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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand her horizons, gets her first tattoo from Simon. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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shrenvents · 8 months ago

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Spellbound

Warnings: Minors dni, smut, oral, cunnilingus, unprotected, fluff, some violence, biting

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Witch reader

Summary: You're a witch with a specific skill set, one that has intrigued a certain hybrid.

Word count: 2.7k

...

Voodoo. Magic. Impulse. Obsession.

She was his newest fascination.

He heard her laughter cracking through the walls of the barren bar before it cut short. Klaus observed how the sunlight blazed across her, poorly parked, car. His lips slanted in mild amusement. He told himself, that’s all it was, all she was. Mild amusement for an immortal. Though, something felt different.

He strutted into the place, head hung high as he scanned the bare vicinity. His eyes halted on a man behind the bar, rinsing glass cups. The bartender's eyes adverted from Klaus, the second he caught his stare. The man's nerves were duly noted as Klaus approached him.

“I’ll have a glass of your finest red,” Klaus spoke artfully, with a fake smile plastered on his face. The worker shuddered. “Ug- we’re not serving right now.”

“No worries mate,” his mellifluous voice paused. “The red I fancy isn’t something I’d find on your menu.” The man's gaze shot up to Klaus’s. His lips trembled as Klaus continued his jest. “Unless you intend to provide me with a bite, I suggest you tell me where she’s hidden.” Klaus’s threat echoed through the building, till silence took its place.

Suddenly, the sound of a back door, opening and slamming shut jolted Klaus away from the bartender. He instantly raced to the door, ripping it open. He watched as her frame scattered into her rusted car. He growled. There was no way he'd let her escape once again...

Your body was convulsing with anxiety. Who were you to know a little magic truce with the “other side,” would have a certain hybrid on your front doorstep. It didn’t help when you levitated everything in your apartment at him, including your freshly made spaghetti with bolognese. It was to be expected, that would piss him off...

Yanking the car door shut, you forced the key in and started the engine.

“Where are we headed this time darling?”

“Ahhh!” You screamed, snapping your head to the uninvited passenger. Klaus sat leisurely beside you, and you swear your life flashed before your eyes. “I must say, I enjoyed our time in Chicago. Perhaps San Fran may be the next best thing, love.” His smug face adorned your features, absorbing the way your face contorted in both fear and frustration.

“Jesus,” you huff, and Klaus’s smirk grows. “As much as I love the idea, somehow becoming your personal chauffeur isn’t that appealing.” Klaus chuckles lowly, leaning in, more and more.

“Well, if you hadn’t decided to run off, you crafty little thing," he drawls sweetly, "We wouldn’t have the pleasure.”

“If you weren’t trying to kill me, maybe I’d stick around.” Klaus’s brows twist like he's appalled by your words. “Who said I was interested in killing you?”

“You- I- then, what do you want?” You stammer. Klaus went quiet. You watched as his expression goes blank, before he acts as though he was in deep thought. Then, his mouth gaped in 'awe,' as if the answer suddenly came to him. “Your talents of course.”

“My talents.” You repeat, baffled.

“Yes, do keep up, my dear.”

“Why? You could have any witch at your disposal, at a moment's notice.”

The corner of his lips elevate once more. “I’m flattered.”

He’s become so close now, you feel his breath, and you try not to shiver as it grazes your neck. He, on the other hand, basks in your scent.

“But, unlike my other witches, you have a gift,” he muses. “Your connection with the dead is something to behold, and something I crave.”

After a prolonged silence, you speak. “If I help you with whatever," you move further into your seat, "When it comes to an end, you’ll let me walk away, unscathed?” Your brow quirks, and with every fibre of your being, you manage to maintain eye contact. “Yes, you have my word.” Klaus’s expression went stoic, holding an unflinching seriousness that made your heart rate stutter. And strangely, you knew you could trust him.

That's how you ended up as his lackey. For the past 5 weeks, you were at his beck and call as he tormented humans, werewolves, and vampires alike.

Like any other day, your conscious is eating away at you, as you call upon another ancestor of those he plagues. Today though, you finally broke. He had been cruelly punishing a guy for hours, as you questioned his late brother through the veil.

“That’s enough!” Klaus’s eyes dart to yours, and his angry appearance softens. Instinctively, he grips your forearm and drags you out of the motel room.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

“What's wrong is that I’m tired, and his brother is telling me jack shit about those ‘hunters.’” You huff, closing your eyes.

Klaus firmly presses himself stock-still, resisting every urge that wishes to devour you, as you naively allow him to hold you so close, let your guard down, and close your eyes. Such an urge that has only worsened, and become insatiable since you started your venture together…

“Love, why don’t you grab a bite from the cafe across the street, while I fill up the car's tank?” He says heartfeltly, "That way we both can have a break."

Your eyes flutter open, and you nearly tremble at the gentle look that flickers in his gaze. However, his body language, which clutches you tightly, suggests he is anything but. “Okay.”

After five minutes alone in a booth, you gather up the last of the courage you were trying to dispel. Now, heading back to the rented room, to release the hostage. Stupid, very stupid, you think. But you can’t help it.

When you enter the room, the door slowly creaks shut, and shadows engulf you. It’s too quiet, and you can’t see the hostage. Unease fills your system, and you begin to regret this decision. That impending regret soon became alarms going off, when the captive grabs your torso, roughly caging your arms. His grip is inescapable, and when you try to scream, his free hand covers your mouth.

“You fucking bitch,” he murmurs with disgust, and you wince. “How about I leave you bleeding out here, all laid out for you bloodthirsty master.” The man crackles with humourless laughter. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

While his venomous words made you cower, you relentlessly struggle against him, fighting with all that you could muster. Unfortunately, your captor was a werewolf, and far too strong for you to at least break free, to cast a spell.

He muffles Klaus’s name with his palm, and tears prick your eyes. Even after the numerous times you’d bicker and argue, he was still the first person who came to mind, who you hopelessly called out to.

The man began lifting your body towards the door, urgently turning the knob. Just as the outside light cuts into your vision, you're wrenched from him, pulled into a powerful embrace. With ease, Klaus’s arms carry you away, swiftly placing you in the backseat of your car, locked safely inside.

His figure then disappears just as quickly, and you hear your aggressor's voice wail in pain. Shaking, you curl over yourself, covering both ears pathetically.

After what feels like an eternity, two large hands cup your tear-stained cheeks, bringing you out of your shell. He quiets you, as he slides inside the vehicle, smoothly pulling you onto his lap. One of his arms supports your back, while the other strokes your hair. Calming you down, he mutters things like: 'Everything’s fine now love,' 'I’m here,' 'I’ll take care of you...'

“I’ve never felt so helpless,” you mumble.

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could've done to stop a werewolf, especially when a full moon draws near,” he soothes. You press your cheek further into his broad chest. “Though, I wish you would’ve just listened to me for once, and stayed put.”

You shoot your head up, adjusting to face him, close enough that your noses nearly meet. “If I listened to you, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Oh really?” He grins, eyes creasing, “How so?”

“Well, for one, that time you ordered me to question that vampire chick's dead boyfriend about his affair, right in front of her.” Klaus guffaws. “You're laughing, but she would've bit my head off.”

“She wouldn’t have,” he denies, still chuckling.

“Yes, she would have Klaus.” You start to laugh too.

“You know, I wouldn’t have let her.” His face deadpans, “Like I didn’t let our were-friend hurt you," he voices, airily. "I gave you my word.”

“Yes, of course, your word.” You giggle nervously, glancing at the hand currently bracing your thigh, gliding its thumb back and forth. “It’s not all that I’ve given you.”

You look up and are met with a mysterious look this time. Your brows furrow in confusion. He smiles dreamily, “Your skills as a witch truly know no bounds.”

“The hell are you talking about now?” You retort, making Klaus laugh loudly.

“I’m talking about your spell," he whispers. "The one that has bewitched me.”

You freeze, heart dropping.

“You don’t mean that...” Your sentence trails off as Klaus stares through you.

He’s so unpredictable, that a part of you believes he's most likely playing some sick game. But, there was also a possibility that he meant it, and all the hidden desires, for your unconventional boss, were about to bubble to the surface.

“I've meant every word, from the moment I met you, when you got the better of me.” He smirks, breath fanning your face. “Witchcraft.”

Then his lips take yours, slow at first, but the entanglement shortly turns desperate. Slightly hesitant, you grind on him, eager to pull him closer. He groans, and his hands enthusiastically roam your waist and back, beckoning you nearer.

Moving in a frenzy, as your fingers tangle in his locks, you swing your leg to straddle him. He moans your name in between kisses, and palms your ass.

Continuously rolling your body into him, makes you feel his arousal, causing a whine to escape. When your lips break apart, his mouth runs down your jaw, to your neck. You gasp, but you don’t stop him. He audibly tells you how much he’s enjoying himself, and you squeeze your thighs over his.

“I can only imagine how sinful you taste here darling.” He remarks as his hand slides over your core, and you whimper. “How about you let me try?” He hums politely. “You know you want me to.”

“No,” you huff.

“No?” His voice rises questioningly, and a hand gropes your chest, while the other grips your chin, tilting your head down to peer into his eyes. “Not here,” you finish, and he smirks wildly.

“Then, I’ll just have to get us a private room?” He purrs seductively into you ear, making you shiver. “One that is, unoccupied,” he rolls his tongue, and you shiver again at the double meaning behind his words. You don’t even want to think about what he did to your assailant…

“Please,” you sigh into a kiss, pecking his lips, which seems to surprise Klaus momentarily. His surprise briskly turns into a beaming smile. “To be continued,” he utters before shifting you off him, and rushing out the car.

Not long after, Klaus reappears with that same childlike cheer gracing his features. Jerking the door open, he outstretches his hand like a gentleman. You accept it, and his palm completely envelops yours. He tugs you to his hip, and nibbles on your earlobe while you walk to a random room.

As soon as the door locks behind you, he presses himself against your backside. “Now, how about that taste?” He mutters while lifting your hair to kiss your nape, and rubbing himself against you. You press closer, before spinning around to enclose your mouth on his again. He groans into your mouth approvingly, backing your body toward the queen-size bed.

His lips free yours when your back legs hit the edge, and you fall backwards with a yelp. His hands soon make work of your lower half, removing your clothes as he kneels infront of your cunt. You inhale deeply, as cool air hits your bare body.

He goes silent, so you raise your head to peek at him. Klaus ogles you heatedly, like the predator he is. “Lovely,” he sing-songs.

He abruptly grips your thighs and heaves your core to his mouth, so close, his breath warms your skin. “K-Klaus.”

“Hmmm,” he hums shortly, before delving into you. You sob a cry of shock. His tongue expertly runs over your folds, sucking the nub with such a slow deliberation, like he can’t decide how he wishes to take you at first, as if he’s imagined every which way he could.

You whine, motioning him to make his choice, bucking up, feeling his stubble scratch you. Then he grows aggressive, hungrily lapping your clit, over and over, until he ushers out your orgasm.

When your lengthy climax finishes, he moves to sigh pleasantly into the crook of your neck. “You’re incredible,” he emits with a chant of your name, thoroughly relaxing your shaking form.

“Fuck, take off your clothes,” you beg. He immediately abides by your command, tearing off his shirt and pants. You grab his necklaces to haul his lips to yours. You savour every inch of yourself on his tongue, and he relishes in how dirty the act is.

“There’s only so much I can do before dawn, and it won't nearly be enough to satisfy my hunger for you.” His poetic words erupt something within. You exhale, “It seems you’re going to break your promise then.”

He stills at your words, befuddled. You elaborate, “There’s no way I’m coming out of this unscathed.” A timid smile spreads across your face, and he almost nods in understanding, feeling a strange quiver in his chest.

Wordlessly, he pulls himself from his slacks, and you take off the last of your clothes. Suddenly feeling a little out of body, you decide to take back some control of the situation. So, you flip your positions, once again, surprising Klaus, though he allows it.

You straddle him, and lower yourself onto his thick cock. You whimper the second the tip enters, and he growls, pressing his fingertips into your hips, definitely leaving bruises.

“You’re too big,” you gasp.

“You can handle it, sweetheart,” he states mindlessly. He wraps his arms around your waist and arms, pulling you down onto him. His hips press completely into you, pushing himself inside to the hilt. A wheeze leaves your lungs as he grounds into you. “Klaus, it’s too-“

“It’s perfect,” he finishes for you. You barely have any time to adapt to his size before he begins pounding. Pleasure wracks through you, and he takes whatever control you had away. His pace is unnerving, and you utter incoherent words, while his fangs graze your neck.

“Tell me,” he groans through his panting. “Tell me you want me.” He demands, though it almost sounds like he’s begging for it. “I-I want you.” The words stumble out as his thrusts reach your center.

“More,” he just about whines.

“I want you Klaus,” you shout. “You feel so good- fuck I’ve always wanted this, you.” You ramble, egged on by him. He loves it, and you feel it in his strength. He holds you tighter, and the air abandons your body.

Feeling his leg tremble, you know he’s close. “Bite me.” His clamped-shut eyelids pop open, and his dark pupils bore into yours. You kiss him, and take his bottom lip between your teeth. “Bite me while you cum,” you command.

He gulps before taking his last few pumps into you. He moans into your neck as his teeth puncture your flesh. You cry out at the mixture of pain and pleasure that shatters you both.

After almost 10 minutes, he releases you from his firm caress and kisses the holes in your neck.

Still inside, he turns you both on your sides. You catch your breath. “How are you still hard?” You sigh in exasperation, and he chuckles breezily. “I told you, you’ve bewitched my very soul darling.” He smirks.

“This is only the beginning.”

If you enjoyed this, i'm currently writing a klaus fanfic and u should check it out! u can find it on my wattpad @ shrenvents <33

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jnece-maharlika · 6 months ago

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Danny accidentally becomes the Ghost king, The president and the BIGGEST threat to Bruce's social status.

Pt 1 Danny becomes the Ghost king

"Fenton's were never allowed to have a "normal" life, we are either extremely successful or extremely unsuccessful, there is no in between. Maybe a spirit cursed us back in the days, but who knows, but one things for sure, all Fenton's will definitely make the news."

-Grandma Fenton from whatever generation

Danny's starting to believe that now. He used to think that it wasn't true, but now? He used to wish to have a normal life, be a good normal son with good grades an be an astronaut one day.

