."

"But...?" he prompted, still holding your hand. "Come on, Sugar. Just say what you want to say."

You took a deep breath. "I just want you to be honest with me. That guy I was talking to? His name is Max. He's on the lacrosse team, and he's really, really stupid. I used to tutor him. I don't know why you thought you needed to be jealous of him. He's nothing."

"Sugar, I'm an idiot," he groaned. 

"No. You're smart, Bradley. So what gives?" you asked.

He just shook his head and looked at the floor. "Everyone already thinks I'm a fuckup. Everyone expects me to be a certain way. And sometimes it's just easier to give in to their expectations than it is to try."

You laced your fingers with his so he would look at you again. "Who is Hannah?" you asked softly when he met your eyes. You watched the expression on his face change from pain to anxiousness. You wanted to know why he and Jeff couldn't get along.

"Chase was in my fraternity," he said simply. "Hannah was his girlfriend."

"What happened?" you asked softly, and then he told you everything. 

---------------------------

Bradley just wanted to hold you and feel your arms slip around him. He wanted to feel your lips move against his neck while you spoke to him in your matter of fact voice. He wanted to listen to your laughter in his bedroom. The last thing he wanted to do was tell you about Chase and Hannah. Nobody else knew the full truth. Not even Phoebe, and she was there. 

No, nobody really knew all of it. But you were about to. Because if it meant that you could understand him, then it was worth telling you. 

"Chase and Jeff were best friends, and Chase got expelled from Beta and then from UVA for fighting. For fighting me," he told you. 

You just shook your head. "You're not a fighter."

Bradley laughed softly. "No, perhaps I'm not. But I think I became one. I used to drink a lot more. Made it easier to deal with the names on my door, I guess. Made it easier to watch girls write their phone numbers and leave." And then in your dimly lit living room, you wrapped your arms around his neck and let him hold you. He took a deep breath and let it out before he said, "The drinking definitely made it easier to stand up for Hannah."

"What did Chase do?" you asked softly, as if you already knew what Bradley was going to tell you. Your nose skimmed the collar of his tee shirt as he let his body relax against yours. 

"He hurt Hannah when he got drunk. All the time. He hit her and made her cry. He cheated on her all the time too," Bradley said, and you gasped. "He was the only guy in Beta with a girlfriend, and I thought that if that's what having a girlfriend did to you, I wanted nothing to do with it."

"Oh my god," you whispered. 

"Hannah was scared of him. I found her crying in my bathroom one night, and I saw the bruises on her. She was sweet, like you, but not sensible. Chase was nice to her when he was sober, so she just stayed, I guess. I don't know."

You didn't pressure him to keep going. You let him gather his thoughts while he rubbed your back through your sweater. 

"I started butting heads with Chase and Jeff more, because Jeff was always standing up for him. I saw Chase push Hannah, and he was always calling her a slut and a bitch. When I tried to insert myself in the situation, pretty much all the guys in Beta agreed with Jeff when he said I was just trying to sleep with Hannah. And why shouldn't they believe him? I'm easy, you know? Every other fucking name under the sun was on my door, why wouldn't I want Hannah's there too?"

"Bradley." You whispered his name so softly he barely heard you, but he wanted to finish. 

"After Chase busted up Hannah's lip, and she missed a bunch of her classes, I picked a fight with him. I waited for a night when he was in a particularly bad mood, and then I got wasted on purpose. Drank an entire bottle of vodka. It took all of my strength not to fight back. He slammed me around pretty good, and broke a glass table by putting my face through it. Hence the scars."

You were fully in Bradley's lap now, and you were crying. "No, Bradley. You did that for Hannah?" you asked, running your fingers along his cheek. 

He nodded gently against your head. "Yeah. Chase got expelled, putting some distance between him and Hannah. She ended up transferring to Florida for her senior year. She and I have stayed in touch. She was always nice to me. I've... never told anyone that I got drunk on purpose. I was like that a lot, so nobody really thought it seemed strange, you know?"

You pulled away from him, and the loss of contact sent him scrambling for your hand. "That's not who you are though. You're not a fighter. And you're not easy either, Beer Boy. You're really, really good."

Bradley wished you'd lay on him again, but he wasn't going to press his luck. At least you weren't asking him to leave. 

"I told Hannah all about you."

"Really?" you asked, sounding surprised. 

"Yeah. She told me I'm an idiot for what I did. She also told me you're too good for me. But I sent her a picture of my door, and she called me screaming."

A soft smile was touching your lips now, but it faded as you asked, "Who was that girl last weekend? Did you know her?"

He nodded and forced the words out. "Her name is Willow. I slept with her a few months ago. It didn't mean anything. I wish I could take it all back. After Phoebe, I started sleeping around, because I didn't really have anything else," he said with a sardonic laugh and a shrug. "I am sorry. And I would never do that again... to you. If I stood a chance." 

Bradley had to swallow the lump in his throat as you pressed your lips together and studied him. "Are you leaving soon? The party is probably in full swing now."

He just shrugged helplessly. "I'll leave when you ask me to, Sugar. I'm not partying tonight."

You licked your lips before you shifted so you were no longer touching him, and he started to brace himself for your dismissal. 

"Do you want some pizza?" you asked. "I'm hungry, and I won't be able to finish it by myself."

Bradley just nodded. He would have agreed to anything you said if it meant he could be around you for a little bit longer. He watched you walk to the table to pick up your phone, your skirt hitting the backs of your thighs with each step. He cradled his forehead in his hand, he had no idea what was going on here. This felt like a subtle reminder as to why he shouldn't actually try to date anyone. 

He listened to you order a pizza and watched you pace around in a small circle. Then you started to dig around in your wallet, but he jumped up and handed you money. "I got it," he said. But you just shook your head. 

"Don't worry about it. And we're not done talking," you said, gently pushing him back toward the couch. 

"We're not?" he asked, dropping back down to sit. But you remained standing in front of him. 

"No. I want you to tell me, why me?"

"I don't understand."

"I don't understand either, Bradley. Why me? Why do you want me to be your girlfriend? You could get with any girl on campus."

He scoffed. "Maybe physically, Sugar. But that's not the only reason I like you. I already told you... you talk to me like I'm important."

"Oh, Beer Boy. You have no idea."

When you sat down next to him and curled up against his body, he just held you until the pizza arrived. 

-------------------------

Both of you sat on the floor in front of the coffee table and ate pizza, but Bradley seemed on edge the whole time. You hated this. Being around him had been so easy before. When you stood up to refill your drinks, you watched his eyes drift up your legs, lingering on your body before settling on your face. You turned toward the kitchen and took your time. 

The idea of forgiving him had almost taken over your entire mind. You wanted to. But you also felt like you were just asking for trouble. But when he told you about Chase and Hannah, you really wanted to just wrap him up in your arms and never let go. 

When you walked back to the living room, he was standing, hands tucked in his pockets. "Sugar, I'm gonna go. I think I need to go."

Your heart dropped. "Why?" You didn't want him to leave yet. 

"This is... I need to... protect myself," he said softly. 

"Oh. From me?" You were going to cry if he said yes. 

He nodded his head.

You could feel your face scrunch up, tears beginning to sting your eyes. "I don't want you to say that."

"This isn't your fault. I did this, because I am a fuckup."

"Stop it," you said, running your fingers across his scarred left cheek and resting your thumb on his lips. "You're not." You couldn't stand the hopeful look on his face now, so you wrapped your arms around his waist and buried your face against his chest. 

His voice was deep and raspy as he asked you, "Can I touch you, Sugar?"

You looked up at his face, his eyes already on yours, but he didn't take his hands out of his pockets until you whispered yes.

His hands found your waist like they belonged there, and you let him hold you. When you pressed a soft kiss to his neck, he groaned. 

You felt powerful around him. You always had. He'd given you control. Bradley had given you control. He was smart, but always selling himself short. He was organized, like his mom. He let Chase beat the shit out of him without fighting back. He was very in control of himself, whether he wanted to admit it or not. But over the past month or so, he'd let you control this. 

"Do you want to sleep over, Beer Boy?" you asked him.

He looked a little stunned, but he muttered, "Of course, Sugar."

You nodded and led him to your bedroom. "I'm tired. Can we snuggle?"

He laughed softly. "Please."

Without another word, you pulled your sweater over your head and unhooked your bra. He watched you intently but didn't touch you as you got undressed in front of him. Then you grabbed the bottom of his tie dyed shirt and guided it up over his body. He raised his hands in the air without a word and let you take it off. He swallowed hard as you pulled it over your head and ran your hands along the soft fabric. When you climbed into bed, he quickly took off his shoes and his jeans and climbed in next to you. 

"Just snuggling," you murmured, but he was already curled up behind you, burying his face in your hair and squeezing you. 

Bradley whispered in agreement, but soon you were turning in his arms and wrapping your hands around his neck. That first kiss felt so good, you gasped. You had missed him so much like this. You kissed him again and again until you felt sated, but his hands stayed on your waist on the outside of the Grateful Dead shirt, rubbing soft, soothing circles. Somehow he had become the one offering you some much needed comfort. 

"Just snuggling, Sugar," he whispered against your lips. You nodded in agreement, and at some point between kissing him and your whispered conversation, you fell asleep in his arms. 

------------------------------

Bradley woke up with his arm pinned beneath you. It was light outside now, but you were still sound asleep. He didn't want to move and wake you, so he just got used to the pins and needles sensation. He examined your gorgeous face, lips parted slightly and breathing softly in sleep. Had you forgiven him? He wasn't sure, and he was going to be too afraid to ask you now. 

Today was Valentine's Day, and this moment right now was the closest thing he had felt to love since his mom died. If you let him, he was pretty sure he could fall in love with you. He'd never done it before, wasn't exactly sure of the logistics, but it seemed okay here. So when you rolled closer to him and sighed, he pushed your hair away from your forehead and kissed you. 

It seemed easier to ask you something else first. When your eyes opened, a smile graced your lips when you saw him, as if you weren't expecting him to be there but you were happy that he was.

"Beer Boy," you whispered, your voice raw from sleep. You rolled onto him further, and Bradley was thankful for your bodyweight on his and that he was finally able to move his arm. 

"Sugar, will you be my girlfriend?" he asked you before he could backtrack or rethink anything.

You examined his face for a moment. His ears were ringing. He shouldn't have asked. You were going to kick him out now. Why was this shit so hard for him?

"Yes," you told him, nodding and leaning up to kiss his lips, gently nudging his nose with yours. 

"Fuck," he whispered against your lips. He wrapped you up in his arms. "Can you forgive me?"

"Yeah, Beer Boy, I can forgive you."

Bradley smiled for the first time in almost a week. 

---------------------------------

Sugar! Did she make a smart decision? Thanks a million percent to @mak-32 This is for you!

PART 12

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[kimsohn]

even if the world caves in,

pairing . chanhee x gn! reader (ft. vernon of seventeen) about . 13.5k words, fluff + angst, e2l fake-dating warnings . smoking, alcohol, cursing, suggestive (allusions to sex at the end), descriptive food mentions, y/n and chanhee are idiots chanhee lowkey doesn't deserve y/n, the plot kinda doesn't make sense but fuck it we ball ok, pls lmk if i missed things bc i probably did, also i wrote most of this at ungodly hours of the night and this is not proofread take this as your warning

synopsis . after your big break in cinema, the last thing on your mind is a relationship. unfortunately for you, the public has other plans, forcing you together with the journalist who's entire career is dedicated to your downfall. note . this is my submission for @deoboyznet's secret santa fic exchange! hihi @heemingyu i'm your secret santa!! (i'm so sorry this is like two days late and probably rushed forgive me) i went through like four different plots before settling on this one and writing it in one week 😭 i hope you enjoy!!! also thank you to @juyeonszn for staying up until 6am to beta for me what the fuck. ilysm. tagging . @invuwrld @gfksn @stealanity

Lately, the only thing that seems to greet you is the buzzing sound of your phone, incessant until silenced by your tired fingers.

You reach over as you stir awake, the action almost second nature to you as your hand catches ahold of the sleek object. You hit random buttons until your desired effect comes into play, answering the phone call and putting it on speaker, and you already know who it is before their voice even drifts through the microphone.

“Y/N! Get your ass up, you’re on the headlines.”

“Again?” you whine, rolling over in bed. “Is it good news or bad news this time?”

The man on the other end laughs, bitterly, and you push yourself off the bed in response. Your manager laughing, especially like that, is nothing amusing, and you rub your eyes as you try to get yourself awake.

“Oh, it’s bad, alright. Open your fucking phone, Y/N.”

You do exactly that, immediately thumbing over to Twitter and seeing your name trending. Afraid of which one of your many stupid decisions has made the headlines today, you press the hashtag, cringing at the first picture.

“Of course, they got pictures of me drunk,” you mutter, scrolling through the list. “Wasn’t this Juyeon’s private party, like months ago? How did these photos leak?”

“It doesn’t matter Y/N,” your manager sighs from the other side, and you feel a twinge of guilt for always putting him through this situation, “you’re an actor. Nothing in your life is private anymore, especially you pole dancing on top of the bar.”

Your facial muscles twitch as you come across the aforementioned picture, seeing yourself busting out dance moves on the marble. You have to hold back a laugh, seeing how something so ridiculously insignificant is dragging your name through the mud right now.

“But Vernon, you have to admit, the pictures are kinda hot.”

He grumbles on the other side before he cuts the call, and you fall into bed giggling, scrolling through other pictures. You have a cigarette in one hand and a tequila glass in the other, and that explains why you remember absolutely nothing about that day.

A text notification appears at the top of your screen, and you swipe down to see none other than Vernon who you were on call with five seconds ago. He’s sent you the link to an article followed by a message.

This is the article that leaked the video. Check out the name.

You click on the link, and your face falls at the name of the website. It falls even more when you see the name of the writer, and you press your fingers to your forehead. You immediately call Vernon again, watching the phone ring twice before he picks up.

“Can we fucking blacklist him, Vernon?” you seethe, gripping your phone tightly.

“I’m afraid not. He’s just a journalist, not a stalker.”

“He might as well be with the way he’s always up to date with my private information.”

You punch your pillow, watching your fist pathetically curl into the bedding. It doesn’t have its intended effect, only reminding you of how weak you are physically and mentally. You don’t get into scandals often, probably because you’re a rare, good person in the horrible field that is Hollywood, but whenever you do, you have one journalist to thank for it.

“I told you, nothing is private in your life anymore.”

Vernon goes off on a tangent about how you should’ve been more careful, how you shouldn’t have drunk your ass off, but you can’t find it within you to care. There was technically nothing wrong with what you did (except for maybe the indecency, but it’s a bar for fuck’s sake), but as a famous actor with a huge fanbase, you understand why your manager is angry. Dancing on top of a counter and smoking should not be the kind of precedent you set for your fans, especially the younger ones, and your actions have a lot more weight to them now that you’re in the public eye.

It’s just stupid because you’re a regular person. At the very least, you deserve to have some privacy regarding decisions you make, especially ones that are so insignificant. 

“Vernon,” you interrupt, “it’s okay. My movie is coming out later this week, so I think it’ll die down quickly.”

“I know, but you’re lucky that this was a trivial issue. If you get caught in something truly fucked up, another movie won’t be able to save you.”

“I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

He hangs up, reminding you that you have a screening to attend later today and an interview. Your eyes drift back to the article again, reading the headline.

Hollywood’s favorite celebrity turned dancer.

You shut your eyes, breathing in and out so you don’t lose your composure. The universe is lucky you’re a rational, decent human being because if you weren’t, the writer who’s been practically harassing you would’ve been long eliminated by now.

Choi Chanhee, you read, familiar with the name. The infamous writer that’s always on your tail. It’s as if he dedicates his whole life to ruining you because he’s always the first to write things that make your crown slip. Almost all of your scandals, from particularly stupid ones at the beginning of your career to your most recent one, have been written by him. He’s practically obsessed with you at this point, and you don’t know what it is about you that ticks him off.

You toss your phone to the side, trudging over to the bathroom to get ready. Unlike Chanhee, you don’t have the time or patience to worry about trivial things like gossip pages. Choi Chanhee is just one, minor obstacle in your way. Just someone insignificant.

A long time ago, the flashing lights of cameras would’ve blinded you. Now, as a seasoned actor, you’re quite immune to the brightness that surrounds you when you walk the red carpet. You smile and pose, reveling in the cameras and the interviews that follow, asking for details about your current movie and the process behind the scenes.

You’ve just finished off an interview about the movie’s wardrobe when a black-haired man comes up to you. The lens of his thick glasses shines against the cameras in the background, and you have to look down to avoid the glare from the reflection.

You read his name tag and your face drops. You immediately look up, putting on a forced grin.

“Choi Chanhee. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He smiles, and the corners of his mouth curl as if he knows of your extensive distaste for him.

“It seems you know who I am already. Let’s get started with the interview then. First question: do you have anything to say regarding your latest scandal at the bar?”

You’re gritting through your teeth as you answer.

“No comment. Next question, please.”

“What are your opinions on the latest controversy surrounding Lee and Co., the production company behind your movie?”

He fires off a few questions, all as controversial as the last, and the only thing that keeps you from slapping him right there and then is your media training that Vernon had drilled into you while in the car.

“He will be there,” Vernon had said, fixing your watch, “don’t give him anything to work with. Just focus on promoting your movie.”

You’ve followed his advice for the solid ten minutes Chanhee has bombarded you, but even your patience is wearing thin. You’re tired of being asked about the same scandals repeatedly from different angles, and you have to admit that even if he’s doing an amazing job as a journalist, it’s not looking good for your conscience.

“Chanhee,” you interrupt, watching him pause in the middle of a question, “do you have any substantial questions about the movie, or are we done here?”

His face contorts as if he had just been thrown tomatoes at, and the devil in your brain beams from his expression. He flips through his notes, flicking through a couple of pages before landing on one that’s up to his liking.

“Okay, one last question then. Who was your favorite person to work with during this movie?”

You pause, mulling over the question. You watch as his eyes traverse his notes, and you wonder what trick he has up his sleeve. You guess that he will probably bring up something about the person who’s name you’ll recite, so you think carefully before answering.

“I don’t have one particular favorite. I love them all,” you answer honestly and safely, with no room for scrutiny.

He nods, shutting off the recorder before packing his bag and giving you a slight bow. The narcissist in your brain revels in how good he looks bowing down to you, but you pay your respects in return.

“Thank you for your time, Y/N.”

You watch as he saunters off, probably off to his crew, and you blink a few times before shifting your attention to the next reporter with an eager smile.

Hours later, you find yourself outside, exchanging the chaos inside for a fresh breath of air. Your director has indulged in an after-party, one you’re grateful for too, but after a couple of glasses of wine and many more hours of talking to fellow celebrities, you need a moment of solitude.