But like they said, a Fenton is either EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL OR EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL.

He was EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

Instead of a normal life he turned a half ghost teen superhero. But oh well, the Fenton's were also known for their ability to go with the flow

But how in the world did the flow get him here???

In Danny's defense, he wasn't really expecting this. The only thing in his mind at the moment was keeping his town and his people safe from pariah. He just wanted to get rid of the rotten fruitloop. He was EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL, so successful in fact that he ended up becoming Ghost king.

The fudge????

But okay, sure, he didn't wanna become king but if he also didn't want to give up the crown for others to take, what if an evil person becomes king and attacks amity again?? Fine, he'll be king, he'll figure it out. Just go with the flow.

Surprisingly, not only did he get the crown, he also got THE MONEY. as in literal gold and silver bars, coins and jewelry. Appearantly, one the kings a long long time ago, before at least two generations before pariah had an obsession with MONEY. So the king made a Permanent Royal Degree (a law that cannot be changed by any future kings) that when someone dies and becomes a ghost, 20% of the MONEY that they've acquired in their entire life. (The money turns into an equivalent of ghost currency in the realms but is still physically in the living. Kind of like how the soul is in the realms but the body is the earth. Also, the only reason money exists in the realms is for convenience and a sense of normalcy, it doesn't really have that much value unless the ghosts brings it to the living) would belong to the ghost king.

Basically, it's ghost taxes that only have to be paid once for the entire afterlife. (Or is it more of an entrance fee???)

But anyways, hes got the MONEY.

He's rich now and he thinks, "I have so much money it's disgusting"

So first things first, getting rid of some of it.

By this point, his parents know he's phantom and have changed their opinions on ghosts, instead of attacking they are now looking at ghost like they're equals and try and help them as an apology for hurting them.

They are also looking for a new project to spend time on. A new purpose

So Danny thought, why not give them the money then? Danny proposed to his mom a project to make things that can benefit both ghosts and humans.

Next thing he knows is that he's appearantly funding, building and making:

A ghost job agency

A human job agency

Ghost proof buildings (ghost can't pass through walls, it won't hurt them, just keep em out.)

Ghost proof clothes (overshadowing proof!)

A practical fashion line for ghost and humans (Bullet proof, blast proof etch. Borderline vigilante clothes that look like a civilians day to day outfit)

Homes for ghost and humans

A ghost obsession help center where they can ask humans to help with their obsession.

A school for both ghost and humans.

Liminal 101 because apparently because of the whole, pariah dark and, living in the ghosts kings haunt situation, everyone is liminal now

An entire line of technology that can be used by both ghosts and humans.

A fight arena where ghost and humans can fight for fun.

And so many other things , he can't remember

HIS NAME IS EVERYWHERE . His parents didn't even bother hiding the fact that their son somehow has enough money to fund these projects, everyone knows him now.

He ends up basically owning most of amity park.

And here he thought he wouldn't be the kind of king that expands their territory.

He was extremely UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #ghost king danny #ghost king au #nothing seems to be going his way #eat the rich #go with flow they said #itll be fun they said #how did it come to this???#danny needs a #therapy #or b #a financial assistant

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peachesofteal · 6 months ago

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Ghoap x female reader / 18+

Everything was fine.

Your phone was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. You would wait. You’ve waited before.

Sometimes it took a while for them to ring. They had a life together, a home, things to take care of. They had lives to rebuild every time they touched down, got home, got out of their work clothes. Pieces to patch, blood to wash clean.

You weren’t their girlfriend. They aren’t beholden to you, there’s no sacred vow tethering the three of you, no promises or pledges. You don’t know Johnny’s middle name, or Simon’s, anything about their families, their private lives. You barely knew about their jobs, only holding the scraps tossed to questions lobbed back and forth across pillows. They leave little marks across your mind, little spots of scars, knowledge scratched into your skin, sunk into your body, but never too much.

You weren’t a part of their life, really.

You were a part of the dark hours. The soft ones. You were in the orange rays of sunlight cresting over the city, and the emerald abyss of pitch black night. You were the flickering yellow street light, the grey blue smoke of Simon’s cigarette. The in between. Here in the moment, gone with morning.

For months, you had spent their time home pressed between them, folded beneath them, balanced above them. They made you sing. Made you scream, made you cry.

But most of all, they made sure-

you understood the status quo.

“Say it.” Simon cradled your jaw, thumb and finger full of steel, like he was oblivious to Johnny beneath you, his cock sliding in and out of your body, his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, your back to his chest, eyes wide and mouth agape, Simon did not flinch.

“I- I’m not-“ a gasp, a groan, words bitten off when Johnny strokes faster, curved deep against the spot that makes you see stars. Sweat builds across your skin, slicking down your spine, and Johnny chases it, tongue sweeping salt clean. You swallow to try again. “I’m not- not yours.”

“Not ours.” Simon’s fingers wrapped around the engorged length of his cock, stroking leisurely, eyes half lidded. “You’re not ours, sweet girl. But we’ll take care of you, when you’re here.”

So, you fell into it. Fell into them. Got comfortable waiting for the phone to ring, going weeks or months at a time- holding your breath. You got into a rhythm, syncopated behind the swell of their voices, their bodies, their souls. Along for the ride. A passenger.

It was fine. You weren’t looking for anything serious anyway. Maybe someone to hang out with here and there, grab a drink, have some fun. All of these things, they gave you. All of these things were provided. Granted, you only went out with them to a dive around the corner, a dark, bottomless place with tar licked floors and worn away wooden bar. The kind with dusty stained glass pendants swinging over pool tables that have seen better days, wrought iron back patio furniture that squeaked when Simon would pull you onto his lap and hook the hem of your panties to the side to stare at your pussy, hungry and desperate glint in his gaze under the silver glow of moonlight. He’d flip up your dress and stroke you with the back of his knuckles, just the down the seam, cooing, telling you how lovely you look, asking how much you missed them.

They never took you out for meals, or dates, or anything like that. They kept you in bed, buried beneath them, wrung out, drained dry. They took and took and took until you had nothing left to give. They’d feed you, make you come, fill you up and put you to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

And it was all… fine.

Even tonight was fine. Johnny had emailed, said they were back in service range and they’d be around soon, if you weren’t busy. Typically, a phone call came later. Late, in small hours, when half the city slept.

So when you fell asleep to nothing, you weren’t surprised. They’d catch up with you.

They always did.

You didn’t hear from them the next day. You forced it away easily, didn’t let the unease nag at you, pasted a smile on your face for your friends when you agreed to meet them for dinner.

No strings. You’re not their girlfriend, you’re not theirs. You’re cool. It’s cool. You’re fine.

Besides, your friend had gotten a reservation at a very nice restaurant in one of those shiny new hotels that just went up.

You shoved the boys from your mind.

You were the cool girl. You were unaffected.

You’re fine.

“So how’s work?”

“Oh, it’s fine. You know, same shit different day.” You roll your eyes, touch light on the thin stem of a wine glass. The red is a shade darker than your nails, and your lips, and it tastes like sweet cherries soaked in acid. Stringent. Sweet. You’re about to reciprocate the question when the bulk of a man catches your eye, handsome width of a shoulder you’d know from a mile away.

Interest in your friend’s conversation evaporates, and your tongue turns tarnished, sticking in the back of your throat like an overgrown thorn.

It’s Simon. Your heart pounds, and you drink in the sight greedily, elated to see him outside of their flat, or in the bar. Thrilled to get a glimpse of him in the real world, in a restaurant, a real, tangible place, in a real, tangible moment.

“I’ll… be right back.” You manage, slipping from the both to the wall, openly gaping across a room full of diners. As he moves, you mirror it, coming closer and closer to a hallway, a lead off down to the bathrooms.

“Simon.” His name slips from your lips without permission, a build up of excitement and anxiety, all twisted into one heap that darts out in front of your intentions, your resolve. Not cool.

You expect him to be surprised, certainly. You expect to see that small spark, the little fire burning behind his irises, expect him sweep the length of your body.

You don’t expect the surprise to be blanketed with the white fog of indifference. The grey slab of a stone wall.

It confuses you. Startles you. And when you take a step-

Johnny turns the corner, an arm slung around the waist of a pretty, thin, blonde.

His lips part, brows knitting together in slow motion. The girl, their date, it seems, is oblivious. She only bats her eyelashes at Simon and then gazes up at Johnny, sweet and hopeful.

You turn cold. Your fingers go frigid, ice cracking through your veins and attacking your heart, slowing your pulse.

The room spins.

And you’re alone in it. Dining room chatter falls away, drowned out by the thrumming between your ears.

You’re alone. Alone, staring at them, trying to piece it all together, trying to breathe, trying to be-

Cool.

“I uh…” You teeter, precarious in your shoes that now feel like a mistake, like your dress is a mistake, being here is a mistake, getting up from the table-

You’re not their girlfriend. You’re not theirs.

“I’m just gonna… go.” You begin to backpedal. Johnny says your name, says it quietly, and takes a step, lurching forward, an animated corpse seeking its last meal.

“Bonnie, ye-“

“I’ll see you around.” You blurt, stepping back out of reach. Johnny’s fist clenches, and he casts a dubious glance towards Simon, who’s tense and focused on you. “See ya.” You croak, and then spin on your heel, trembling all the way out the door and into the cold, crisp air.

Very uncool.

#Ghoap x reader #angst #lmao #john soap mactavish #peaches writes #simon riley #thinking about the cool girl monologue #phone writing #I know there are mistakes in here

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indulgentdaydream · 5 months ago

Note

protective!jason hcs or blurb 🥰

Ok so I kinda touched on these in my latest fic but anyways i WILL elaborate bc those were just background

We all know that man is touch starved. We ALL know it.

We also all know he’s hesitant with sharing touch

It’s only once you both have been dating for a bit already, maybe three months in, that he really starts to show his protectiveness through his touch

Or at least when you notice it

He’s always at least holding your hand as you guys walk around Gotham. Depending on exactly whereabouts in Gotham is when he changes whether he’s between you and the road, or you and the alleyways.

You watched him change it up one time halfway through your shared walk, him letting go of your left hand, stepping behind you and around to grab your right instead.

“Oh? So you want me to get hit by a car and die?”

Jason only keeps his eyes on the passing buildings and the ones coming up, “The chance of that is much lower than somebody trying to mug you in this area, love.”

One day you’re both out at the bar together. He’s sitting on a stool behind you as you babble to oke of yours friends.

From over their shoulder, you see a man approaching, but don’t think anything of it.

Suddenly, you see the man stop in his tracks, freezing. You glance over at him. He looks terrified. He glances at you, his original target, then behind you again. He spins on his heel and walks back the way he came.

You look behind you, feeling Jason’s hand still resting on your hip. You almost feel a little scared yourself, seeing that killer glare that Jason’s pointing at the guy’s back.

He switches immediately the second he looks down to you, a soft smile and kind eyes, not a hint of the previous bloodlust a mere second ago. “What?” He asks, like watching his expression change wasn’t the biggest turn on in the world.

You’re sitting in your apartment at your desk typing away on your laptop. You’re trying to file your taxes, and Jason had come over to help you with it (surprisingly he knows how even though he’s still legally dead at this point and hasn’t had to pay any taxes. Ever.)

He had stood and was wondering around your room a bit while he waited for you to fill the next part out. You can hear shuffling, but you’re too focused to tune into it.

“Jay? What does this line mean?”

Jason grunts for a moment and you hear your window slide open.

You turn back around, “Jay?”

“One second.” He shuts your window again. You watch as he fiddles with the lock before easily sliding the window back open. He throws his hands in the air and looks at you. “How long have you lived here?”

You shrug, confused, “You helped me move in.”

Jason waves his hand through the air, “When?”

“Almost a year? Last November.”

Jason fiddles with the window again, slamming it back down, “This lock doesn’t work. You been sleeping in here and anyone could’ve just broken in?”

You shrug again, “I didn’t know it was broken! I don’t really lock my window often.”

Jason looks like he almost broke his neck by how fast his head whipped back to you, “You don’t lock your window????”

He finishes your taxes for you before he leaves, saying he’ll be back. Within the hour he’s knocking on your door again, a duffle bag in hand full of power tools, screws, and different assortments of heavy duty locks. He spends the rest of the night installing them.

A new one on your bedroom window that actually consisted of two different locks. A similar two on your kitchen window. Another three on your bedroom door itself. Then four on your front door.

As he leaned over your kitchen sink, screwing in the lock and blocking your way as you tried to make you both dinner.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I’m not having you practically open to every bad thing the city has to offer, love.”

“Then how are you going to come in through my window now?”

“I’ll learn to knock.”

That’s all I can think of right now okay byeee

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alanisinstone · 9 days ago

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okay bluecollar!rafe but yall. can we make it MARINE!RAFE?? or more specifically MARSOC!rafe* who works for ward at cameron construction co. on leave?? like hello i need him bad guys.

cw: MDNI smut, cursing, stuff in public, food play, cum eating, military stuff, ass play, manhandling, 1 mention of fighting, recording

*marsoc: Marine Forces Special Operations Command - basically what COD men do

like he starts off as a standard private officer after enlisting when you guys graduate high school. he works his way up from private to corporal to sergeant major, and then eventually to captain, colonel, then general. i mean hes fucking unstoppable, hes blowing thru these ranks like nobodys fuckin business, and he not stopping anytime soon baby he in his primeeee.

he moves on to MARSOC and leads a small team on SPEC-OP missions in like borneo. hes literally the best of the best. his full file is like 4 pounds, full of successful recon missions, confirmed kills, successful captures of enemy targets, accurate tracking efforts, successful counterterrorism efforts, successful hostage rescue and successful direct action raids. when theres a REAL threat? they call LT Cameron. callsign? RAIDER

NOW. when baby comes home on leave he works at the family construction company ward owns, building giant beach houses for rich kooks. he eventually inherits cameron construction when ward gets too old to work and he helps ward retire bcs of the cash from being the most elite soldier in the US military. bae is tannnn bcs of construction work ofc, but also since being in the military he likes to go on runs and be in nature to clear his head. and yall alr know hes yatteddddd, both sleeves done by his boy at home on the cut, who happens to be a very talented tattoo artist (barry...)

strictly keeps a buzz for deployment but will grow out a mullet when hes home. signature gold chain is always on, and has a tat on his ring finger for you and maybe one on his forearm. does he have both ears pierced with fake diamond studs in? yes.

is currently in the blueprint stage for a beach house he wants to build you on figure 8 (and one in florida... and will probably start planning another one if he ends up having a long ship-out next deployment) even tho he despises rich fucks and is suchhhh a country boy. i mean hes like pogue!rafe but hes more of a mudding, dirt biking, bonfire, shotgunning beer, lifted truck, bar hop, football game kind of guy. and the most elite soldier in the US military ofc.

takes you on stargazing dates and fucks you in the truck bed, a big beach towel set down and his head in your neck while he ruts into you short and fast. occasionally gets into bar fights when some dick is tryna say sum to u. is such an ass man and will smack and grope that shit wheneverrrr whereverrrr - has zoned out of convos with people while feelin HIS booty up + loves to grip your pussy with his big ass paw when no one is looking.

has a super firm grip due to years of being a marine and WILL manhandle ur ass around - into various positions, onto the bed or couch or counter or etc., up over his shoulder when you gettin on his nerves. gets actually animalistic when yall fuckin, and yk that boy a munch. growls and grunts sooo loud the whole time.

will take you to the dock and fuck you on the family fishing boat. will christen any new bar yall go to by fucking you in the gross bathroom and carving both your initials in the wall with his pocket knife that ward gave him when he was 15. is kinky af but lets u bring it up bcs he feels awkward talking about it. is sooooo nasty - will eat his cum out of you with his whole mouth, eyes locked on yours, sucking your lips into his mouth. then, when it’s not enough, he drags you up to sit on his face and rubs your clit, watching you clench and letting his cum drip from you right onto his tongue.

will stick a thumb in your ass during doggy, while reaching for his phone bcs the way u throwin that ass back on him? yall bout to make another movie. loves watching you clean him up after round 5, when his dick is covered in his and your cum - will not let you miss a spot, even where it dripped down over his hefty balls to his ass. and he rarely shaves - uncut.

if it’s a hot day, he’ll turn the ac off and find you so he can lick the sweat off every crevice of your beautiful body while he’s fucking you over the counter. both of you completely butt naked bcs it’s hot. has a sweet tooth - will interrupt you while you’re baking and strip you, laying you on the counter like the dessert you are and eating the frosting off his favorite parts. get especially excited when it comes to sweets on your nipples.

honestly if that aint a FEASTTTT i dont know what issss

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scarletlizzard · 8 months ago

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Inked Desires - Part 2

Read Part 1 right here

Summary: After your one night stand with a stranger turns into a regular hookup, feelings begin to develop between you and Natasha. A night out at the bar with your friends has her begging wanting more with you.

Pairing: gp!Natasha x fem!Reader

Tags MINORS DNI: natasha has a dick, buff out this world & covered with tats and piercings, little bit of yearning and pining, mentions of alcohol, smut, blowjob, unprotected sex, breeding, begging, miscommunication

Masterlist

A/N: Part 1 blew up like crazy! I never ever thought I would EVER get that many notes. Especially for, essentially, a smut piece I wasn't used to writing. After being asked a few times, I agreed to make a part 2, buuut I've been in a (bad) writing rut lately. So I wanna shout out the person who gave me so many good ideas and an actual plot to work with. Y'all can thank just her for there actually being a part 2 cause there almost wasn't one 🙏 Thanks for helping, kisses for your big brilliant brain.

Hopefully, she and y'all like it? It's a bit longer. Let me know what you think, please, and thank you thank you so much for reading 💞

That being said, there will be a part 3 😄

"Split? Like down the middle?" Kate asks with a look of shock on her face. You walk in step beside her along the concrete path on campus.

"Right down the middle," you laugh and adjust the bag on your shoulder, thinking back to just a few days ago when Natashas skillful tongue worked its magic on your body. Your cheeks heat up at the memory.

That first night you met, Natasha had given you a kiss goodbye and gave you her number before you took a very drunk Kate Bishop home. Since then you had seen the redhead multiple times over the course of the last few weeks. Neither of you seemed to be able to keep your hands off of each other. Each time you met it was for sex, and even the time she had taken you to dinner it ended with you getting fucked into her mattress again.

You knew the basics about each other, where you lived, eachothers jobs... the more you thought about it the more it upset you. The physical level the two of you were on was heavenly, but really, well, you barely knew her.

Kates voice interrupts your thoughts as you enter the English building, and you stop walking as she does.

"What was that?" You ask, looking to the smirk plastered on her face with curiosity.

"I said, speak of the devil," she chuckles and nods her head in the direction of a very tall Natasha striding your way. "See you in there," Kate says and walks into the classroom, leaving you in the hallway.

You want to drown in the sight of her, wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt with old, dirty vans on her feet. You smile, trying not to drool at the way you can see the pops of color show from underneath her shirt or the way the sleeves seem too tight against her biceps as she grips the strap of her backpack.

"Hey there..." Natasha greets you with a smile, head pointing down as she stills before you. "Been a few days, haven't heard from you," she adds, her eyes baring into yours. You want to slap yourself for not replying to her text by the almost hurt look in her eyes.

"Well it hasn't even been a week, you miss me already?" You ask her with a little tilt of your head up at her, biting your lip as you see a blush spread across her cheeks. Her hand moves to the side of her neck, scratching at the ink awkwardly.

"No, no. Wait, I mean -" She lets out a sigh and shakes her head as you giggle at her. It was interesting, the difference in her appearance verses this nervous demeanor. "Maybe I did?" Natasha raises an eyebrow, the silver ring lifting higher.

"I might have missed you too," you shrug casually and watch as her face eases back into a smile. "I'm sorry I haven't texted, I've just been so busy with school and work." You point to the classroom next to you that Kate had entered. She follows the direction and nods.

"No worries, you're a busy lady. I actually took Mr. Furys class last year. Maybe I could take you for a coffee and give you some tips? Or maybe just um, talk?" Natasha asks, her tone quiet as she looks down to you.

You smile at the sincerity in her eyes. "I'm free after this class?" You take a step back, towards the room and match the wide smile on her lips.

"Sounds perfect," Natasha nods, and you can't ignore the way your heart speeds up in your chest. Instead of taking another step away you walk forward, leaning up on your tip toes to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

Natasha can feel the burn on her cheeks, the affect you had on her drove her wild. You lean back and smile at her flustered state, leaving her alone in the now empty hallway.

An hour and a half later, you emerge from the classroom, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering around at the sight of Natasha sitting on the floor. She had a book in her hand, closing it the moment she saw you and Kate walking towards her.

"Have you been sitting there this whole time?" You ask and tilt your head, watching the way her muscles flex as she runs a hand through her auburn hair.

"Uh, maybe?" A small blush hints on her cheeks, and she smiles at you and your friend. "I'm Natasha, by the way," she says and holds out her hand in front of Kate.

Kate chuckles at the formality, and you hit her arm, giving her a look. She shakes Natashas hand, "Kate... nice to finally meet you," She smiles back and looks next to her at you. "I'll see you tomorrow night, you should invite your friend."

You roll your eyes at Kates tease but nod and tell her you'll see her later.

"Coffee?" Natasha asks, and the ridiculous grin on her face is enough for you to agree to just about anything.

As you walk side by side, you can't help but admire her gentle personality. This woman, covered in tattoos and piercings with an intimidating gaze, was the complete opposite. She spoke to you about her schedule and that she was in school for sports medicine with a glint in her eyes.

"Like physical therapy?" You ask her curiously. You watched the way her face lit up at your interest, and she beamed down to you.

"Yeah, exactly that. If all else fails, I'll just be a personal trainer," she lets out a small chuckle, and you take the second she holds the door open for you to admire her toned body.

"How do I sign up? I need a good workout partner," you say with a flirtatious tone, brushing against her as you walk inside. You relish the blush on her cheeks and the small smirk on her lips as the smell of fresh coffee hits you.

"Didn't get a good enough workout last week?" Natasha replies.

"Oh, I had a great workout... but if I had a personal trainer, I'm sure I could get a good workout in at least a few times a week. Isn't that recommended?" You look up to her, seeing her neck redden and her eyes darken.

"I would definitely recommend that," Natasha mumbles as the two of you walk up to the counter.

As Natasha orders, you can't help but notice the change in her posture and attitude. Suddenly, she was standing straight, an impassive and series look on her face. Her tone was low as she talked to the woman at the counter. Natasha turns to you and nods for you to order. You do, and as she hands the woman her card, you smile up at her.

"Thank you for getting this for me," you say gratefully, watching her melt under your gaze. The smile was back, and her eyes came to life again. It seemed she had a soft spot for you.

"Of course, it's my treat," she says and walks you to a small table in the corner.

From there, you spend the entire rest of the evening actually talking and getting to know Natasha. As you already knew, she works out religiously, and you told her how lucky you felt that she had skipped her workout today just to sit down with you. She got her first tattoo at 18 and loved it, so she just never stopped getting them. The first piercing she got was on her eyebrow, and the same there, she just kept going.

It felt as if you were sitting in front of a whole new person than the one you met just weeks ago. The one who pile drived you into the mattress at a party and left you weak in the legs and sore the next day. Natasha was kind and sweet, funny, and surprisingly shy. Any time you made an attempt to flirt or give an innuendo, she would chuckle shyly and blush the slightest.

There were a few times you even had to squeeze your thighs as you thought back to that night. Any time her tongue would wet her lower lip or her eyes would travel to your neck. She loved your neck, you noticed. Every time you had hooked up her lips would go straight for the skin there, nipping at the few small freckles that adorned the area.

"That's a long time to be friends with someone," Natasha states as you finish telling her about yours and Kates relationship. Best friends since the fourth grade, completely inseparable.

"It's nice to have someone so close, who knows me so well. Especially since I'm an only child," you reply and watch her brow lift.

"Oh really? I have a sister, Yelena. She bugs the hell out of me, but I love her to death. She goes to the college just a couple of hours from here. Actually," Natasha looks at her phone, checking the time. "I'm supposed to meet her soon... she came home for the weekend."

You nod slowly and look around, realizing everyone had left and the two baristas were cleaning up. As the two of you stand, Natasha suddenly towering over at you, you feel a little disappointment in your chest. You were having more fun with her than you thought, and you found yourself not wanting to part.

"Hey, Kate and I are going to this bar tomorrow night. A few of our friends are getting together. Joes?" You say to her, smiling to yourself as she once again holds the door open for you.

"Yeah, I've been there a few times before," Natasha says with a grin, standing outside the coffee shop with you.

"If you want, maybe you and Yelena can meet us? You don't have to, of course, but..." You trail off.

"I will definitely be there. Text me a time?" She asks, and you nod happily. Natasha leans down, and you think for a second she's going to kiss you, but her lips land on the soft skin of your cheek. You put your hand on her arm as she does, feeling the tattooed skin burn underneath your touch.

****

Joes Bar is crowded, but that's to be expected on a Saturday night near a college campus. A local alternative band plays loudly on the small stage on one side of the room, and you find yourself on the opposite side sitting at the bar. Kate is nearby talking to friends and a few strangers, but you only had one person in mind.

You glance at your phone again, seeing no notifications. With a sigh, you finish your second drink, ordering a third as you contemplated the possibility she wasn't going to show up. This is why you didn't do this type of thing. You don't hook up with hot strangers. You don't get coffee with gorgeous, sweet women. You stayed to yourself, guarded your heart, and let yourself be safe from any type of rejection or heartbreak.

But God Natasha was worth breaking your rules.

You found your way back to reality as the bartender handed you a drink and said thank you before grabbing it and removing yourself from the bar stool. As you turn, you bump into someone, almost spilling your drink on them.

"Oh shit I'm so sorry!" You apologize, shaking the liquor off your hand as you had spilled a little on yourself.

"It's okay, I was just trying to squeeze in next to you," the woman says, and in your tipsy state, you raise an eyebrow. She seemed about your age, dirty blonde hair, and a familiar grin on her lips. You definitely hadn't seen her in here before.

"I was just getting up, actually. You can have my seat. Is that an accent I hear?" You ask curiously, moving out of the way so she could take your place.

"Yeah, I still have a bit of an accent, I was born in Russia. Lived there for a while," she says and nods. She then orders two drinks before turning back to you.

"Wow, you're a long way from there. You go to school here?" You ask her and sip your drink, feeling Kate stand behind you.

"No, but my sister does, though," the blonde smiles and grabs the two bottles of beer from the bartender. She looks at you and extends her arm towards Kate to hand her a bottle. You give her a confused look.

It's only then you realize, as an inked hand reaches over you to take the beer, that it's not Kate standing there, but Natasha. You turn instantly and look up, a habit your neck was quickly getting used to doing.

"Well, well, look who showed up," you say and take your bottom lip between your teeth. Natasha smiles at your words, noticing the way you take in her appearance.

If it was possible, Natasha looked hotter than ever. She wore a black t shirt underneath a leather jacket. Her flaming hair was behind her in a braid with a few loose strands framing her face.

"I see you've met my sister, Yelena," Natasha chuckles and nods in the direction of the blonde woman.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N. Natty here hasn't been able to shut up abou-" Yelena is cut off by Natasha flicking the bottle cap at her face, a stern expression on the older woman's face.

You smile at the siblings' banter, watching Yelena laugh and shrug innocently. Whether it be the alcohol flowing in your bloodstream or the way Natasha looked at you, you slide your hand into hers. She tenses at first, not used to the public display of affection from you, but quickly relaxes as you intertwine your fingers with hers.

"Come on, come meet everyone," you say and tug on her hand in the direction of Kate.

You find them huddled around a pool table, watching as Kate lines up the pool tip to the cue ball with one eye closed. Carol stands leaning against her own stick, shaking her head and putting out the cigarette she smokes into the ashtray on the edge of the table.

"Anyday, Bishop..." Carol groans, earning a laugh from the group.

"Seriously, how long are you going to take?" Peter chimes in.

Kate ignores them and continues to stare intensely at the 8 ball. Her arm begins to pull back to take the shot, but as Yelena comes into focus on the opposite side of the table, Kate is finally distracted by the beautiful blonde. The cue ball misses her target completely, rolling across the table and sinking into the pocket.