 The air outside is crisp and cool, and you find yourself wishing you’d brought your jacket out to accompany you. Your vision is slightly blurry and your stance is wobbly, but you find a bench nearby to take a seat at. You stare at the pond across from you for a while, throwing rocks into the water and watching how far they travel.

A cigarette accompanies you, and the puffs of air you release are visual representations of how relaxed you want to feel. You’ve just released a movie, and you should be thankful, but as an actor, your mind never rests due to the endless possibilities you can ponder over. Moments like these where you find yourself completely alone, with nothing to worry about, are rare, and you try to curb your mind from ruining the moment by overthinking.

However, your moment of peace is interrupted by a loud shutter behind you, and you quickly turn around, afraid of what the paparazzi would say if they caught you like this. A figure disappears around the corner, but as you hear the clacking of their footsteps, you know exactly who it must be.

“Chanhee, I know it’s you.”

Moments pass before he steps out from behind the wall, holding a camera in his hands. The object, in contrast to the suit he wears, is so uncoordinated that you burst into a fit of laughter, over-emotional from the wine you had earlier.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks cautiously, treading the waters.

“I didn’t know you were a photographer too! You’re an all-rounder for sure.”

“Look,” he whispers as if his guilt will excuse his actions, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” You pat the empty space next to you. “Here, sit next to me.”

He takes a seat warily, as if you have a gun in your hands, but relaxes once he sees you dangling your feet. It’s uncharacteristic for him to be sitting next to you, heck, even interacting with you, but you don’t seem to really mind as you throw another rock into the water.

“Why do you hate me?” you ask, staring at him with glossy eyes. “What did I do that was so wrong?”

“Are you drunk?” he asks instead, realizing this isn’t the pristine condition he saw you in a couple of hours ago.

“It doesn’t matter,” you sniffle. “What did I do to make you absolutely despise me?”

Chanhee sighs, staring at the ripples in the pond. He picks up a rock, swinging it as far as he can before it settles to the bottom of the pool. It goes way farther than any of the rocks you’d thrown before, and you pout miserably as you cease your ministrations.

“It’s my job. I get paid for writing about your downfall.”

“But… you don’t have to be so mean about it.”

Chanhee recognizes that he won’t get anywhere with this argument because you’re drunk, so instead, he turns to you, placing his hands on your shoulders so you look at him.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? Here, I won’t even post the pictures that I took today.”

He deletes the pictures from his camera, showing you after it’s done, and you surprise him by throwing your arms around him. You’re too far gone to realize the weight of your actions, but he isn’t, so he tries to gently pry them off his shoulders.

“Thank you,” you whisper after he’s done, slumping across the bench half-asleep, “thank you for being nice. For once.”

He blinks once, twice, before he exhales, turning around on his heel and disappearing into the darkness. Later, when Vernon picks you up from the bench, you tell him that a pretty fairy saved you from disaster. He won’t believe you, but you know it’s true in your heart.

You’re nursing your hangover when you decide to turn on the news. You settle into your comfortable couch, holding a bowl of hangover soup and trying not to succumb to the pain radiating throughout your forehead.

Not often do you watch the news, choosing to opt out because it’s usually annoying and gives you a headache, but Vernon’s somehow using two devices to watch his show on Netflix so you’re forced to resort to this. You think you might die if you don’t distract yourself from the migraine that’s been occupying your senses, so the news will have to suffice.

You flick through the channels, not interested in the politics or the weather, but your fingers pause when a bright pink headline catches your eye. It’s the gossip channel, and this is usually the channel you’re warned to stay far away from, but you can’t help but watch the video playing when the headline specifically features your name.

Y/N caught in a secret relationship, embracing a secret lover by the pond.

Your mood turns sour when the clip features events from last night, ones that are still fuzzy in your brain. You didn’t expect to be reliving this situation, but your heart all but drops when you realize the snippet features you and Chanhee in the frame, hugging each other as if you had indeed been lovers. The worst part is that Chanhee didn’t even reciprocate, but that isn’t featured in the headline, so it truly does look like you two have a thing for each other.

This time around, you call Vernon first instead of the usual.

“Y/N,” he whispers groggily as if you had woken him up, “what happened?”

“Please turn on the fucking news Vernon.”

You hear shuffling from the other side, a few minutes of rustling before you hear the blaring of the TV and a similar sound drifting through his microphone. You get a few minutes of pin-drop silence before all hell breaks loose.

“Who the fuck is that?!” he exclaims, and you hear his feet angrily pacing around. “Was this last night? I thought I told you to be more careful, to look out for your surroundings—”

“Vernon, it’s Chanhee.”

The only thing you hear from Vernon is his angered breaths, and it takes mere seconds before you burst into tears, fed up by this situation and the terrible migraine you still have. You just want to curl up into a ball and never step foot into the universe again, and your resolve only strengthens when the line goes dead. You can’t help the tears that come to bay, rippling through you like a shockwave that never seems to end.

Insistent knocking at your door a few moments later is the only thing that stops the tears from falling, and you quickly wipe them before opening the door. Vernon stands at the other side, his hands in his pockets and eyebags above his cheeks, but his gaze softens when he sees your puffy eyes and you hugging yourself.

He brings you into his embrace, your tears staining his hoodie, but neither of you can find it in yourselves to care. Vernon just caresses your back, knowing the only thing you need right now is a gesture of comfort, and you burrow into his chest further. Right here, in the middle of your entryway, Vernon provides you with the best version of reassurance he can offer: a simple, caring hug.

“I was drunk,” you mutter when you’ve calmed down, speaking through the sniffles that escape you, “and we were just talking. You know I get touchy when I’m tipsy.”

“I figured,” he says, unraveling himself from your embrace. “Does the press know it’s him?”

“No, but I expect they’ll find out soon enough.”

You follow him as he takes a seat on the couch, watching the headlines on the TV. The gossip channel has long moved on from your news, but you haven’t, and fear of what will happen to either you or Chanhee is killing you.

“We need to contact him before then,” he voices, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “I think I know someone from his office.”

“Wait, why?” you ask, trying to peer over at his phone, watching him scroll through his contacts. “Wouldn’t it just be best to let the rumors die down?”

“If this was a celebrity, we could’ve done that. But Chanhee is a regular human being, and this could potentially destroy his career.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you murmur under your breath, watching Vernon deadpan.

“Look, I know you hate him, but he doesn’t deserve to be criticized for something he didn’t even do. Let’s just talk to him and see what he has to say, okay?”

You nod, falling back on the couch. The migraine still bothers you, and you rub your fingers across your forehead to massage it.

Five days ago, you would never have expected to be in this position. To you, Chanhee was just a name on a screen, a faceless figure haunting your dreams. How fitting is it that his very first encounter with you led to your worst nightmare?

You hear Vernon dial his contact, watching the phone ring several times before a line picks up. Vernon speaks gratefully, grabbing the pen and paper that you have lying around on your coffee table as he scribbles down some information.

“We have a meeting,” he says, showing you the piece of paper, “in five hours. Be ready by then.”

Just what exactly have you gotten yourself into?

The bright lights and white walls in the meeting room make it look like a prison cell, and the atmosphere does absolutely nothing to calm your nerves. You’re tapping your foot anxiously, sitting in an unfamiliar space in an unfamiliar building, but Chanhee requested a meeting in his office building, and you have no other choice but to go with it.

You’d be lying if you said you were nonchalant about the whole atmosphere, but you try to keep yourself composed as you wait for him to enter. Vernon sits beside you, going through some papers in his briefcase that only a manager would know about, and his presence is the only thing keeping you grounded right now.

“Just let me do the talking, okay?” he’d said before entering, “The last thing we need is another argument on our hands.”

Even though the comment offended you, you honestly would be better off trusting his judgment. You and Chanhee don’t exactly have the best track record, and if either one of you says something even slightly off, the room would probably explode into insults. You honestly don’t even have the strength anyway to hold up a fight, so you slump into your chair, adjusting your jacket and reeling in your patience.

The doorknob twists and you and Vernon straighten your postures, trying to look presentable for your audience. Chanhee enters, followed by a blonde-haired who you’d assume to be his boss, and you rise so you can shake their hands. Chanhee ignores your attempt at waving a white flag, choosing to shake Vernon’s instead before sitting down at a seat, but his boss smiles and grabs your palm tightly in his.

“Hello, I’m Sangyeon. It’s nice to meet you.”

You exchange pleasantries as you sit down, and once you get over the initial awkwardness, you shut your mouth and wait for Vernon to speak up.

“So, I’m sure you guys have seen the news and are well aware of why we’re here.”

Sangyeon nods, urging him to continue.

“I understand what you might be feeling right now Chanhee,” Vernon follows, catching Chanhee’s gaze, “and we’re extremely sorry for the trouble that this has caused you. However, I have a proposition that might benefit both parties, if you are interested.”

Chanhee’s silence prompts Vernon’s explanation, and you lean in, curious about what he has to say too. Vernon had offhandedly mentioned that he had a deal to make, but you don’t have the slightest clue as to what he’s about to propose.

“I was thinking we play into the rumors. We can say Y/N and Chanhee met at a press conference and hit it off a couple of weeks ago. After we plan a few more appearances, we can stage a public breakup in a few weeks so that everything can go back to normal.”

You blanch, ready to refuse the idea, but Chanhee beats you to it.

“Why would I agree to a relationship with Y/N?”

“Hey,” you start, offended by his implications, “what’s wrong with dating me?”

Chanhee scoffs.