"Scratch!" Carol cheers and high fives Monica. Kate looked up at Yelena, her lips parted as if she was going to speak, but no words came out. Carol then steps up to the table and sinks the 8 ball, ending the game with a dramatic bow.

You smile at the group, raising an eyebrow at the silent state of your best friend. "Guys, this is Natasha and her sister Yelena," you say, receiving waves and friendly greetings from everyone. You introduce them to the Romanoffs a little more before they rack up for another game.

"You any good?" Carol nods to Natasha, who gives a humble shrug.

"I'm decent," she replies with a smirk on her face as she brings the bottle to her lips. Carol hands the pool stick over before going to get drinks for the group.

"Hope you're good, Romanoff. We still haven't beat Y/N," Peter says begrudgingly. You only hum in response as Kate hands you her stick, positioning yourself across the table.

"Is that so?" Natasha watches with playful eyes as you skillfully break, the balls rolling in different directions along the table and a few of them sinking into the pockets.

When you lean up, you smile and reach your hand up to pat her cheek. "Good thing you didn't bet anything," you chuckle.

After a few back and forth turns, Carol returns with shots, to which you all cheer and take at the same time. The alcohol was definitely settling its way into your system now, and you were hot to the touch each time Natasha had to lean down to take her shot. Between the focused look on her face and the way the pool stick slid between her fingers, it was enough for you to want her right there.

You step forward next to her, looking at the direction of the shot she was trying to take. "That's a tough one, baby," you say to her, the term of endearment catching Natasha off guard.

Her body visibly tenses as she looks to you with a visceral reaction and swallows hard. You feign an innocent smile, taking a mental note to call her that again just to see her reaction. Natasha misses the shot and curses under her breath.

"That's not fair," she says and shakes her head as she stands tall. The red head removes her jacket, finding that the room was getting hotter.

You shrug and easily pocket two more balls on your turn. When you look to Kate to make a comment about the shot, you realize she's strayed from the group, chatting up Yelena. With your friends being in their own worlds at the moment, you decide to have a little fun with Natasha.

"You're not so bad, you know. The others have a hard time keeping up with me," you smile as she leans down, and your hand rests on her back, rubbing over her shirt.

"Y/n," Natasha mumbles, the blush on her cheeks evident she enjoyed your touch.

"Yes, Nat?" You pur, watching the muscles flex understand the fabric. Knowing you had this type of effect on her gave you a sense of power that only made you hungry for more. Your hand slithers underneath the bottom of her shirt, nails scratching at her back. She misses. You smile.

"You're a cheater, you know that?" Natasha says in a playful tone, her body naturally leaning towards you.

Your hands rest on her stomach, "I don't know what you're talking about." You lean up and plant a soft kiss on her lips, smirking as she leans down and melts against your mouth. "I'm just having fun," you whisper.

At that, you step away from her, crossing over to the opposite side of the table. You lean down more than you need to, and you don't miss the way Natashas eyes dart back and forth from your breasts to your neck. She finishes another bottle, and you can tell you've stressed her out by the way her hand grips the glass.

You continue to do the same thing for the remainder of the game, teasing her with every shot she took and making sure to bend in front of her any chance you could. It came down to the 8 ball, and you had to admit, you were dragging the game on longer than you needed to.

"Last one," you sigh and put your hand on the back of her neck as she leans down. Your fingers squeeze gently as she clears her throat, trying to ignore the shivers that run down her spine every time you touch her. You lean down with her, your lips brushing against her ear. "Good luck, baby," you whisper and kiss her cheek.

Her neck gets red at your words, and her grip on the stick only tightens. You think it'll snap in half with how hard she holds it. Natasha quickly shoots and misses, causing you to raise an eyebrow with just how quick she took the shot. Instead of stepping back, she continues to stand pressed against the table. "All yours," she mumbles and holds her hand out to the table, shifting uncomfortably as she stands.

You line up the shot and sink the black ball easily, looking up at her with a wide smile. She only gives you a small smile back with a nod. "Aren't you going to give me a victory kiss?" You ask as you step back to her.

Natasha hesitates for a moment but finally turns to face you. Your hands move up to wrap around her neck, your body pressing against her front as she leans in. Before your lips can touch your eyes, widen the slightest. You now realize the reason for the sudden uncomfortable physical shift she had taken when you felt her bulge pressing hard against you.

"Oh... was I teasing you too much?" You ask with a smirk on your lips. She rolls her eyes and moves to pull away, but you don't let her. "What was it?" You ask her.

"What was what?" She replies, her hands moving to your waist. You press your body further into her and relish the hiss that leaves her mouth.

You search her eyes, thinking to the moment her demeanor had changed. Suddenly, there was that power-hungry feeling again when you realized the reasoning. The fact that you could get her hot and bothered by a simple word leaving your lips, by your voice alone, and the thought of you driving someone like her mad. Natasha was weak in the knees for you, and she struggled internally with the way you made her feel. She wasn't used to it.

"Why don't you let me help you take care of your little problem... baby, " you whisper to her, feeling her shoulders tense above you. "Come on." You slide back and take her hand in yours, leading her away from the pool table and towards the bathroom.

As soon as both of you are inside and you lock the door, the two of you are on top of each other just like the first night you met her. Natasha kisses you feverishly, like she'd never been kissed before, with your back hard against the door. You welcomed her tongue into your mouth, moaning as the two halves wrap around your own.

With one hand, you hold onto the front of her shirt, gripping tightly, with the other you slide it in between your bodies, letting yourself grope the hard bulge in her jeans. Natasha lets a hint of a whimper leave her lips, one you hadn't heard since the first time with her, and you smirk into the kiss.

"What's the matter, baby? Do you need some help?" You ask innocently, lips ghosting hers. She breathes heavily and nods as your hands move to undo her belt.

"Sweetheart... please," she says, and you decide in that moment that you need her to say that again. Just the idea that this strong, formidable woman could so easily melt in your presence made you thrilled.

Her hands rest on either side above your head, pressed flat against the door as you slide her pants down. You can see the precum dampening a spot on her underwear, and you feel yourself get wet at the sight of it. She needed you, bad.

"Please, what?" You ask, your hand moves to grab her through her boxers, and you stroke her length through the thin fabric.

"Fu-fuck," she barely breathes out, eyes searching yours. Natasha hadn't begged a day in her life, but she would happily beg for you. She was at the point right now that she was willing to get down on her knees and beg for you. You made her desperate.

"Please touch me, please. You feel how hard I am for you? Just -" You squeezing a little harder makes her gasp before continuing. "I need you to touch me. Please, sweetheart... please, " she begs. You smile at her words, enjoying the way her body melts at your touch and the way she begs for you.

At her words you slide down her boxers, and her cock twitches at the feeling of finally being released. She lets out a sigh of relief as your delicate fingers wrap around her. "Is this what you wanted?" You hum, beginning to move your hand up and down. Natasha nods, chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly at your movements.

When you stop, she looks at you with a disoriented look, eyebrows lifting as she watches you drop to your knees. You take her cock in your hand, letting your other rest on her thick, toned thigh. From here you can see her happy trail peaking from underneath her shirt, making your panties wetter. The way she looks down at you with a breathless expression and parted lips makes you want to live your life on your knees for her. Your lips kiss along the side of her length, teasing slowly with your tongue licking up it. Natasha groans with pleasure at the feeling and her hips instinctively buck towards you.

You give in, not wanting to tease her anymore tonight, and take her cock into your mouth. The moan that leaves her mouth is outright sinful, and her fist hits the door with a thud as you begin to bob your head. Your cheeks hollow out when you begin moving faster, taking as much of her as you could. When the tip hits the back of your throat your eyes sting, tears threatening to leave your ducts. Natasha pants heavily above you, savoring the moment of you on your knees for her, sucking her off.

"Look at you, such a pretty girl with my cock in your mouth- fuck," Natasha speaks low to you, her eyes dark as she watches her cock disappear against your lips. Your fingers on her thigh dig in, your nails digging into her skin to leave crescent shaped marks, at her words. "All night you've been teasing me... this is the only way to shut you up, isn't it?" She says and you moan against her, the vibrations sending her close to the edge.

Her breathing gets heavier and you can tell she's about to cum, but before she can you quickly remove your mouth, your saliva coating her as you release with a pop. You stand, not ignoring the frustrated look on her face.

"Baby, I think you're confused," you say, your hands moving to the top of your dress. "You're not in charge right now," You let out a small laugh and pull down on the fabric, letting your breasts spill out. Natashas face reddens in response, and she immediately moves to kiss your chest. You can feel the marks she leaves as her lips trail across your breasts, her skillful tongue pleasuring your sensitive nipples.

Natashas' large hands move to the bottom of your dress as her kisses begin to litter up your neck. You let her move the material above and over your hips, but stop her as she reaches your panties. "I wanna hear you," you mumble out. She lets out a huff and pulls away from your neck.

"Y/n... please." Natasha says. You only continue to look at her with innocent eyes. The fact that she would beg for you - is begging for you, made you feel instant gratification.

"Please, pretty girl? Please let me make you feel good. I want to fuck you, want to make you feel good so bad..." She begs, and you let her slide your panties down your legs. Natasha slides her tip between your closed thighs, her cock now being coated from the wetness that spread between your legs.

She slips in between your folds, waiting for your words. Her fingers dig into your hips. "You drive me so fucking insane," Natasha whispers as her head ducks to your neck again. "I could cum from just looking at you. Just hearing you say my name. You know how much control you have over me?" Her hips continue rocking against you, your thighs squeezing her hard cock. She begins to pant again, her neck red and hot to the touch as you wrap your arms around it, interlocking your fingers behind her head.

"Please," Natasha whimpers, and the sound is enough to make you moan. You needed to feel her inside you immediately, hear more of those moans leave her lips.

"Show me how bad you want me, how insane I make you feel," you finally say and lean forward to bite her lower lip. She wastes no time lifting you up, helping you wrap your legs around her hips. Your back presses against the door again and with one hand she guides her cock inside of your warm velvet walls, easily ,with how wet you were for her.

Natasha begins to thrust up into you, a feeling you had become accustomed to these past few weeks, although you weren't sure you'd ever get used to her size. She groans against your chest, nipping at the skin. The small bathroom fills with the sounds of her pounding into you, both of you moaning practically in sync with every thrust.

"So good, pretty girl, feel so good wrapped around my cock. I love fucking this pretty pussy," she breathes heavy against your skin as she speaks. You hold on tightly to her, only breathless moans escape your lips in response.

Suddenly, from the outside, someone bangs on the door, Natasha doesn't halt her descent on you. "Can you hurry the fuck up in there?" A stranger yells from the other side. Your eyes widen, a little bit of adrenaline rushing into your chest as she continues fucking into you.

Natasha smiles, now at your flustered state. "Occupied," is all she replies before her thrust picks up the pace. "You better keep quiet, sweetheart. You don't want everyone to know how much of a slut you are for me, letting me fuck you in the bathroom."

You squeeze your eyes closed as she fucks herself into you, trying your best to keep quiet. Each thrust was now hitting that special spot inside of you and drawing you closer to an orgasm. The feeling of her muscles flexing around you only intensified that feeling.

"Fuck I-I can't I'm-" Natasha stutters out as she groans into your neck, feeling your hot cunt tighten around her cock.

"Me too, Nat," you moan along with her, and your legs squeeze around her waist. "Let go, baby... wanna feel you fill me up." You watch her face twist in pleasure at your words, and the fact that it was enough to make her cum only added to your ego in the moment. Natasha grunts against your skin as she does just what you say, filling you up completely.

The sensation alone is enough to make you follow right behind her, the burn in your lower stomach blazing as you scream out her name.

"That's it, sweetheart, that's it... such a good girl for me," she coos as you fall apart in her arms, kissing your face as you breathe heavily. Your head falls against her shoulder, face panting in the crook of her neck as she holds you tightly, letting you come down off your high.

After a few moments she pulls out slowly, and you can feel the mixture of both your arousal dripping down your thighs. Natasha carries you to the sink, letting you rest on the hard surface while she pulls her pants back up and you fix the top of your dress.

"Hi," she says with a smile. You giggle, remembering she said the same thing afterward on the first night at her party.

"Hi," is all you reply, grabbing her shirt in your hand and pulling her closer to kiss you again.

****

"They have eight legs and eight eyes. How are they not scary?" Peter drunkenly speaks to Monica, who sits next to him with an amused look.

After your time in the bathroom with Natasha, the two of you had rejoined the group, and over the course of two hours, you had become increasingly wasted with the rest of your friends. As Yelena joined in on the topic of spiders, you feel Natasha rest her head back against your front.

She sat slouched back in one of the chairs that scattered near the table while you stood behind her, hands stroking her neck and massaging her shoulders. You can't help but smile down at her.

"You're so cute," you giggle and watch her brow raise. Your finger traces the dark lines on her neck.

"Anything but cute," Natasha groans, with a playful smirk on her face. "Why do you say that?"

"You're different than you look, you know? Why are you so nervous around me?" Your words slur, and she chuckles at your drunken state with a shrug, looking at the beer bottle she held in her hand.

"Must be the alcohol?" She says. You shake your head and poke her nose.

"You were drinking when I first met you, and you weren't like this," you point out and watch her swallow. You decide to move in front of her, settling yourself between her muscled thighs. As you stand in front of her, she sits up straighter, the two of you now practically the same height.

You take her hand in yours, playing with her fingers. She smiles a little as she looks at your intertwined hands.

"Maybe I was drinking that night to get enough courage to talk to you... and maybe I- maybe I'm drinking tonight to get enough courage to say I want more with you. More than... the hookups," she says and finally looks back up at you. Your heart races in your chest at her words, panic written on your face as you freeze in front of her.

That was exactly what you wanted. More of her, more of this beautiful person who was even more beautiful inside. To get to know what makes her really tick, what makes her happy, how her day was, how she likes her coffee. She wanted more, too, so why were you not speaking out loud?

"What?" Is all that comes out of your mouth.

Natashas face falls completely, misinterpreting your flustered state for a sign of rejection. She had hoped this wouldn't happen. Part of her wondered if this had just been a hook up, but the other part of her desperately hoped it wasn't.

Before the words could leave your parted lips, Kate calls over to you, taking the attention of both you and Natasha.

"Y/N, you ready to go? You can stay if you want, I'm gonna take Pete home, though," she nods to the direction of where he sat drunk rambling to Yelena.

"No, not -"

"Actually, Yelena and I have a lot to do tomorrow. We should head out too," Natasha interrupts you and stands, her hand moving to your lower back as you stare up at her with a pout.

"Are you sure?" You ask her, your hand reaching out to her side. She tenses under your grasp.

"Yeah, I'll text you later," She smiles at you, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes this time.

You nod anyways and smile back, leaning up to kiss her lips softly. "Thank you for tonight.. Hopefully, we can do it again soon?"

And while you were talking about hanging out with her, Natasha assumes you were talking about her fucking you.

"Yeah, soon," she lets out a breath and grabs her jacket, not taking a second look back at you as her and Yelena exit the bar.

***

A smile fills your face as your head hits the pillow, the soft comforter pulled over you as you lie on your warm bed and mull over tonights events. You wondered why Natasha had left in such a hurry before you could say anything, but you decided not to think too hard on it. She probably did have to go. It was early in the morning by the time you left, and besides, you would hear from her later.

Every morning, she texted you a quick and sweet text, telling you to have a good day.

Your chest swelled at the thought of it, how sweet it was that such a small, simple thing could brighten your entire day. What you assumed would happen tomorrow is that the two of you would talk about wanting more and how desperately you agreed with her about it.

But when the late morning came and the sunshine streamed through the windows, no text came with it.

#natasha romanoff #natasha x fem!reader #natasha x reader #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x reader #gp!Natasha x reader #marvel #marvel one shot #part 2

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junkissed · 12 days ago

Text

nightwalker

member — vampire!minghao x f reader genre — smut, a little thriller/horror/supernatural word count — 6.6k synopsis — the closing shift at the university library isn't the most exciting job in the world, but your hot colleague makes it a whole lot better. another added bonus: he's a vampire. content warnings — mentions of blood, blood drinking (from reader), biting, not really compliant with vampire lore (i made some stuff up for the sake of making it spookier so just go with it), minghao is kinda creepy but he's a nice vampire i promise smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, fingering, making out, aphrodisiac vampire venom (?), plenty of consent!! notes — inspired by the song "nightwalker" by ten! the biggest thanks ever to mars @onlymingyus for helping me brainstorm this one, from start to finish (plus @cheolism and @wonustars for fleshing out the concept with me!). i worked so so hard to get this out in time for halloween, and this is my first vampire fic so it was a challenge to get it to a place i was happy with. i hope yall enjoy, and please lmk in a reblog/comment/ask if it's something you liked or want to see more of !! :D

there are many places that are exciting at night. bars, clubs, restaurants, theaters. especially on a saturday night, the town is full of life.

the university library where you work is not one of those places.

the study rooms have long since closed; computers have been shut off and the last few students have trudged home with bags under their eyes and bags full of half-finished papers. you don't usually work this late, but you're covering the graveyard shift for jun, who has a date with his girlfriend tonight. he definitely owes you one for this, but you get overtime pay for it so does it really matter in the end?

the closing shift isn't difficult. there's a few carts of returned books that need to be shelved, but that's really all there is to it. the only downside is that there's only one person working at night, so you're alone. but then again, some people might see that as an upside. as for you, it's got both pros and cons. it's not a shift you'd go out of your way to ask for, but you don't mind it once in a while. it's usually pretty peaceful after dark, and you can put on your headphones and play your music as loud as you want.

you pick up a stack of books for the history shelf, turning one over and flipping through it mindlessly. the cover is intricately detailed with flourishing silver engraving, and you pause a second longer to stare at it before you flip it around to check the number on its side.

you start to climb up the ladder and run your finger across the spines on the shelf, stopping where there's an empty space between the books. the job isn't hard, but it is boring. counting, shelving, counting again, alphabetizing.

there's a sharp crack against the library window and you startle, whipping your head around to check behind you. but there's nothing there. it wasn't supposed to storm today… but it's probably just the wind. or maybe a sudden thunderstorm. or, it could be the guys from theta chi again. yeah, that sounds more like it. always the college kids getting up to trouble. it is a saturday night, after all, and this close to halloween there's bound to be at least a couple people throwing ragers tonight.

whatever it is, it's probably nothing to worry about. you've already locked up the rest of the building, so it’s just you alone in here now.

you turn back to the shelf, shoving the book into place before you reach for the next. best to get this over with as quickly as possible so you can go home.

there's another booming sound, and now you're sure it's thunder because the whole room almost seems to rumble. you startle again at the noise, but this time your foot slips off the ladder and you lose your balance. you only have a split second to brace yourself as you start to fall, but you don't hit the ground.

suddenly there's a hand on your lower back, another on your arm, and you land on somebody's chest instead. you let out a scream, your loud shriek echoing through the silence of the library, and whoever caught you sets you back down on the floor.

you look up to see who it is, and you come face to face with the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. his long blond hair falls in waves at his shoulders, and his pale skin almost seems to sparkle under the overhead lights.

“you alright?” he asks calmly, breaking your trance.

you blink quickly and smooth down your shirt, trying to collect yourself. you just screamed at the top of your lungs in this poor man's face, and he's still being as polite as ever. “yeah, i'm fine, thanks to you. i'm lucky you were there.” you clear you throat and offer him a weary smile as you tell him your name. “i'm so sorry about that, by the way. and, you are…?”

“minghao,” he finishes for you. he doesn't say anything more. his tone is gentle and friendly, but there's still a sizzle of tension in the air around him that feels out of place.

you're trying to wrack your brain for information, but nothing's coming up. “you look familiar. do you work on campus? or— you're a student here?” you add the last part quickly, afraid to assume wrong. he looks young enough to be a student, but he sure doesn't seem like one. a grad student, maybe? or a phd candidate?

he nods. “department of health sciences.” he suddenly pauses, tilting his head to chuckle as if he's just thought of the funniest thing. “i'm sorry, i should've introduced myself better. you probably meet a lot of people, in a place like this.” he holds out his hand for you to shake. “dr. xu. maybe that name is a bit more recognizable. i teach classes in the fall.”

that feels a little more reassuring. and if he only teaches during the fall semester, that explains why you didn't recognize him more quickly.

you reach out to take his hand, and a shiver runs instantly through you when you feel his freezing palm against yours. the heater is running inside the building, but he just came in so maybe it's colder outside than you realize. but still, his grip feels unnaturally cold, as if he's radiating ice from the inside out.

“sorry, i'm just a little surprised. i thought i was in here alone. i swear i locked those doors…” you trail off, subconsciously glancing at the entrance. didn't you lock them? you hum quietly, trying to clear your mind. it's late, so clearly you aren't focused as much as you thought you were. “anyway. what can i help you with?”

minghao chuckles, almost sounding shy. “oh, i'm just here to return a book.” he pulls out a small, leather bound book from the pocket of his coat and hands it to you. his fingers graze against your wrist, and you have to force yourself not to wince at how cold his touch is. “working late, you know how it is.”

you scoff softly, nodding. “i sure do.” why do you suddenly feel like your tongue is in knots? “i'll check this in for you. is there anything…”

“no, that's all.” his words are short, but his tone still has that pleasant lilt to it that puts you at ease. “you've been quite helpful, i appreciate it. i'll get out of your way now.” he bows his head politely, giving you another smile. “be careful with those stairs.”

you turn around to set his book on the table behind you, letting out a chuckle as you start to reply. “i wi—”

but when you turn back around to tell him goodbye, he's already disappeared and you're standing by yourself. the library is deadly silent, not even the sound of footsteps or a door creaking. you turn again to look around for any signs of life, but the large room is completely empty.

you exhale, rubbing a hand across your forehead. the only evidence that minghao was ever there is the book still sitting on the table, looking up at you innocently, as if mocking your confusion.

whatever. all you have to do is just finish putting everything away so you can go home. it's not much longer.

by the time you collect your things and close up the library (you're sure that you did this time, double and triple checking every lock), it's well after midnight.

at this time of night the buses aren't running anymore, so you're stuck walking home. yet another reason to yell at jun later, but you probably won't. you just hope for his sake that his date had better been worth it.

you're not afraid of the dark. it's a fairly safe town, and aside from the college kids stealing each other's bikes and throwing rocks at people's windows, there's not a whole lot of crime that happens here. but still, you don't want to be the first to change that.

you stick close to the inside edge of the sidewalk, your gaze flitting around you as you hold your bag tighter to your chest. your encounter at the library has already put you on edge, making the usually peaceful night sounds feel spookier. the chirp of crickets and the distant howling of dogs (or maybe wolves?) only makes you more nervous as you pick up your pace. you're already almost halfway home. everything is fine.

a whispering sound in the dark makes you freeze, and you catch a shadow slip past the light of a street lamp on the ground. the sound seems to bounce around, unintelligible soft breaths floating around your ears. it's hard to tell if it's only in your head or not.

“hello?” you call out loudly, trying to sound brave. you pull out your phone and turn on the flashlight, shining it around, but there's nothing there. probably just an animal, you tell yourself, but you know you're lying to yourself. no animal you've ever known sounds like that. the disjointed murmurs in your ears makes your skin prickle. maybe it's… fuck, you don't even know what it might be anymore. but you're getting closer now. everything is fine.

you start walking again and the whispering sound returns, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. the street is dark and empty, not a single car in sight, not a single light turned on inside the houses you walk past. it's too quiet, eerie.

you see another shadow moving. the whispering finally fades into a clear voice, calling out your name, and it sounds uncomfortably familiar. you whip around to check behind you, but the sight of minghao makes you relax.

you exhale slowly, almost wanting to laugh with how overwhelmed with relief you are. you're not alone. there's someone here, and it's someone you know. everything is fine.

“are you following me, or something?” you scoff jokingly, but there's a little bit of truth to your words. two coincidences in one night feels like too many, but you're still glad to see him.

minghao laughs warmly, and somehow it makes the street seem smaller. “no, i live over here. i left the lab pretty late, just had some projects to finish up before tomorrow. sorry for startling you.” he pauses, looking you up and down. “i'm assuming you live down this way, too… would you like me to walk you home? it’s not very safe being out here alone at night, especially this time of year.”

his last words seem strange to you. what’s so different about this time of year? but a sharp gust of wind whips your coat around, so you don’t really have time to dwell on it for long.

you pull your sleeves down to cover your hands, crossing your arms tightly over your chest to keep warm. it’s not usually this chilly, but maybe it’s just because you’re not usually out this late. the whistling of the wind through the trees makes you shiver, and you get the strange feeling that something’s watching you, something just out of reach. and suddenly, minghao’s offer seems like the best thing that could’ve happened to you tonight.

“please,” you tell him with a nod. “that would be great. thank you.”

he flashes another smile, and his teeth glint in the low light of the street lamp as he moves closer to you. “it’s my pleasure.”

now that minghao’s beside you, you’re able to zone out a little as you walk back to your house. the anxious, sort of uncomfortable feeling gnawing at the back of your thoughts is still there, but you push it down. it’s just the late hour. it’s just the wind. it’s just your mind playing tricks on you, and there’s really nothing to be worried about.

you only realize that you’ve arrived once you notice minghao stop beside you. your mind is still elsewhere, so it doesn’t occur to you until later to wonder how he knew which house to stop at. the wind has completely died down, and the silence that follows is eerie, like the calm before a storm. except there is no storm. there’s only you, and minghao, and the dead of night.

you climb the steps to your front porch and pull your mail out from the metal box on the wall, tucking it under your arm as you fumble with your keys. your hand shakes from the cold as you move to unlock the door. “do you wanna stay for drinks or something?” you say, stepping inside and looking back at him.

you swear you see something flash across his eyes, but you're probably imagining things again; it's probably from the porch light flickering again. you really need to get that lightbulb changed soon. you've been putting it off for weeks, but as long as it still keeps your front door lit, then it's a project for another day.

he gives you a closed-mouth smile, nodding. “that'd be nice.” but despite his agreement he stays rooted in his spot outside, unmoving.

you hesitate in confusion. “well… come on in,” you say after a beat, gesturing inside the house with your arm.

he finally moves, stepping tentatively through the doorway. once he's inside you flip the latch behind him, waiting for the familiar click as you hear the deadbolt slide into place. suddenly there's a tension in the room that you hadn't noticed before, and you can feel minghao's eyes following your every move.

“do you have extra locks for your door?”

he speaks up suddenly, and you jump a little in surprise. you're not usually on edge like this, but maybe it's just the season. they do say that strange things happen around halloween, after all. and on top of that, it's a full moon tonight, too.

when you don't reply right away, minghao pauses and leans against the kitchen counter, his tone casual as if he’s discussing the weather. “i just came across an article the other day about how easy it is for people to break those locks. you can never be too prepared, especially living alone…” he trails off, shrugging his shoulders.

you nod. you’d never mentioned living alone. but then again, that much is probably already obvious. no other cars parked in front of your house, no extra pairs of shoes in your front doorway, no lights on when you got home. “yeah.” you shift in place, trying to figure out how to bring the mood up.

“am i scaring you?” he asks, crossing his arms. his voice is gentle, but there's a hint of a smirk on his face that makes butterflies rise in your stomach.

“no.” you bite your lip. “should i be scared?”

“guess you’ll have to find out.”

you clear your throat and turn towards the counter, feeling your cheeks burn with heat. obviously he's just messing with you, and you have no reason to be this nervous. “i… i should probably just put my mail away, then i'll find us something to drink. you’re probably tired, i’ll just—”

in your haste to look busy, your hand slips and the stack of papers scatter across the floor. the edge of one of the thicker envelopes catches on your index finger, slicing through the skin, and immediately a pinprick of blood starts to seep from the cut. you jump backwards in surprise and let out a yelp, inhaling sharply as you bring your finger to your mouth out of instinct.

when you realize what you've done, you pull your finger out of your mouth, squeezing your other hand around the wound to try and stop the bleeding. “sorry! oh my god, this is so embarrassing, i—”

but you stop when you look up and see minghao frozen in place, staring at your hand. his eyes have suddenly grown dark, a deep pitch black so that you can’t see his pupils, and his gaze is still fixed on the small smeared pool of crimson red on your fingertip. you’re about to ask him something, although you’re not sure what you mean to ask, but he speaks before you can get another word out.