“Don’t even start, Y/N. This is all your fault after all. I didn’t know you liked me that much that you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

You’re seeing blood red, crazed at the malice behind his words.

“I was tipsy! And how was I supposed to know that someone was stalking us? If anything, it was your fault for deleting those pictures and being nice to me.”

The room erupts into chaos as you throw petty insults at each other, similar to a catfight. It takes Vernon holding you back physically to get you to calm down, but even after you’ve calmed down, you’re still staring daggers at him.

“Look, Chanhee, I understand this is not ideal for either of you given the nature of your jobs. But if you think about it, when the press finds out that it’s you in the picture, how will you be able to resume your writing? Who will take you seriously if you write hate articles about the very person that you were caught with?” Vernon asks, trying to reason with him.

Chanhee falls into silence, and he looks at his manager. His manager offers him a pitiful glance, knowing that Vernon is right.

“You don’t have to be lovey-dovey with each other,” Vernon continues, hoping to ease the terms. “You just have to appear in public for a couple of dates. We can use your old articles to prove that you guys have had romantic tension, so we’ll have background evidence too. When Y/N breaks your heart in a couple of weeks, you’ll have the perfect reason to continue writing hate articles.”

“It’s like enemies to lovers to… enemies, right?” Sangyeon asks, humming after Vernon nods, “I think it’s a good idea Chanhee. You’ll gain a lot more exposure after the whole thing is over too. If we continue going as it is, the press will ruin your career, and I’d have no other choice but to fire you. I think this is the best decision for your future and the company.”

Chanhee sighs, rubbing his temples. As much as you despise him, you can sympathize with the fact that he has a difficult decision looming over his head. The fate of his career rests in your hands, the person he’s dedicated a lifetime to ruining, and you can imagine just how insane his internal conflict might be.

“I’ll do it,” you voice, watching the room’s reactions carefully.

Chanhee’s eyes shoot up at you, clearly not expecting your admission.

“I would hate to be the reason you had to quit something you love. Besides, I’ve been in too many scandals recently anyway; I think a relationship could do my career some good.”

You don’t know if your attempt at a joke resonated with him, but his shoulders relax and he bores his eyes into you. His eyes are sharp and feline-like, but his brown pupils are almost the exact opposite, thoughtful and deep. He’s a little pretty, you realize, when he’s not trying to sabotage your entire career.

You’ve tried to stay level-headed after your argument earlier, as a gesture to Vernon, but you can’t contain your surprise when he nods a few minutes later.

“Okay, I’ll go with your plan. But I want four weeks, not five.”

“Deal,” you say, reaching over with an open palm before Vernon can even say anything.

This time around, Chanhee does reciprocate your gesture, shaking your hand firmly. The white flag flies freely over your heads, and you can only pray that these next four weeks will be over just as quickly as they started.

The news blows up fairly quickly after it’s published, even faster than any of the scandals you’ve been in. After the announcement your companies sent out confirming your relationship, you posted a picture of Chanhee to your Instagram story to show support from your side. Never have you garnered so many notifications in a single day, but you’re not complaining. You suppose your fans have also been waiting for you to get into a serious relationship, seeing that you’ve been single since your acting debut, so the update is received with a mostly positive reaction that you’re thankful for.

However, just the news and a picture alone aren’t going to cut it. Arguably, the hardest part of this whole ordeal is your interactions with Chanhee, making your relationship believable enough so your fans don’t think this is the PR stunt like it really is. Your first order of business is taking Chanhee along on a date tonight to a movie premiere, the first actual public appearance you two will be making.

To say you’re nervous is an understatement. The last time you saw Chanhee, it took Vernon’s presence to stop you from biting his head off. How will you even survive a whole event together, let alone act like a couple?

You tell Chanhee to show up a couple of hours earlier so you can plan out the details, unable to keep your nervousness at bay. You don’t know if Chanhee is as anxious as you, but Vernon always says it’s good to stick to a plan, so calling him over isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Actually, it might be a little bit bad.

“Wow,” you say, your throat suddenly parched from seeing his clothing, “you clean up nicely.”

Nice is the simplest you could describe his outfit. He’s wearing a black suit, indented polka dots scattered across the black cloth. Paired with a white shirt underneath and matching tie, along with those round glasses that are definitely growing on you, he looks just like another A-list celebrity in the crowd. Maybe even a model if you would care to admit it.

“Thanks,” he mutters, unbuttoning the jacket to strew it across your couch, “it’s kinda hot in here, no?”

You would agree, but your mind is currently occupied with how delicious he looks in just a simple white shirt and a tie. You have half a mind to tell him that he really should quit his job and become a model instead, but you settle for nodding instead.

“It’s probably because of all the facial stuff we did earlier,” your stylist Kevin says, walking over to place clips in your hair, “it’ll calm down in a little bit.”

Chanhee’s eyes widen when Kevin enters, his eyes staring at you in panic and moving over to Kevin before they travel back to you. You laugh, amused with how seriously he’s playing the part.

“He knows,” you reassure him, “most of my close staff know, so you don’t need to worry.”

Chanhee exhales in relief, his head drooping down into his arms. Kevin meets your gaze before quirking an eyebrow, and you shake your head, not wanting to indulge in his teasing.

“Okay,” Chanhee says after he’s calmed down, leaning into the couch, “what’s the plan?”

“Well, since this is our first time in public together, we can keep it simple,” you start, wincing when Kevin tugs on part of your hair a little too hard, “maybe holding hands, walking next to each other, maybe a hug if we’re up for it.”

Chanhee looks disgusted, and you honestly can’t even disagree with him. You’re not exactly happy about jumping straight into skin-to-skin contact with the guy you hate, but this is the bare minimum for a relationship and you intend to follow through.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you sigh. “You do know that we’re going to have to kiss at some point, right? This is probably the tamest we’ll get.”

“Hey, don’t haunt the poor guy,” Kevin says, pulling out a makeup palette. “Just take it slow, okay? It’ll be a while before you get to that stage.”

You disappear into your bedroom to change after Kevin is done with your styling, and Chanhee visibly relaxes once you’re gone. It’s not like he wants to murder you with every fiber of his being, but something about you puts him on edge, and he can’t tell what it is.

“Are you still stressed about the kissing thing, dude?” Kevin asks while packing up his supplies. “Y/N’s just saying that to scare you, so don’t worry. Besides, after you see them in this outfit, you might change your mind.”

Kevin leaves with a wink, and Chanhee is left to scramble for its implications. You can’t possibly look good enough to kiss, right? He’s seen you countless times, and the only time his resolve ever-so-slightly wavered was when he saw you in person about a week ago. That was because you were drunk, though, of course. Not because he was facing you, flesh to flesh, for the first time in his life.

His overthinking ceases though when you step out of your bedroom, and he can’t stop Kevin’s words from floating through his brain.

You’re beauty personified, he thinks, from the tips of your curled hair to the bottom of your glass footwear. The silver-length outfit you adorn is something to die for, heck, you are someone to die for, and Chanhee can’t even breathe because he just imagined you standing next to him and the room is suddenly very, very hot.

“Ready to go?” you ask, adjusting a couple of rings on your fingers.

Chanhee dumbly nods, now realizing why literally everyone is in love with you, and he stands abruptly. He follows you to the front like a puppy dog before you turn around and start giggling. He doesn’t even register you speaking because suddenly, your giggles aren’t annoying and all of your sounds are like songbirds from heaven.

“You forgot your blazer, silly. Here, I’ll get it.”

While you turn back around, walking to the sofa, Chanhee slaps himself. Gently, of course, because he doesn’t want to ruin his face before the red carpet, but just enough to remind himself of his position in this whole scheme. You’re a celebrity, obviously you look good, and he can’t lose his morals just because you look stunning after being dolled up.

You’re a celebrity and he’s a journalist. A journalist who gets paid to antagonize you. Realistically speaking, even just meeting you should have him seeing red. He should not of all things, be pretending to date you, and he definitely should not be reconsidering his life decisions after spending two hours with you.

He just has to get through these four weeks. You’ll be out of sight, out of mind before he even knows it.

“When the cameras start flashing, just look forward. Don’t ever look at them straight in the eye, otherwise, you’ll feel dizzy.”

Chanhee grumbles as you continue rambling, but you can’t find it within you to stop. You’ve never had a public relationship like this, especially with someone who’s not a celebrity, so the desire for perfection is getting to you.

Any small thing could fuck this up and not only ruin Chanhee’s career but yours too. What would the public think if they found out you were lying about a relationship? Heck, you wouldn’t be able to trust your own self after that, let alone the public.

“Y/N, it’ll be okay. It’s just handholding and a hug, right?”

“Yeah, but we need to look like we’re in love,” you huff, your head drooping as you play with your fingers in your lap.

You feel a hand cup the side of your chin, bringing you up to Chanhee’s gaze.

“Look at me,” he starts, thumbing your cheek, “we’ll be fine. Just stare into my eyes like this, and no one will ever doubt us.”

You don’t get to tell him that you might be believing it too with the way you can’t stop gazing at the twinkle in his eyes and the fondness in how they crease. You’ve met many gorgeous celebrities in your life, but not once have you ever felt your heart beat so heavily until this moment.

“We’re here,” Vernon interrupts from the front seat, breaking your intense gaze, “get ready.”

The flashing blinds you as soon as the car door opens, but you’re immune to the glares at this point. Chanhee, however, is not, so your only focus is being by his side until you walk inside the venue. You exit first, waiting until he steps out beside you before interlacing your fingers together and offering him a chaste smile, hoping it’ll calm his nerves.