“can i see?”

his voice is like a lullaby, filling your ears like soft music, and before you can even think about what you’re doing you find yourself lifting your hand and holding it out towards him.

his eyelashes flutter as he takes your hand gingerly, his nostrils flared as he watches the blood still running down your finger. he finally breaks his concentration away from the cut, lifting his gaze to stare at you. the look in his eyes is so intense, and you swear you see his eye twitch but it could’ve just been a blink. he doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts your hand to his mouth, sliding his lips around your finger. you think you feel his teeth graze against your skin, but you probably imagined that.

“band-aid?”

it’s not until he speaks a second later that you realize he’s taken your finger out of his mouth, and you look down at the cut. your hand feels cold and clammy, and you’re so dizzy that you have to lean against the counter so you don’t fall over. you blink and try to shake yourself out of your daze, but your body feels so heavy all of a sudden, too slow to move. even the soft kitchen light seems unnaturally bright to your eyes, and you feel lightheaded, as if all the blood in your body has rushed to the cut on your finger. “huh?”

minghao’s voice comes through clearer now, no longer the sweet melodic tone you’d heard earlier. now the sound is sharp, easily slicing through the warm fog in your mind. “do you have a band-aid?” he repeats.

you exhale, finally coming back to your senses, though your hand is still shaking in minghao’s grip. “y-yeah. the… drawer…” you manage to lift your other hand to point across the kitchen. you swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself and calm down. for some reason you feel positive he can hear your heart pounding in your throat. “there’s a box. by the silverware.”

he moves away, but you vaguely register that he still hasn’t let go of your hand. his hand is freezing, his touch ice cold against your skin, and you feel yourself shiver. the overwhelming urge to sleep overtakes you, and you let your eyes fall closed for a moment while you wait for him.

when you open your eyes again, you’re not in the kitchen anymore. you swear your eyes were only closed for a split second, no longer than a single blink, but now you’re sitting on your couch with your finger tightly wrapped in a bandage.

minghao stands in front of you, watching you closely. “are you okay?” he asks. his voice is clear again, as casual as can be, and you almost thing you've dreamed this whole situation up. it's a better explanation, at least, than acknowledging you embarrassing yourself in front of your hot colleague.

your head feels so heavy, and you lean against the back of the couch to relieve the ache in your neck. there's a chill in your body that wasn't there before, a tingling feeling that almost borders on pleasurable, but you force it away.

you forgot he'd even asked you a question until he lets out a sigh, running his fingers through his long hair to flip it out of his face. “i told you it's not safe to be around here at night alone.”

you frown in confusion, your head still feeling woozy. “it's only a papercut, minghao. and i'm fine, i'm not alone. there's a perfectly good doctor standing in my house right now.”

he clicks his teeth at your response, though you can't figure out what you'd said wrong. “you're a naive little thing, aren't you?” he exhales, tsking almost disapprovingly.

despite his tone, his words almost make you laugh, because suddenly everything makes sense. the shy meeting at the library, the encounter in the street, him offering to walk you home… this whole time, it's all been connected, and it took something as small as a papercut to figure it out. “are you hitting on me?”

he lets out a noise of surprise and starts to open his mouth, but you continue before he can say anything. “you could've just asked for my number, you know. i'm not taking classes at the university, so i don't think there's any rules against it.”

“trust me, i would really enjoy that; but no, that's not the reason i'm here.” he manages to get a word in, but you're not deterred. you can see it in the way he stands in front of you, eyeing you like the most delicious treat he's ever seen. you can't believe you didn't realize it sooner.

you hum, crossing your arms as you stare up at him from the couch. “but you do want to sleep with me.”

“i— maybe,” minghao huffs, but you swear you see a little bit of pink in his pale cheeks. he shifts on his feet, a timid expression on his face that seems unbefitting for a man who literally just stuck your bloodied finger in his mouth. “but—”

“aw, don't be shy.” you smile. “i won't bite. promise.”

that gets a laugh out of him. “but i might.”

“ooh, freaky.” you raise your eyebrows. you didn't strike him as the type to be into that, but maybe it's a doctor thing. and besides, who are you to judge? “are you, like, a vampire or something?”

you expect him to laugh again, but he seems unphased by your accusation, simply nodding like you'd just asked him his favorite food instead of whether or not he's a mythical undead creature. “yeah. does that frighten you?”

you shake your head, but you stop quickly when the motion makes you a little dizzy, though you can't comprehend why. “nah, i've seen worse. i had an ex-boyfriend that wanted to be my dog and let me walk him around my house on a leash, but…” you stop, realizing you're probably giving out too many details that minghao probably doesn't care about. “anyway, you already sucked on my finger, so it can't get any weirder than that. are you gonna bite my neck? because that's kinda hot.”

minghao's eyes widen, surprised by your offer, as if he's not the one who just claimed to be a vampire. he narrows his eyes and stays silent for a moment, listening for an inaudible sound. he must decide that you're being genuine, because he quickly relaxes, his lips turning up into a smile. “i… could. only if you want me to. if you'd let me.”

“i do want you to.”

he groans like that's the best idea he's ever heard in his life, and it makes you giggle. it's been too long since you've had somebody in your house who's this enthusiastic about roleplaying. maybe this is the change up you've needed in your life. it's perfectly fitting for the halloween season, too.

“are you sure?” he asks, and you suddenly realize his voice has dropped a few octaves lower. damn, he really is into this.

you pull yourself to your feet, still feeling a little lightheaded, but you're thinking clearly. you're sure of it. if you get in trouble with the university for fucking somebody who's technically your coworker, then so be it.

“yeah. go on, bite me.”

in one swift motion minghao swoops in, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours. his hand wraps around your neck to keep you in place and he inhales sharply, his nails digging into your skin as he tightens his grip. any reservations you still had about him are gone the second you feel his teeth drag against your lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth easily.

you whimper into his mouth as he kisses you, but a second later he pulls away and releases his hand from around your neck, leaving you gasping for breath. he moves again, casually settling himself down on the couch in the spot where you'd just been, and you watch his movements with wide eyes.

he seems refreshed just from the kiss, his eyes sparkling with a new kind of light. he pats his thigh, spreading his legs out wider as he gets comfortable. before he even says a word you feel drawn to him, immediately moving towards him as if being beckoned by an invisible force.

“come on, darling, sit. you want me to bite you?” he finally speaks up. he flashes a grin at you as you plant yourself on his lap, your knees on either side of his hips. you're expecting his body to be warm, but like when you shook his hand in the library, all you feel is cold. a shiver runs through you at the feeling, and you briefly consider getting up to turn the heater on first, but you're already melting into minghao's lap and it feels way too good to leave now when you're just getting started.

“such a pretty thing.” he brushes your hair off your neck and back behind your ear, sending another shiver down your spine at his freezing touch and his deep voice. “will you give me a little taste?”

his tone makes you pause. you thought he'd have let up on the joke by now, but he seems completely serious to see this through. either he just really likes to roleplay, or…

thunder cracks outside, and you startle on his lap. but he just chuckles, his hand snaking around your waist to hold you tighter against him. “don't be afraid, now. the fear makes you taste so sour, and you're much too beautiful for that, my darling.” he lets out a hum, and your gaze is drawn to his eyes like a magnet. “you're safe with me. just relax and let yourself enjoy it. i promise you'll like it.”

he pauses to wait for your nod, and once you do he moves in closer, his long eyelashes fluttering as he flicks his gaze up to look at your eyes one more time. he goes completely still, inhaling like he's searching for something. but after a moment he seems satisfied with this position, and he settles his ice cold lips against the warmth of your neck.

“ready?” he murmurs against your skin, and his breath makes your skin erupt with goosebumps. it's strangely reminiscent of a chilly gust of wind, the same cold wind blowing outside your house tonight.

you nod again, suddenly feeling shy. his name is on the tip of your tongue, but it instantly dies in your throat before any sound leaves your lips, and you feel his teeth sink into your neck. you choke out a gasp, whimpering at the split second of pain that blooms under your skin but bleeds into pleasure almost as quickly as it begins.

you let out a shaky exhale, struggling to catch your breath. every muscle in your body feels paralyzed. you squeeze your hand on minghao's shoulder, your nails digging into his back as hard as you can.

your lips are parted so beautifully in euphoria, minghao thinks, and yet you don't even realize it. of course you wouldn't. you don't understand how perfect you are, how perfect you are for him. he doesn't let up, plunging his teeth deeper into your neck as he revels at the flood of arousal in your veins that melts onto his tongue like candy.

you try to suppress a moan but it falls from your lips before you can think hard enough to stop it, your hips rolling against his lap. you've never felt a rush like this before in your life. you're addicted to it. every sensation is heightened, every nerve alight with ice cold fire.

you let out a whine and then moan again, grinding your hips down on him desperately. you can vaguely register the hard, thick bulge of his length between your legs but it's the last thing on your mind right now, so focused on chasing the high that's building inside you. you can taste colors and sounds and smells, almost overwhelmed with how sensitive everything is, yet it's the best feeling you've ever had.

he pulls back from you slowly and you whimper as you feel his fangs retract from your neck, leaving you with an even colder sensation that prickles on your skin. his tongue laps at the fresh wound, but your brain can't determine whether the dripping wetness on your skin is blood or saliva.

“more,” you gasp out once you find your voice again, still panting in exhilaration. your head is full of pressure and you feel dizzy again, even more than earlier. you have to fight to keep your head upright instead of letting it fall against his chest, the weight almost unbearable, but nothing compared to how good your body feels right now.

“no more.” minghao shakes his head firmly. his mouth is stained with blood, the dark crimson red that's blotted over his plush lips making them seem even paler in contrast. he reaches one hand up to hold the back of your neck, and instantly you feel relief from the aching heaviness of your head. “that's enough for tonight. can't let you lose any more blood, sweetheart. but thank you for the snack.”

you exhale quietly as you try to breathe naturally again, but your hips never stop moving. minghao can hear the vibrations from your heart pounding as you grind down against his lap, and it only stirs him up further. it's been a long time since he's been this excited about something other than feeding. he almost can't remember the last time he'd felt the desire to be intimate, and that only makes you seem all the more exciting. it's not what he'd been expecting when he'd offered to follow you home tonight, but this outcome is much, much better.

you're quieter than he'd thought you would be. but then again, everyone reacts differently to him. some in horror, some in shock, some in fear, some in lust. you... well, it's clear you're enjoying it. but you're too quiet. he wants to hear your beautiful screams, the desperate way your breath catches in your throat as your lungs fill with air. he wants to hear the rush of blood in your veins, tinged sweet with your arousal like sticky melted sugar. more than anything he wants to drink you up, but he can't. even if he could, he won't. a beautiful thing like you, you're the kind of meal that someone like him waits centuries for, like a perfectly aged wine savored slowly over years instead of gulped down in one sitting. he's already had a taste of you, and he's perfectly content to wait centuries more for another bite. luckily, he's a very patient man.

but you don't have the benefit of centuries of patience like he does, and he can tell. this isn't enough for you. he can smell it, he can practically taste it in the air that you're not going to get off like this, at least not without taking more from you. and he's determined not to let his appetite get the best of him, not when you're so satisfying in so many other ways.

“you know you can do better than that, angel,” he murmurs. the nickname burns his tongue, a sharp stinging pain as it leaves his icy lips, but he doesn't care. anything he has to go through to have any part of you, even the wrath of heaven itself, is well worth it to him. all you need is a little encouragement, and he's happy to provide.

you let out a whine, your eyes meeting his dark ones as you tentatively rest your hands on his shoulders once more. he feels firm beneath your grasp, although you don't know why you were expecting him not to be. the tingling feeling in your body is starting to wear off, and he doesn't feel real. there's a fog around everything right now, hazy like walking through a dream. or maybe a nightmare. it's too hard to tell right now. maybe you'll wake up in a few hours and look back on this and laugh. maybe you fell asleep at the library and never even made it home. the only thing you know for sure is that you're never covering another night shift for jun ever again after this. or, maybe you will. actually, maybe you'll offer to cover his shifts every night, if it gives you another chance to see minghao again.

“you're thinking too hard, darling,” minghao interrupts, though you haven't spoken out loud. “i can't do anything you won't like. can't hurt you, at least not tonight. but you're too sweet to waste, anyway. i wouldn't dare spoil you.” he hums, tilting his head downward to look at you through his lashes, his eyes boring into you so intensely that you feel it in the deepest parts of your soul.

“then, what are you going to do?” you manage breathlessly, meeting his gaze. you're so eager for more, and you're not even trying to hide it anymore. you don't think you could hide it no matter how hard you tried.

minghao hums, brushing your hair back again with his slender fingers. “mm, how about you show me where your bedroom is first, darling? then i'll tell you.”

but before you can answer he stands up and scoops you up into his arms. it seems like only a second passes before he reaches your room, depositing you on your bed with a cold gust of air.

you can't see him in the darkness, and you almost start to call out for him nervously. you've grown used to the familiar coldness of his body, and the room feels emptier without his touch. but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, the candles on your windowsill suddenly flicker to life, crackling with a small burst of flame.

“better?” minghao murmurs, appearing beside you at the edge of the bed. his figure seems to melt into the darkness, barely visible at the edges of your vision, but you know he's there.

“would be even better if you'd touch me already,” you reply, and that earns you a smirk from him.