He grips your hand tighter as you walk, and you both ignore the press shouting from around you. The screams seem extra prevalent today due to his presence, and you hope he isn’t feeling bombarded by the chaos around him. You focus on Chanhee, watching as he stares back at you to ground himself. You walk quickly in unison with him, counting your steps and smiling for the camera as you finally step inside the entryway.

“Are you okay?” you ask after you’re situated, having a few minutes of peace before you’re off to star on the red carpet. “I know that must’ve been a lot.”

“It’s fine. It’s over now. It was chaotic, but it helped to just focus on you.”

A twinge of heat flutters across your cheeks, but you pay no attention to it.

“I’m glad. Don’t worry, we don’t have any more red carpets in our schedule.”

He unlaces his fingers from yours, something you’d completely forgotten about, but you don’t have time to mull over the loss of his warmth before Vernon pushes you to the red carpet to get ready for the pictures. You take deep breaths, reveling in the mere seconds you get before the flashing starts again and you are simply an object for the camera. You pose, striking a big grin for the camera and remembering your media training. This is what you do best, being a celebrity, and suddenly you find comfort in this familiarity after all the turmoil you’ve been through the past couple of days. No Chanhee, no relationship, no headlines, just you and the camera like always.

However, you can’t stop your eyes from wandering when you get a break, watching Chanhee converse with Vernon. You let your daydreams drift, wondering how he would look like posing next to you for the camera, how he would laugh and answer questions about your relationship so giddily, or even how he’d stare into your soul like earlier before, bearing his heart for the taking.

You know that he won’t even meet your gaze after the four weeks are over, but you let yourself indulge in your imagination anyway. You’ve been touch-starved for so long, so it’s only natural that you have these thoughts about affection, right?

You walk back to Chanhee after you’re done, joining him and Vernon as you travel the venue. The place looks spectacular, with intricate chandeliers and a whole buffet of delicacies, and you make it a point in your mind to compliment the mastermind behind this all, Juyeon, when you see him.

Vernon leads you guys over to the food, piling the spring rolls on his plate until you glare at him to stop. Chanhee restrains laughter behind a mouth full of cupcakes, but even you have to agree with Vernon’s eagerness when you take a bite of the macadamia cookies. You’re on your fourth one when Juyeon saunters over to you, his goofy grin ever-so-present on his face.

“Y/N! Long time no see, right? I haven’t talked to you since my party months ago.”

“It’s been too long. I love the venue, by the way. You always outdo yourself.”

“Don’t talk to me about outdoing things. Look at you with your new boyfriend!”

You glance over at Chanhee, who’s busy trying to see how many spring rolls Vernon can fit in his mouth. You grimace, turning back to Juyeon. You know Vernon’s your manager, but sometimes it feels like you have to keep him on a leash instead of the other way around.

“Yeah it’s… a recent development, but I’m happy.”

“I’m surprised you got into a relationship in the first place. After you rejected me, I kinda thought you weren’t looking for love.”

Juyeon clutches his chest in fake agony, and you roll your eyes. Juyeon asked you out years ago when he was the director of your film, and he never fails to bring it up whenever he sees you. You still aren’t looking for love, of course, but your recent news is probably a shock to Juyeon and the many other people you’ve rejected over the years.

“I’m not incapable of love, Juyeon,” you sigh, looking back at Chanhee again, “I just needed to find the right person.”

The word love has never meant anything special to you, but when you look at Chanhee, you feel your heartstrings pull at your chest. Finally having a boyfriend, even if he’s fake, means you have the ability to love and be loved, and maybe you’ve been denying yourself happiness far too long for the wrong reasons.

As you wave Juyeon goodbye, sauntering over to Chanhee, you walk with a change in mindset. The situation you’re stuck in isn’t perfect, but you decide that it’s best to make the most out of it.

“Y/N, watch out!”

Suddenly, your whole world turns upside down, and you brace yourself as you fall backward, watching the twinkling of the chandeliers above you. You shut your eyes as a reflex, expecting the hardness of the wooden floor beneath you, but instead, you feel a strong hand supporting your back. You open your eyes to see Chanhee, but as his orbs bore into yours, all words tie on the tip of your tongue.

This close to him, you can see his faint eyeliner, the slight curve of his nose, and the barely visible mole on his top lips. It feels like the world is spinning still, but as Chanhee breathes, exhaling a soft puff of air, your gaze remains grounded only on him as he cradles you gently.

The sound of a camera startles you both, and Chanhee pulls you up, staring at Vernon. You smooth down your clothing, clearing your throat as you eye the culprit.

“What was that for?” you ask, throat slightly parched by what happened mere seconds ago.

“Whatever practice you guys did together before coming here definitely worked, because this picture definitely looks like you’re in love. I’m gonna leak it to a local magazine, so good job for today’s work.”

Your cheeks burn as he shows you the picture, and your gaze flits over to Chanhee. His expression is indiscernible, and you have the sudden urge to know exactly what’s running through his mind. Was he just as affected as you, or was this just a mere act of kindness?

The rational part of your brain hopes it’s the latter, but the heaviness of your heart might have different aspirations.

Your phone dings as you finish applying the last bits of your mascara, and you pad over to your couch, seeing Chanhee’s text message on the top of your screen.

Be there in five.

It’s been a week since Juyeon’s movie premiere, a week since your heart has practically gone haywire. You’re a celebrity, if anything, you’re the last person to be looking forward to a text, but you found yourself checking Chanhee’s chat every morning and being disappointed when nothing rolled in. Even when Vernon’s picture leaked and the internet blew up over your coupling, his message bar still remained dry and lifeless.

He didn’t have any reason to text you anyway, so you wonder why you always looked forward to one.

You were the one to reach out first, letting him know that you had a date scheduled for Saturday night according to Vernon’s schedule. A meeting once per week was mandatory, just to keep up the image, and today’s plan was a nice, fancy dinner at a restaurant.

Chanhee, like a true gentleman, offered to pick you up instantly after you’d sent him the message, and you let yourself feel elated for five seconds before you texted him the time and place. You don’t know why Chanhee reduces you to a middle school girl longing for her crush, but you suppose it’s just because you haven’t been on a proper date in so long.

You’re dressed in blue satin, a dress you’d had no real reason to wear until today, and you’ve tried your best to clean up without Kevin’s help. You send a quick picture to your stylist as you wait, asking for advice even though you know you always look good, but Kevin just sends you a string of heart emojis in return and tells you that you look perfect.

Three sharp knocks on the door indicate Chanhee’s presence, and you open the door. The words on your throat die down when you realize he’s wearing a similar blue satin to yours, and it only takes one flicker of your eyes to meet his for him to start laughing.

“Are you stalking me or something?” he teases, pulling out a bouquet of fresh flowers.

“What’s this for?” you ask, setting them on the vase inside.

“Vernon told me to. He said you always like getting flowers on a date.”

You haven’t been on a date in years, so you don’t know where Vernon got this information from, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. The arrangement of peonies, lilies, and daffodils looks stunning on the countertop, and you post a quick picture to your Instagram story before heading out with Chanhee.

“Do you want the aux?” he asks when you’ve situated yourselves in his car.

The wind blows freely as he drives, the night sky twinkling through Chanhee’s open convertible. The rich red color of his Toyota Solara stands out against the deepness of the blackness around you two, but you can only focus on Chanhee’s side profile and the glittering earrings he’s wearing. Up until this point, you’ve only ever been in spaces you were familiar with. Seeing Chanhee in his own car is a completely different atmosphere for you, and you’re not sure how it makes you feel.

“I’m good. Play whatever you like,” you reply, truly interested to see what type of music he listens to.

Paris in the Rain drifts through the speakers, and you have to fight back a smile at the tune. Of course he would play this song on a night drive, judging by its mellow atmospheric feel, but you’re not mad about it.

“Why did you choose this restaurant?” he continues after the song settles, looking over at you when he pulls to a stop in front of a red light.

You have to recenter your thoughts to answer him, bringing your vision back from how ethereal he looks against the red tones of the stoplight.

“It’s been on my list for a while,” you admit honestly. “It’s also not super high scale, so someone will definitely notice us being there.”

Chanhee nods before quieting down as the red light fades into green. You’ve noticed that Chanhee tends to sit in silence when he’s with you, not interacting as much as he had with Vernon at the premiere. You wonder if he’s just naturally silent and hit it off with Vernon or maybe if he’s just hates you.

“Are you always this quiet?” you voice when he slows down due to traffic, not wanting him to feel alienated by the question.

“Ah, not really,” he says, scratching his head, “I just didn’t know if you were comfortable with me talking since we’re technically just coworkers.”

“Oh,” you voice, not expecting his admission.

You didn’t foresee him being so considerate of your feelings, enough to stop talking completely, and the thought warms your heart. Maybe he’s not such a bad person after all, you think, staring at him expectantly.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have admitted that,” he expresses. “I can go back to sitting in silence.”

“No!” you exclaim, and he looks over at you with slight alarm, “I mean, it’s fine. You talking is fine. You don’t need to restrict yourself from speaking just because we’re in a work setting. I don’t mind you talking.”

His shoulders relax as he steps on the gas, maneuvering through the gaps of the traffic that’s slowly clearing.

“That’s good,” he mutters, flicking on his blinker, “cause otherwise, this would’ve been a very awkward dinner date.”

You fight back a smile as he pulls up to the restaurant, and you don’t even have a chance to open your own door before he’s unlocking it for you. You thank him politely before walking inside, side by side with Chanhee. You follow the receptionist to your table once she gets your section cleared, and you’re offered complimentary chips and salsa as you wait for your food to arrive.

“You said this place was not ‘super high scale’?” Chanhee questions, looking around at the décor.

Okay, so maybe it is a little bit classy. The mediterranean themed restaurant has a cozy interior, and you’re currently sitting on wicker chairs by a huge glass window. The setting feels very exposed, as if you truly are sitting outside with the stars hanging over your heads. Subtle things about the place remind you that it’s elegant, such as the intricate menus and the tons of cutlery that sits next to you, but you hoped that it was something more comfortable for Chanhee to acclimate to.

“Why, is it too much?” you ask, picking up a chip.

“It’s not, but this is definitely fancy in my world.”

You smile, watching Chanhee be starstruck by his surroundings.

“Just because I’m famous now doesn’t mean I always was,” you start, “before I got my big break, my version of fancy was a dine-in restaurant.”

He laughs, relaxing a little.

“I didn’t know we were so similar. I just always assumed you were a nepo baby or something like that.”

“Just because you hate me doesn’t mean I’m privileged. I worked hard to get here, you know.”

Chanhee nods as your waiter brings out your food, and the two of you immediately dig in. The appealing smells make your stomach hungrier than usual, and it takes a good few minutes for you to settle your appetite before you start conversing with Chanhee.

Now that the awkwardness is gone and that you have a simple understanding of each other, talking with him is easy. Putting aside all the hatred that’s spewed up these past few months, you find out that Chanhee is actually an amiable person, someone you could’ve seen yourself being friends with if you two weren’t so different. He shares stories about growing up and his family in exchange for yours, and you have to clutch your stomach in laughter when he slips in a joke that matches your taste exactly.

Being with Chanhee is natural, so much that you wish you had met him under different circumstances. In addition to being a friendly person, he’s also a gentleman, from the way he slips his card under the menu without you noticing (you definitely scolded him for it later) and opens the car door whenever you get in and out. As he walks you up to your apartment, you thank him honestly for tonight, regretting that your time together is already over for the day.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers suddenly when you’re outside your door. “I’ve written so much shit about you without being an honest judge of your character.”

“It’s okay, Chanhee. This is what you do for a living, I get it.”

“No, you deserve an apology. You’re an amazing actor and an even better human being. You didn’t deserve a single word I wrote about you.”

You’re not tipsy this time around, but you pull him into a hug anyway. This time, you actually mean it though, and you try to disregard the loss of warmth when he pulls away after a few moments.

“Thank you for tonight,” you murmur, stepping into your apartment. “See you next week.”

He smiles, and suddenly, the room is filled with sunshine.

“No, thank you. See you soon.”

You woke up the next morning with a text from Chanhee. The texts have not stopped coming in ever since you responded, as if you’ve opened the floodgates of interaction. You wish he’d texted you sooner, because even though he bombards you with everything in the world from funny memes to just crying about his day, you love returning the same energy.

Where are you rn, a text flies in, and you smile when you see who it’s from.

on set. wbu?

Driving to somewhere special!

oooh spill??

I’ll let you know after I get there

You frown, not so pleased with his secrecy. You hate secrets, and so does Chanhee, so why is he indulging in one right now?

You don’t have time to mull over it as your director calls you back over, ready to continue with the shot. Your costar Younghoon stands before you, smiling as his assistant fixes up his hair before clearing his throat.

“Ready for this scene? It’s a lot,” he comments, reading over the script one more time.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh, watching for your director’s call.

The line starts rolling a few seconds later, and you immediately straighten your posture, preparing yourself for the scene.

“Hey,” you whisper, “what was so wrong about what I did?”

He laughs bitterly, pointing to the papers on the desk beside him.

“What was so wrong? You ruined my entire career!”

The papers fly around you as he wipes them off the desk in one sweep, and tears well up in your eyes once you look at his angry gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you plead, clutching onto his arm, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen, I swear—”

“You didn’t know?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement, “you’re the editor for the goddamn newspaper! Of course you fucking knew this was going to happen!”

He rips his wrist from your fingers, inching away from you.

“It’s my job to write the news, darling. You have to understand—” you cry, dropping to the ground.

The papers shift around you, and you watch your tears drip onto the headlines.

“We’re done,” he utters, one final phrase before he rips off his ring, throwing it by your feet. “Never speak to me again.”

“And cut!” your director shouts, “good work guys. Take 30.”

Younghoon helps you up from the ground, and you whisper gratitude before brushing off your ankles. The wooden floor was uncomfortable to kneel on, but you’re grateful that it was only for a short period of time.

“Y/N!” you hear from the other end of the room, and you peek over Younghoon’s broad shoulders to see a familiar figure waving.

“Chanhee?” you gasp, walking over to him once he register his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Surprise?” he replies, giving you the bouqet of flowers he was holding. “I wanted to be a good boyfriend and surprise you on set.”

“Thank you,” you reply, grabbing the flowers from his hands before leaning in closer, “did Vernon put you up to this?”

“Um…” he starts, scratching the back of his head, “yeah, definitely. It’s the middle of the week, so why else would I be here?”

You roll your eyes, leaning back before you reach for his arm, squeezing it tightly.

“Thank you, regardless. No one’s ever visited me on set before like this. Even Vernon.”

“Really?” he asks, sounding surprised, “I thought you would have a lot of people around you like that.”

“I have acquaintances, but they’re all busy too. The most someone’s ever done for me is send me a food truck, and that was from my own mother.”

“Well, I’ll be here from now on, then.”

You feel a pang in your chest, and Chanhee must notice the shift in the atmosphere too because he clears his throat. You both know that this arrangement is already halfway over, so why do Chanhee’s words feel so comfortable, as if you both were in a regular relationship from the very beginning?

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Y/N? Is this the boyfriend?” Younghoon interrupts, walking up from behind with an outstretched arm. “Hey, I’m Younghoon, the costar. Nice to meet you, man.”

Chanhee smiles, plastering a smile to cover his previous frown before taking Younghoon’s hand in his, shaking it firmly.

“Nice to meet you too. Y/N’s been telling me about you, so it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Younghoon laughs, removing his hand from Chanhee’s grip.

“Yeah, it’s surreal working on this movie. It’s kinda funny how Chanhee’s a journalist because Y/N plays one in this movie too.”

Chanhee turns to you, surprised by this new piece of information. You’ve been pretty lowkey about the role, not wanting to tell anyone until the movie wrapped up filming, but Younghoon seems to trust Chanhee with the information because he’s your boyfriend.

“Really? I didn’t know.”

You nod in confirmation, grinning slightly.

“Yeah, we just finished up a heavy argument scene before you arrived. Wanna see the set?”

You and Younghoon parade Chanhee around, introducing him to other actors and cast on the set working diligently. Chanhee is in awe, starstruck by the unfamiliar environment and you can’t really blame him. The movie industry in and of itself is a dream, and witnessing it for the first time is probably exhilarating for him.

After your break wraps up, you lead Chanhee out, standing by the front of the garage. He still has stars in his eyes, and you have to nudge his shoulder twice before he pays attention to you.

“Sorry, I just… I wanted to be a director once, so seeing this all is kind of a dream come true.”

Your eyes widen. Whatever you were expecting to come out of his mouth was not even close to what he just said, and you’re still processing his words when you voice your confusion.

“Yeah, that’s how I learned writing and photography. I used to write screenplays and direct them, but I never made it big like I wanted to. Luckily, Sangyeon took me in when I was struggling, and that’s the only reason I have a job today.”

Suddenly, you know nothing about Chanhee. If events had played out a little differently, Chanhee could be standing right in front of you, not as a fake boyfriend but as a director. You wouldn’t be from two separate worlds anymore, and the thought is killing you.

“Do you still direct?” you ask uncertainly, unsure of what to even say after his confession.

“Nah, not anymore. I help my friends out with short films sometimes, but that’s about it.”

“If you ever want to get back into directing, I can help you out.”

Chanhee looks like his breath has been stolen away, staring at you dumbly.

“I don’t know if I can give you a position directly, but I can definitely link you up with fellow directors of mine and see if there are any film festivals looking for submissions.”

“Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely, “I don’t have an answer for you right now, but what you just said means the world to me.”

Chanhee does the unexpected, wrapping you in a hug this time around. It’s meaningful and tender, and he burrows himself into you as he clutches your shoulders tightly, never wanting to let go. The same shoulders that he once tried to pry your hands off are now encircling you, and you smile against his cheek.

“It’s no problem,” you voice honestly, pulling back to look at him. “I’m always here for you, just remember that.”

You told him the last date would be a little different, but seriously, Chanhee was not expecting a van.

You wave from the front seat, putting aside your phone as he scrambles into the front seat. Chanhee quirks an eyebrow at you, urging you to spill, and you take in a deep breath as you struggle to get the words out.

“So… um, you know how celebrity couples usually have pictures of them making out in their cars, right?”

Chanhee stares at you incredulously, and you grimace, biting your lip.

“I know it sounds bad, but it was Vernon’s idea, I promise! We just need to kiss a couple of times for the pictures, that’s it. It can’t be too bad, right?”

“Y/N,” Chanhee sighs, massaging his temples, “are you crazy? We haven’t even kissed once before this.”

“Well, now is a good time to start, right?” you ask sheepishly, “Look, Vernon paid some guys to photograph us, so they’ll be here any time now. Let’s just get this over with.”