“forgive me for giving you a chance to change your mind.” minghao huffs and rolls his eyes a little. eager may have been an understatement.

you whine impatiently and reach out for him, but he cuts you off before you can protest. his voice grows serious, the same sharp tone he used earlier that registers so clearly in your mind. “you're allowed to say no. i'm not using any tricks on you to make you obey me. if you want to stop, then i will.”

something about his voice feels genuine, and you know he's telling the truth. “okay,” you hum softly, trying to match his serious tone. “but i'm saying yes.”

he exhales almost in exasperation, but he's smiling as he leans down over the bed to capture your lips again. his mouth is cold, but this time you're expecting it and it doesn't catch you so off guard.

you're getting used to the feeling of kissing minghao. he tastes better than anyone you've ever kissed, and it's quite easy once your brain manages to get past the initial mental barrier of holy shit you're kissing a vampire and he's really good at it.

one of his hands finds its way down your pants, and instinctively you bite down on his lip in surprise at the sudden icy sensation rubbing between your folds. but that only makes him groan and press his fingers harder against you, moving up to trace circles around your clit.

you whimper into his mouth, your hips simultaneously bucking towards him and away from him as he sinks a finger inside. the cold feeling is such a new sensation, and you clench down automatically around him.

but despite the coldness of his touch, your cheeks are burning hot, and it's getting harder and harder to catch your breath. you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down closer to you, the front of his body pressed against yours, and he slides in another finger.

he almost can't believe you're real. this close to you he can hear your heartbeat thumping and he knows you're alive, the saccharine-sweet scent of your blood coursing through your veins serving only as a reminder of his own mortality. you're everything he's not: warm and alive and full of emotion, but that only makes him want you more.

the wind has picked up again, drowning out the sounds of your moans as the trees outside thud their branches against the side of the house. it only takes another moment for you to reach your peak, falling apart around him with a choked whimper. he slips his fingers halfway out before thrusting them back in, repeating the motion as he presses the heel of his palm against your clit for more stimulation.

his nostrils flare as your scent gets even more powerful, and he has to concentrate all his energy on keeping himself in check. he's never been more tempted to drink from someone in all his life. he can still taste your blood on his tongue from earlier, his mouth beginning to water at the memory, and in the back of his mind he wonders if you can taste it, too. if you were that good before, then he can only imagine how you'd taste now, with the added syrup of your arousal. you're like an ambrosia he can never have, the sweetest nectar he's ever had the pleasure of sampling.

his resolve is crumbling, but he promised he wouldn't drink any more. it would hurt you, and it would pain him even more than it would you. if he says anything then you'd only plead for him to do more, lost in the aphrodisiac of his venom and unable to tell your own limits, so he keeps his thoughts to himself and just kisses you harder, swallowing your moans instead of your blood. maybe if he's lucky he'll get another chance to have you another day, once you've had time to rest and recover. if you're willing, he could keep this up for a while. you could be his. forever.

your thoughts are fuzzy when he pulls away from you, keeping his fingers buried inside for a moment longer before slipping out. the candles’ flames dance wildly, casting long shadows across your walls as minghao seems to shimmer in the air beside you.

“wait,” you call out for him weakly, still catching your breath as you come down. “please.”

minghao hums, his figure solidifying on the bed above you. he slides his fingers into his mouth, slowly licking your wetness off of them with a groan before he moves to unbutton his shirt.

“oh, i'm not going anywhere.”

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! i'm pretty new to writing non-human characters so feedback would be super appreciated, i hope you liked it <3 thanks for reading!!

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cinnaminsvga · 8 months ago

Text

Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him.

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.

But you do know, the universe responds.

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.

#bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bangtan #bts #bts fanfic

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theresascove · 11 days ago

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guitar lessons

ellie williams x f!reader

ellie—your guitar instructor—shows you how to play guitar, and you show her your own personal talents in the practice room

tw: not proofread, SMUT, modern!au, guitar instructor!Ellie, top!reader, bottom!ellie, fingering (e!receiving), oral (e!receiving), loser!Ellie, sort of exhibition? (Sex in a practice room), hand over Ellie’s mouth to quiet her, overstim

wc ✎ 1.1k __ I wrote this to give more content to bottom!Ellie, I personally believe there’s WAY too little

You’ve been attending her lessons for some time now. You had scanned the QR code offered to you and put your information in. About a week later you got an email back and here you are now—a month and half in. The institute was about a fifteen minutes drive, the building being one smooshed between other smaller companies.

First applying for these lessons, you had no expectations—but each time you’ve opened that front door you have to shake off your nerves. The first time you came through this door and saw her, your instructor, you had to do a double take. She looked about your age, hair short and hanging around her shoulders. Her guitar was set beside her, one you recognize from a popular and reputable brand. She was on her phone, looking up at you when you signaled your arrival by opening the door. She shook your hand, introducing herself before taking the both of you back to the practice room in the back.

You barely knew chords then, only knowing the basic G and C major. She’s taught you a lot, and now you’ve begun to play a few songs, understand a few more chords, and you can even pluck a few songs. Sure you’ve learned a bit, but at the same time there were lessons where you didn’t pay any attention. It was the ones when she’d lean close, her fingers covering yours—showing you how to press tighter onto the guitar so it doesn’t buzz. She always had to show you a few times because the first time you never “got it.”

Now you grab the guitar from your car, moving into the building with the same old deep breath, preparing for whatever’s to be shown. She was in the back practice room, eyes raising to yours as you open the door.

“Hey,” she leans to set her phone down on the ground, “you practice at all this week?”

“Uh,” you laugh, sitting across from her.

“Shit yeah of course, you didn’t.”

You bring your guitar out of its case, setting it your lap, “I’ve had a lot going on, I promise I will this next week.”

She sets her pick in between her lips, humming and reaching behind her for her own guitar. As she pulls it out again, you watch each movement—eyes locked on her lips.

“I don’t believe you, but anyways.”

The lesson kicks off. She tries to pick off where you two left off, but it proves difficult with no practice. It started out with re-going over the song before she tried working on the parts you were messing up on.She’s showing a newer chord, one that has your own fingers struggling to grasp—slipping between the bars. She had moved her guitar beside her yet again, her eyes watching you try and get this and fail miserably each time.

“How’re you getting it?”

She rolls her eyes, “skill.”

With a huff she leans in again, closing the distance between you two. Her callused fingers brushing yours and pressing them, moving them where’s needed. Your pupils pretty much dilate, breathing turning sharp. She’s so close, you can count each freckle on her face and describe her eye color exactly.

“Did you grasp any of what I just said?”

Her voice’s so low, raspy—it drives you up the wall. Holy fuck you wanted to push her against the wall. Her voice, fingers, lips, eyes, body. Maybe you were too overly obvious about your attraction to her physically because she reacts. Her eyes widen just subtly, body stilling at the look coming upon your face. She looks a little taken aback, but she doesn’t move away.

You slide your fingers on top of hers, “can I kiss you?”

As she comes to nod, you’re sliding your guitar off your lap and pulling her in. A hand on her jaw, angling her to start the kiss off deep. You reconnect your lips again, not caring to try and really breathe because all you want to do is breathe her in. You’re desperate.

The angle is awkward, reaching—so you ease it on the both of you. She ends up pushed against the wall just as you’ve imagined so many times. Her hands grappling to hold onto the sponge-like walls, gasping between each kiss. Each sound escaping her drives your mind into a lust-hazed frame of mind.

“Is this okay,” you huff, “will you tell me if I go too far?”

“Yes.”

You pull at her sweats, kissing along her jaw as you drag them down and off somewhere. Right after you’re hiking her leg up, drawing it to rest on your hip to spread her further. Her eyes open to find yours and her focus is gone, she’s already under the effect of your touch. She shivers as you draw your hand down, breathing heavily when you reach her cunt.

“You’re intoxicating—shit.”

With a tug you pull her underwear to the side, rubbing before thrusting a finger in. She moans, head hitting the wall behind her—eyes still looking at you. There’s barely anytime set between when you first insert your first between moving to three. You have her moaning to a concerning volume. With your free hand you cover your mouth, feeling her hot breaths against it.

“Shh, can’t have others knowing.”

She’s whining behind your hand, hips jerking when you hit a spot that throws her over the edge. Everything is exactly how you’ve been imagining, quick flashes of how you’ve wanted to take her whenever she got close to you. She shakes when she reaches her high, covering your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, unsympathetically. She looks confused until she sees you lower yourself to your knees and kiss her inner thigh. She singsongs when you kiss her overstimulated clit. Your name falls from her lips as you do so, almost a hiss before she covers her own mouth to try and keep quiet. Just beside you are piano sounds and singing, most likely a kid learning his scales and warming up for his vocal lesson. Here you have Ellie in another kind of vocal lesson, voice coming out pitchy and whiny.

“I’m going to—again.”

You hum against her, grinning at her tone and licking her completely to see the reaction she has. Each thing she does really is intoxicating, it fills your own mind with nonsense—nothing but her. Her tattoo’d arm is gripping you, the other set upon her face. Her eyes are shut, squinted and trying to calm herself. The second after she comes again, you’re licking her clean—savoring each moment.

“You’re nasty,” she huffs.

You stand, meeting her in a passionate kiss, “maybe, but you enjoyed it.”

“Maybe.”

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nanqmies · 4 days ago

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Dainty | Boothill

cw: really bad southern slang, slight bondage, overstimulation, facial, he eats you out, praise, creampie, exhibition cause you’re outside, consent isn’t verbally stated but it is consensual, hitting it raw, biting + marking, oral, brat taming, porn with plot and i think thats all?

wc: 2.5k

a/n: i finally have motivation again.. it took months but my brain is flowing with ideas!!!! please enjoy my work!~

nsfw under the cut~

God-fucking-dammit. One second you're relaxing in the comfort of your penthouse, gazing out the window as music lowly plays in the background. The next your mother is kicking you out the house for a "wake up call" throwing a bag of necessities out next to you on the street, calling you spoilt and ungrateful for not appreciating the things she and your father have done for you. Sending you out to this dirty old countryside with no buildings, no people, and no service for miles! Seriously? She must be crazy! What about college? Your friends?? Even your butler bids you goodbye when dropping you at some stupid rusted bench in the middle of nowhere. Powering your phone on and raising it high in the air, desperately trying to get some bars to call an uber, groaning in annoyance when your phone overheats and shuts down.

How long has it been since you got here? Sweat coats your forehead causing your hair to stick uncomfortably to your skin, begrudgingly dragging your luggage behind you. Your mouth is dry from dehydration, stomach rumbling for a crumb of food on your plate. It feels like you've been walking along this dirt path for a lifetime. Fortunately your efforts have paid off, finding a small inn, the first building in the miles of grassy fields and farmland. Maybe god truly was on your side! Moving your aching legs to the double doors of the inn, pushing it open and begging the owner for a room to stay. Digging through your wallet and slamming a few hundreds on the front desk, the man behind counts the crinkled bills and leads you to through the halls. Unlocking the last uninhabited room with the key to reveal the ratty and unkempt space, the dim lamp flickering on and off, unexplainable stains on the sheets of the bed with musty smell emitting from the room.

Your nose crinkles in disgust, there... there's no way this room is $200 a night... Glance over the owner, you notice the gold tooth in his mouth shimmering while he grins,, as if he expects you to sleep in some dingy place like this?? You turn around and rush out the doors as quickly as possible, there's absolutely no way in hell you're sleeping in that room... Speeding out on the dirt road and falling to your knees, stress, exhaustion and hunger overwhelms your body. How could you possibly survive in a horrid place like this? No butlers, no phone, no air conditioning, this has to be abuse right?! Laughing hysterically at the absurdity of your situation.

You don't know how long you’re sat there until the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts, looking up you see him. A tall man with slightly tanned skin, long white hair adorned with black accents, covered by a dark gray cowboy hat. He wore a cropped jacket with a scarf hanging down the back with tight black slacks that flared out at the ends. A belt around his waist with a holster and a stack of bullets on the hips

"Ain't yer ma' tell you it's rude to ignore someone when they're talkin' to ya?" the strong southern accent snaps you back to reality, brows furrowing at the man when you shakily stand on your sore.. sore feet.

"What's some city boy doing round ere' this time of day.?" The man persists in his questioning, an annoyed look plays on your face. "I was kicked out, sent away, whatever you'd prefer to call it. For some stupid wake up call." -"| see.. kicked out by yer folks? Nowhere to stay?" His brow rises in curiosity, how amusing.. Some spoilt city boy hauling his luggage around like some sort of idiot, it was painfully obvious to him that you weren't from these parts.. You stomp your foot in annoyance trying to power your phone on but alas it stays black, the screen hot to the touch.

"Ugh! Can my butler just pick me up! The only place to stay is that damned inn." Before you're able to complain you're interrupted by a loud laugh, the cowboy wiping his eye with a chuckle, revealing his sharp toothed smile.

"Aren't you cute.. Ain't no butlers round ere' to save you dainty boy." His words immediately ticked you off, crossing your arms over your chest with a glare. Is he really laughing at your expense? "Dainty boy? Is that supposed to be a joke?" You were now clearly irritated, raising a brow at his laughter, he smiles and tilts his hat down. "Just an observation sweetheart." clearing his throat to try and calm his chuckles. "Tch.. You think you're better than me cause you're from the countryside?" You lean on your luggage for support, you were already exhausted from the scorching heat and long journey his annoying attitude wasn't making it any better. Snickering a bit he decides to indulge in your bad mood a bit more..

"Better than you? Course not.." he takes a step towards you.

"Fancy little electronics and butlers.. so fudging clean and proper.. Ain't never gotten dirty in yer life.." he takes his last step directly in front of you. Leaned over to your shorter height, casting a shadow over you. You swallow thickly, sensing danger in those dark eyes of his. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself composed, the close proximity making it difficult.

"And what's wrong with being clean and proper huh?" You ask, trying to keep your voice steady, "Who wants to be sweaty and dirty like you?" challenging his tone. You expect him to back off but he does the opposite, laughing lowly at you. A raspy one at that. Tilting his hat down and running his tongue over his cracked lips..

"Ain't that right.. Boys like you are my favorite."

You can't even question what he meant by that statement because he stands to his full height and glances over at you, immediately asking another question.

"Anywho.. You got nowhere to stay right?" You're caught off guard but nod reluctantly, "I don't.. but I'm sure your place isn't any better than that dirty old inn." Responding with a scoff, his eyes narrow slightly, a twitch in his smile that's barely noticeable. Scoffing, he drags you along to his horse, helping you get on as it rides through the fields with long gallops. You hold onto his waist, terrified to fall off the moving creature. On the way to his farm he shares his name.. Boothill he tells you, telling him your own in return. Conversation flies by easy with Boothill, listening to you complain about your parents and the boring countryside they left you in. Only answering with a nod or a hum, as easy as the conversation flows by you can't help but feel a bit uneasy around him. Not mentioning family or friends or anything about his personal life, barely knowing a lick about him while he knows your life story.