Before he can even blink, you clamber over into his lap, resting your legs on either side of his and holding onto his shoulders. Chanhee gulps, too loudly for the silence that settles between you two, and he’s close enough to you that he can feel your heartbeat thumping wildly.

Good to know that you’re just as affected as him too.

You guide his arms around your waist, securing them tightly before looking back up at Chanhee. The last time he’s ever seen you this close is from when he saved you from falling, and somewhere in the depths of his heart, he admits to himself how much he actually missed it. The fluttering of your lashes, the indents of your mouth, and the sliver of your jawline are all something he wants to commit to memory, to burn into his mind before he loses you.

Chanhee would write a whole article just about your lips if he had to.

“Ready?” you ask, so close that he can feel your breath on his.

He nods, and before he can even lick his lips, you lean in, meeting him halfway with yours.

Chanhee feels like he’s in oblivion, completely succumbing to the darkness that you’ve slowly been feeding him with. You’re like poison, and as he slots his lips against yours, he can’t get enough. You’re killing him with the way you pull him in closer, imperceptibly close as if you two aren’t practically molded together already, and as Chanhee uses one of his arms to tilt your neck, you reciprocate with just as much fervor.

You pull back, catching your breath and your chest heaving, but it takes Chanhee only one glance at your swollen lips before pulling you back in again. He’s addicted to the way your tongue swipes across his entrance, the way you shiver as he gently tugs your bottom lip between your lips, and the way you clutch onto his hair as the two of you exchange life through your kisses.

“Just a couple, baby?” he whispers, pecking down the side of your face, “I can give you a lot more than that.”

He tugs your sleeve down as you whine, tilting your head to give him better access to the area. He nips and sucks at your collarbone, biting hard enough to bruise in spots that you’ll probably scold him for later. He wants them to be deep enough, red enough that you won’t even be able to cover them so the whole world will know you’re his, and he knows it’s well worth it with the way you groan as he keeps going.

“I wish could stay like this forever,” you gasp, preening away when he nips behind your earlobe. “I never want to let you go. My boyfriend. Mine. Forever.”

He hums in agreement, pressing a kiss to your neck before he stops. You whimper, angry at him for pausing his ministrations, but as he processes your words, the hazy fog he was in moments prior fades away, and all that is left is the consequences of his actions.

“What’s wrong?” you ask when you realize he’s stopped completely.

Chanhee is shaking from underneath you, glassy-eyed, and his fingers tremble as he removes them from your body.

“Boyfriend,” he dumbly repeats, and you nod before realizing the mistake you made.

“Chanhee, I—”

“Get off me. Please.”

You stare at him incredulously, and when he doesn’t make any move to take back his words, you climb off him and into the seat next to you.

“This is all fake. Why do I keep forgetting that?”

He laughs bitterly, watching as your face morphs into a frown. How could he be so careless, to lose himself in you when this is all clearly just an act?

“Chanhee, I know this was planned, but the way I kissed you was definitely not fake.”

You sound hurt, and if he was in a better headspace, he would be calmer with his words, but the weight of what just happened is sinking down on him hard. Suddenly, he needs to leave, to never see you again and to not spend any more time in this stupid, suffocating van. He opens the door, climbing out before shutting it behind him firmly, breathing in heavily as he staggers away from the vehicle.

“Chanhee,” you cry, running up behind him and grabbing onto his wrist, “you don’t understand!”

“Then help me understand!”

“I like you,” you whisper, and suddenly, his whole world shatters.

“Of course you like me,” he laughs, running a hand over his face. “Do you not realize that you have an insane amount of privilege to be saying that? I can’t even like you in return because my career hinges on hating you! Don’t you get it, Y/N?”

You’re full on sobbing now, observing as he wrenches your hand away from his. Your fingers fall limply to your side and all you can do is watch as he walks away, shaking his head.

“Don’t contact me. I never want to see you again. Fuck you, for real, for playing with my feelings.”

You can only stare as the love of your life walks away, leaving your universe in shambles.

Unfortunately, just because you encountered the worst breakup of your life does not mean the world stops moving.

You’re at another after party, one that you’d been looking forward to for months because it would finally mean you’d get to catch up with some of your old costars. However, after the chaos that had befallen you earlier this week, going to some stupid nightclub was the last thing on your mind.

Really, you’re only here because Vernon is sick and tired of you wallowing in your misery. He thinks that you’ll be getting a change of scenery by being here, but the only thing you’ve been getting is shots filled with the strongest alcohol the bar can offer. Your one goal is to successfully forget about the black-haired man that ruined your life, and your plan is effective until the bartender stops you from getting another round and tells you to get some fresh air.

You grumble as you stumble out of the bar, finding a home on the gray sidewalk in front of it. Your sequined outfit digs into your skin as you sit down, but in your drunken stupor, you can’t find it within yourself to care. You’re lucky enough that this is a nicer venue, because there’s no one around to bother you to find another spot. It’s just you and your thoughts, and you can’t tell if that’s more dangerous or not.

Your first order of business is to pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent contacts. You have half a mind to call Vernon, to curse him out from condemning you to the hell that is this place, but instead your finger hovers over a familiar contact.

You are so going to hate yourself when you wake up.

The line rings, once, twice, thrice, and just as you’re about to cut the call, a voice answers from the other side.

“Y/N, it’s three in the morning. I thought I told you not to contact me,” Chanhee whispers groggily.

“Well too bad! You’re the one that said all that shit to me and left, so how unfair is it that I don’t get my turn?”

The line goes silent before Chanhee scoffs, and you can hear the bedsheets rustle around him as he gets up.

“Are you drunk?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you answer, giggling from how similar this is to when you first met him.

“Where are you right now?”

“Outside a nightclub,” you sing, holding your phone out behind you so he can hear the EDM music from inside a little better.

“Send me your location.”

“Nope! I don’t owe you anything, you piece of shit!”

“Y/N, wait—”

You cut the call, laughing as Chanhee’s name disappears on your screen. He calls again, neverendingly, but you never once pick up, feeling glee from how he’s the one chasing after you now.

You play Candy Crush on your phone until a car screeches beside you, and you scoff as you recognize the familiar red Toyota Solara pulls up beside you. You’ve sobered up by now, but you still hate him just as much.

“Hell no,” you whisper, getting up as Chanhee steps out. You try to run, but the highness of your shoes make it hard for you to run properly, and you stumble as attempt to escape.

“Y/N, look, I’m just going to drop you off at home, okay?”

You stop in your tracks, turning around to see Chanhee behind you with his hands stuffed in his hoodie. You note the eyebags on his face and his chapped lips before speaking to him with a softer tone, grateful that even if he despised you, he didn’t make an attempt to grab onto your wrist and coerce you into something you didn’t want.

“How do I know you won’t kidnap me?” you ask, folding your arms over one another.

“I asked Vernon for your location. If you go missing, he’ll know it was my fault.”

You grumble, staring at him angrily before walking towards his car. He opens the door for you, but you stick your tongue out at him and find a spot in the backseat instead.

The ride is silent, but you feel him watching you through the rearview mirror as he drives. Usually, you don’t mind his silence, but now the stillness is bleak and uncomfortable, just like his presence near you.

“Why did you call me?” he asks, and it takes you a moment to register it because of how intensely you’d been ignoring him.

“I wanted to cuss you out.”

“Okay, so cuss me out then.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple.

“You know what your problem is, Chanhee? You’re self-centered. You think everything is about yourself, even down to our breakup. Who are you to even say things about my privilege when you know damn well how hard I worked to get here? Do you think I’m unaware how my feelings will affect your career? Hell, Chanhee, I literally told you I could help you find another job! I did so much for you to protect you, to support you, all for you to throw it away because you’re scared of the stupid future.”

“Y/N, I—”

“Let me finish. I love you for who you are. Even if we were destined to be opposites, I still found a way to fall in love with you. I was able to love you despite all that you have written about me in the past, so why can’t you love me for the person I am today?”

He pulls up to the front of your apartment, and you clamber out, not wanting to see his face anymore. The rain falls heavily as you step into the lobby, and Chanhee follows suit, shrugging the droplets off his jacket.

“Let me follow you up,” he asks.

You shake your head, but he trails you into the elevator anyway, watching as you press the button for your floor. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re not in the mood, putting up a palm in front of him.

“Save it. I said what I needed to say. I might be drunk but my words are true. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say in return.”

Despite your words, you let him into your apartment anyway, throwing a towel at him so he can dry off. He pats his hair dry, wiping his glasses against the fabric, and suddenly you’re reminded of how devilishly handsome he is. You shake your thoughts off, chalking it down to good taste in men before wiping down your neck.

The thunder booms outside, startling you as your towel falls to the ground. When you pick it up, Chanhee stares at you, an indiscernible expression on his face.

“Thanks for the towel. I better get going.”

He spins on his heel to leave as the storm crackles, and against your better judgement, you call out for him to stop.

“It’s storming outside. You can’t drive in this weather.”

“What are you suggesting?” he asks, turning back around to meet your gaze.

“You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Chanhee laughs, as if your idea is so atrocious he can’t even fathom it.

“You’re funny. I’ll just drive home, don’t worry.”

“Chanhee, I’m being serious. I don’t want you to die, for god’s sake.”

Maybe he registered the concern in your voice because he exhales, contemplating in his head if this is a good idea or not. The loud thunderclap outside has him reconsidering, and soon enough, he shakes his head in agreement.

“Alright, but you have to sleep on the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Chanhee, I’m not fucking arguing with you. You know what? We can both take the bed if it makes you happy. A pillow between us should work.”

Before Chanhee can even respond, you’re walking into the bedroom, flicking on the light. You grab your pajamas from the closet and change in your bathroom, slipping into the sheets quickly once you’re done. Chanhee follows suit, taking the right side of the bed and placing a pillow between you two for added measure.

“Thank you,” he whispers after a few moments of silence. “I’ll be gone in the morning before you know it.”

“No need,” you grumble, shoving your face into the pillows, “just don’t roll over to my side, okay?”

He hums in agreement, and he watches as your eyes flutter shut.

“Good night, Y/N.”

You’re far too asleep to even respond.

You wake up to the sound of your head pounding in your ears. You grumble, shifting around before you open your eyes, expecting to see empty sheets, but instead you see a man with a very familiar face.

You as the events of last night rush back to you, and you hold yourself back from groaning as you recollect your thoughts. You should’ve just let him leave when he wanted to, but you didn’t, and now you have to deal with his beautiful bare face and his deep morning voice as if you haven’t fallen enough for him already.

You don’t register his eyes fluttering awake until he pokes your side. You shake, startled by his actions, and he tries to hold back a smile.

“Good morning. Sorry I overslept.”

“It’s okay. I won’t be nice enough to let you stay for breakfast though.”

“Wait,” he whispers, clutching onto your arm as you attempt to get out of the bed, “can I say something?”

You nod, and his arms falls back on the bed as he sits up, clearing his throat.

“You were right. I was selfish, and the words I said that day were extremely uncalled for. They were useless too, because if I had just expressed my feelings to you, we wouldn’t have needed to have this conversation now.”

You cock your head, confused at what he’s trying to imply. He takes in a deep breath, as if he’s preparing himself to say something.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much that it hurts to breathe when I think of you. I love you so much that I’m willing to quit my career just to be by your side. I was scared then of ending up on the streets like I did in the past, but I was stupid enough to not trust your words when you said you would help me. I didn’t even like that job anyway, so I was an idiot for trying to fight for something I would eventually end up leaving myself.”

“Chanhee, you’re not—”

“No, I am stupid. And selfish. And self-centered. But I am also just Choi Chanhee, the Choi Chanhee who is irrevocably and utterly in love with you, and even though I can imagine a future where I won’t be working for Sangyeon, I cannot imagine a future without you by my side. I know you deserve better, but I’m begging you to just give me one chance to rectify my mistakes. We can take it slow and not rush things like we did in our four weeks. We can go on silly restaurant dates and I’ll practice getting used to the lights at red carpets. I’ll visit you on set every day with flowers and I’ll rent out five billion vans for us to make out in. I’ll do all this and even more because you deserve it, and because I love you. Will you please let me have one chance to make this fake relationship into a real one?”

You’re kissing him before he can even respond, letting him press you against the bed. He kisses you like he’s been starved, inhaling you and memorizing every inch of your presence as if you’ll let go of him again. Like before, you’re not restricted by the millions of voices against you and Chanhee, and as he lets himself go, you follow suit, dragging him down under until you’re writhing against him, begging for more.

“I love you,” he whispers when he kisses down your collarbone, “I love you,” he whispers when your clothes join the ground, “I love you,” he whispers when you shake against his fingers and mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers one last time, cradling you gently as he becomes one with you. “I’ll never let you go. Never again.”

As you lay against him, bare skin to bare skin, you trace the tips of his hair as you smile. You don’t know what the future holds for you two, but there’s one thing you’re certain of as you press another kiss to his mouth.

"I love you. Even if the world caves in, it’ll be you that I lie with. Endlessly, until my last dying breath.”

This time around, you take things slow, not restricted anymore any more by four weeks, four months, not even four years. You have the entirety of your lifetime to spend with him, and you intend on using every single bit of it.

First, however, you let him make it up to you. Just because you bared your soul to him, figuratively and literally, after his apology doesn't mean you've completely forgiven him.

Chanhee doesn't disappoint though, reminding you every single day why he deserved the second chance you gave him. Once upon a time, he called you privileged, and that's exactly what you are now for having such a sweet boyfriend. One that doesn't leave the vase on your countertop empty by gifting you fresh flowers, one that always opens the door for you when he takes you on apology dates, one that sits with you in silence when you want to and one that chatters just as much as you do when you can't shut your mouth.

He visits you on set when he can despite his busy schedule as an assistant director. Surprisingly, you played no part in this, just the source of his determination when he finally decided to give the movie industry a chance again and bagged a job with none other than your close friend Juyeon. He surprises you for late-night drives and lets you have the aux even without you asking for it. He accompanies you to movie premieres despite hating the cameras and if you ever get asked questions that you don't particularly like, he'll glare at the reporters until they shoo away.

And god, the kisses. If the world counted kisses as an apology, Chanhee would be the CEO. Every slot of his lips against yours is like an unwritten confession from him to you, and every purse of his lips is a ballad from the depths of his heart. He kisses you for trivial things, like when you finally get that one specific line right as you're practicing for a script or when he's pecking you against the makeup trailer walls as he wishes you a successful day at work. He kisses you in the earliest of mornings, murmuring sweetness with his tongue against your hot skin, and he kisses you in the depths of the night, trailing his fingers down as you gasp against his mouth and exchange breaths through each swipe of his tongue.

Even after you do end up accepting his apology, he doesn't stop showering you with the affection you deserve. On nights you're feeling particularly insecure, Chanhee beats himself up and vows to never make you feel those emotions again, waking up the next morning to prove exactly why you're worth it. He takes care of you gently, the gentlest lover you've ever seen. He's the personification of a comfortable morning, the desire to stay in bed despite all the things you have going on. You never want to leave, forgetting all reason and staying in his embrace forever.

You're by his side when his first cinema blows up, when his first screenplay wins an award, when he gets his first nomination for directing, and today when he's on stage with an Academy Award in his hand and a smile you'll remember for ages.

You watch the twinkling in his eyes when he thanks his cast and crew, holding onto his assistant director tightly as he expresses his gratitude. What takes your breath away, however, is when he turns to you in the audience and whispers a confession that you'll never forget in your lifetime.

"And lastly, thank you, you know who you are, for being the best I could ever imagine. I will never regret the moment by the pond where you hugged me, the one that changed the trajectory of our lives forever. If anything, you deserve this award more than me. I love you, my Y/N."

You smile as the audience erupts in cheers, but as his assistant director hugs him on stage, his eyes only bore into yours.

"I love you too," you mouth back, watching as he grins when he recognizes your words.

"Forever and always."

[yo-yo-yeonkai]

WHAT STANDS BETWEEN ME AND A WALL - HUENING KAI - SFW

Kai x reader

Genre: fluff

Warning list: themes of couples argument, established relationship, pet names (sweetheart, sweetie), not proof read

Word count: 645

Summary: Kai loves you very much, but he also loves his plushies… can you love Kai and his plushies?

Kai often got protective… not of you, but of his plushies. You may be his beloved lover, but they were his precious children, and there was definitely a hierarchy to this dynamic. You could touch them only if he was watching, hug them only if he allowed, and if you ever sat on one or threw one of the bed, oh lord, run.

They were sat in a line, taking up plenty of room on the bed. You thought maybe you could move one just to have more room to sleep but when Kai reached his arm over you and noticed that he couldn’t feel the plushie that was meant to be there he was quick to sit up. He turned on his bedside lamp with a flick and peered over your half asleep form. You tried to pull him back down to be your pillow once again, but instead of letting your hands reach him he grasped them in his own and pushed them back down. “(Y/N), where is my baby” he questioned, each word sounding like a separate sentence. You hadn’t failed to notice that he used your name, Kai NEVER used your name, he always called you some term of endearment: baby, sweetheart, sweetie, love. But never your name, unless he was negative Kai.

You huffed “I don’t know, I’m trying to sleep. Please Kai just lie back down”… that sentence was mistake number two, the first was moving the plushie in the first place. And where had you even put it? You had slowly pushed and, once it was out of hand reach, kicked it down the bed. It was now tucked under the cover, a small bulge far beyond where your feet would reach. He’d know you’d done it on purpose if he found it.

His bottom lip jutted out as he looked down at you “tell me where it is… it’ll get lonely without me” he whined, realising his mad attitude wasn’t working on you. You sighed, slowly trying to pull it back up with your feet and keeping eye contact with Kai as you did. “I know you love them very much Sweetheart, and I do too, they are so cute. But don’t you think we’d have more room on the bed if you got them a shelf or even a plushie hammock” you suggested, trying to appease to him. He huffed “but then they will be cold and lonely. How would you feel if I got you a hammock?”. He was completely ridiculous (and cute).

You finally reached for the plushie and pushed it towards his chest, “here fucking take it, I’ll just sleep with your plushies instead of you, seeing as you want me in a hammock anyways...” You whined turning to face them, back turned to Kai.

He reached over you and placed the lost plushie back where it belonged. His hand then met your chin, and he tilted your face back towards him and he leant forward “I love you Sweetie… don’t get confused, if I got you a hammock I’d have to join you in it, I don’t like being away from you. I know to you I might be silly sometimes, but we can come up with a solution in the morning. For now just let me hold you” he whispered, then leant in and gave you a small but meaningful kiss.

All frustration and sadness disappeared, like Kai was the cure you needed. His silliness was charming to you, even now, squished between him and a wall of plushies, you had no regrets in saying yes to being his partner. You’d let Kai leave his plushies the way they are, even he knew that. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. It’s a good thing Kai is the love of your life, because for him, you can learn to love his plushies.