After about an hour the horse stops at the large farm buildings, a stable for horses and a small batch of chickens and a few cows grazing in the fields. It's oddly.. nice? You trip slightly off the horse, looking at the perimeter of the place. Boothill leads you into his farmhouse, a comforting look you didn't expect. Warm and nicely decorated, cinnamon candles burning a pleasant scent around the house. Grinning at your awed expression, "Is it old and dirty like that inn?" He taunts you, a cocky tone in his words. Sighing in defeat you shake your head no and roll your eyes. Like the gentleman he is he brings your luggage upstairs, touring the house. Boothill nudges the door of the guest bedroom open, dropping your belongings on the bed. And lord he was right,, it was so much better than that stupid inn! Relishing in the feeling of soft sheets under you, Boothill grins once more at the sight.

"Well now.. better rest yer aching bones.. cause tomorrow.. yer working for me." Immediately you shoot up from bed, confusion clear on your face.. WORK? What does he mean work?? He can tell by your expression that you're awfully surprised. "Hm? You didn't think i'd let you stay for free didya?" He wishes you goodnight but not before mentioning you'll "need it' for tomorrow.. Whatever that means..

Waking up with breakfast isn't what you expected, wearing a pair of thin jean shorts and a tank top. Boothill looks over his shoulder when you finally awaken, "Ah.. Rise n shine sleepin' beauty.." he hums cooking, flipping the pancake in the pan. You sit at the table and wait for him to finish breakfast, looking around for a while. He ends up breaking the silence with an odd ask, "Do you like rope city boy?" You were rather confused by this, eyebrows furrowed. "Rope..? Why do you ask?" The kitchen falls quiet for a few long seconds, "Just askin’.."

After breakfast you're led outside, he tells you the tasks you're assigned with:

Feed the animals

Plant and water the crops

Time passes with the tasks you're forced to complete, he's sick of moans and complaints about the hot weather, the sun being too bright and the work being too hard. Boothill feels throbbing i n his temple, jesus you're annoying. Bratty, loud and ungrateful. Has nobody shown you anything about respect? Clearly he'd have to be the one to smack some manners into you..

"God.. always complaining about something huh." Boothill mumbles as he ties the coarse rope over your thighs, keeping them tightly together. Moving up to do the same with your wrists. He watches with a sharp eye, you're sprawled out underneath him in the grass unable to squirm away from his grasp. "I 'ought to force the brat outta'ya myself." Boothill bends you over and forces your head into the grass, yanking down the flimsy fabric of those shorts of yours down to your thighs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth at the sight, completely bare underneath such thin shorts. * Easy Access * "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes darlin." gripping your hips tightly and spreading you open, impatiently kissing over your thighs..

Carnal desire burning inside his chest as his lips part eagerly to run his tongue over your tight rim, plunging his tongue in with such intensity it sent shivers down your spine. Tongue lapping down to your cock then back up, hand tightening around your throbbing shaft as he pulls the skin back to start stroking you. The euphoric sensation becoming overwhelming as he continues, it's so difficult to ignore the hot feeling of him prodding inside, spreading you open like never before. Hands clenching and writhing against the rope tightened over your delicate skin, pitiful mewls slipping through your lips.

"A-Ahn..! hmn~ don't! not there..-" A boyish yelp coming out when Boothill's hand struck down on the flesh of your ass. "Yer so goshdarn prissy.." he mumbles against your skin, fastening the pace of his hand on your dick. Unable to stop the way his tongue goes from running along the outside to fully thrusting his tongue inside. "Not letting a man finish his work.." he hums while you shake underneath him eyes rolling back when you finish, coating his hand in white. Murmuring in amusement not bothering to cover his laugh.

"Well color me surprised. ain't ever seen such an eager thing.." kissing up your back whilst he pulls your shirt off, forcing you down further into the grass. He unzips his slacks to free his hardened cock, spitting on his hand to lubricate his shaft. Lining himself up with your sex and slowly pushing in, teeth clenching when his cock stretches you open with a mix of pain and pleasure. "H-Hahh…. i-it won't-fuck.. fit..!"

Tears streaming down the apples of your cheeks, Boothill knits his fingers into your hair. Rocking his hips back and forth with a slow pace, getting you used to his large size. "Look at you.. whining all over me..ain't that sweet darlin!." he drawls into your ear, body on top of yours fucking into you. His pace quickening with his intense assault on your body, sharp teeth biting into his lips. Groaning loudly at the feeling of you squeezing him tightly, the sounds of your angelic cries of pleasure echoing in his ears. "Hnng..! I-Its ah.. s-so good.. jesus.." mumbling incoherently when your hips move against him for more, a creamy ring of white circling the base of his cock. "Ah.. hmn.. god..! Yer squeezin' me like a virgin." he sinks his sharp teeth into your shoulder blade, causing the skin to break and bleed.

Trying to hold on to anything but to no prevail, arms tied behind your back. "Cause. am a virgin~!" Slurred words constantly fall from your mouth, Boothill only put haste in his thrust, desperate to fuck the attitude outta you and make you his. "Hm..? Must be why yer so gosh darn sensitive... haven't even started yet." Suddenly you're pulled up, back against his chest. The warmth, the closeness overwhelming your senses.. The full feeling of his girth tearing you open to places your measly fingers could only imagine reaching. Maybe he should be more gentle with a dainty thing like you, roughing you up burns an insatiable fire inside him. Once perfectly smooth skin now bruised, bitten, marked and covered in rope burns. But who would he be not to test your limits? Folding you in half to rut his fat tip against your sweet spot, eyes rolling back to see the stars above.. How you beg him to slow down, be more gentle but your body saying the complete opposite, cumming time and time again, thin fluid splattered over your abdomen and chest..

"Absolutely ravishin'..." Boothill groaned into your ear. Pumping his next load inside, the excess of the last trickling down the base of his cock. You can take another can't you? Don't disappoint him, with all that snark and backtalk you must be able to back it up.. Boothill pulls out your warmth, watching his seed overflow and drip down your thighs. You groan and move your head up to look at him as he unties you, exhausted by the intense session. Sweat coating your skin and marks over your shoulders. "Now.. isn't it rude not to clean up the mess you made?" Leaning down and whispering into your ear, taking his hat off and placing it on you instead. You swallow thickly and shakily sit on your knees, enamored at the size of it compared to your hand. Just like he asked you kindly clean off the excess, using your hands for the parts your mouth cannot reach. As he grows close he pulls you off and strokes himself quickly, panting and groaning under his breath. "Yea.. look up at me.. just like that sweetheart." cooing at you, with a grunt he finishes over your face. A soft smile playing on his lips.

"Ain't that a sight for sore eyes.."

Boothill picks you up in his arms, holding you close to his chest, entering back into the farmhouse and kicking the door shut. You'll love your time here at his farm, he's sure you'll be back.

please do not translate, steal or repost my work.

reblogs and feedback appreciated!

#boothill #hsr boothill #11.03.24 #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #boothill x reader #boothill x male reader #x male reader #bottom male reader #nanqmies #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #honkai #honkai star rail x reader #hsr smut #mlm ns/fw

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rcmclachlan · 3 months ago

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On this week's episode of Things I Think About While Driving, I was having myself a grand ol' time thinking about all the different times and ways Buck could've met Tommy earlier, and the one I kept coming back to was S4xE5.

Like, right after Buck walks out of Maddie's apartment having learned about Daniel...

He drives.

He drives and drives and drives with no actual destination in mind, operating completely on autopilot, for hours. No music, no podcasts, just the rush of wind through all the open windows of the Jeep and the echoing refrain in his head of so they made one.

It would've been an allogeneic transplant. He'd looked it up once when he was watching a 60 Minutes special on Myelodysplastic Syndrome. They would've taken the stem cells from his umbilical cord if the timing was right. Unless they tried it a little bit later, maybe waited a few months before they scraped Daniel's homegrown defense system right out of Buck's bones. He would've been too young to remember the pain and discomfort that came after. He wonders if he cried as a baby more than he would've if he'd been wanted for anything other than the hellfire missiles in his marrow.

And then it didn't work. Defective, right out of the gate. No wonder they've always treated him like a massive disappointment—he is one. He had one job and he couldn't even manage to do that much.

So he drives. He drives and he's furious. He drives and he's inconsolable. He drives and he's sorry. With every street he turns down at random, he moves onto another emotion, and by the time the gas gauge is nudging close to empty and the evening is giving way to night, the only thing he's capable of feeling is tired.

And hunger. He'd only had an apple before he went over to Maddie's.

So he circles back to Glendale Boulevard and decides on the place with a red lion on their sign solely because it doesn't look busy for 8:30pm on a Tuesday. There's even a free space in the little lot next to the building. Thanks, COVID.

It's pretty quiet inside, with a substantial bar set against old wood paneling on the walls, making it feel like an old tavern. He takes a seat at the far end of the bar where the lighting's kind of dim.

Turns out it's a German bar, so he orders a glass of Warsteiner, which he's never had before, and it's got a strong, malty backbone for a lager. The bartender tells him there's a Biergarten in the back if he wants to take his drink outside.

Buck doesn't want to move from his little corner. It feels safe here, even with his mask off. At least two of the one hundred thousand knots in his back muscles have relaxed since he sat down. He quietly declines the offer, but he does order himself the sausage plate and a glass of Augustiner Maximator once he's done with the Warsteiner, which goes down so good he can't believe it's got an ABV of 7.5%. He orders a second.

He's in the middle of robotically eating a smoked bockwurst he can't taste, thinking so they made one, when the door to the biergarten opens up. A guy walks over to the bar and Buck throws him a cursory glance. Then he looks again.

The guy is exactly who you'd find on the cover of the LAFD charity calendar: big and beefy, with the kind of high cheekbones that belong on a runway in Milan. Effortlessly handsome. Buck wants to tip his beer toward him, because, respect. He also wants to poke his biceps and ask what his regiment is, if he P90X's or something. Buck isn't a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but this guy looks like he could throw Buck around like a grizzly bear.

Buck lets himself be distracted by watching the guy lightly tap his fingers against the bar to the beat of whatever 80s song is playing softly over the speakers. He's always loved people watching; it's a great way to get out of his head after tough calls. This guy is a particularly fascinating specimen. There's just something magnetic about him. Buck's known people like that: they draw the eye even if they're not doing anything to warrant attention. Without even being called, the bartender wanders over to the guy, no doubt drawn to whatever invisible light is coming off him. Buck can't hear what they're saying, but then the bartender turns and points right at Buck, who freezes, caught.

The guy flashes Buck a thumbs up and asks just loud enough to be heard through his face mask, "How was the Warsteiner?"

Swallowing, Buck lifts the empty glass and says, "Uh, g-good. Full-bodied."

With a thoughtful nod, the guy turns back to the bartender and says something too quiet for Buck to hear, but he figures it out when the bartender goes and comes back with a glass of what is clearly Warsteiner. The guy takes a sip, pauses, and then moves toward Buck, stopping before he gets too close. "Thanks for the recommendation. Hey, Jay, put his next one on my tab."

The bartender—Jay—gives him a thumbs up and goes to the register. Buck, mortified at the thought of being a charity case, of this guy pitying him enough to buy him a beer, opens his mouth to tell Jay he can pay for his own beers, thanks, when the guy holds up a hand to forestall the protest.

"German beer's not usually my thing. I'm more of a craft beer kind of guy, so really, I appreciate the assist. If it makes you feel better, pay it forward." His cheeks curve up, and in the bar lighting Buck can see there are long legs attached to the guy's crow's feet. He clearly has spent his life smiling. Buck would bet this man has never once curled up in the dark on his birthday knowing for a fact his parents weren't going to even text him and was still disappointed when the clock ticked past midnight and he had nothing to show for it. This guy's parents probably had a golden statue of him erected in their front yard.

Buck musters up a smile that feels like one of the little, weak waves that just sort of roll over the shoreline without any fanfare before dissolving back into the sea, and the guy tilts his head.

"Rough day?"

"Rough life," Buck says, utterly pathetic, and feels like he's betrayed all his friends for even saying it. "No, that's—that was incredibly ungrateful. My life isn't—I-I have a good life. I just learned something today about my parents that, uh, clarified a few things for me about our relationship. It... wasn't great."

The guy taps his finger against the bottle of Warsteiner in his hand, staring at Buck with deep consideration, flaying Buck from head to toe without a word. Then he gives a nod that smacks of commiseration and walks around the bar until he's only two chairs away. When the guy opens his mouth and inhales, Buck can already hear what's coming: surely it's not that bad. You should talk it out with them. You're being too hard on them. C'mon, they're your parents, they love you.

"That sucks," the guy says, simple as anything.

Out of nowhere, heat starts prickling in Buck's nose and the corners of his eyes, and he looks at this guy and the calm, earnest expression on his face, and... yeah. Yeah. It does suck. It sucks so hard and it has for so long, and all his life he's wanted someone to tell him that, to hear him list every injustice and offer a crumb of support without any pretense or judgment. Buck gasps a laugh that sounds more like he's been stabbed, and he opens his mouth to thank the guy for telling him exactly what he needed to hear, but instead what comes out is... everything. The whole story comes out of him like an unraveling firehose, pulling longer and longer the more he talks, stretching from the day he crashed his bike—"But it wasn't my bike, it was his."—to sitting in Maddie's living room and finally learning the truth: that he hadn't been crazy, that something had been wrong his entire life and the something was him.

"They'd made a box for her—full of all these memories and little trinkets and pictures—and I bet you he had one with baseball cards and his first, like, pacifier, and Skittles, and whatever, but when I asked them where mine was, they looked at me like I had three heads, because human junkyards full of scrap metal and defective blood cells don't get baby boxes," he finishes on a shout. Panting like he just sprinted to Santa Monica and back, he finds himself deflating into his folded arms on top of the bar now that he isn't filled to the brim with 29 years worth of bottled-up grievances. This must be what bulldozed graveyards feel like: scraped clean and ready to be filled up again. Buck is surrounded by five empty glasses, a little mountain of twisted-up napkins, and a complete stranger who hasn't said a word since Buck began, and it's as a good place to start again as any.

Buck closes his eyes and stews in embarrassment for about thirty seconds, then turns his head to look at his audience of one. At some point, the guy had gravitated into the chair right next to him and took his mask off, revealing a stupidly handsome face, and his wide-eyed, slack-jawed stare makes Buck want to throw up a little. It may have been the cleansing Buck'd needed, but the poor guy didn't ask to be part of any of it. Buck doesn't know why he told him in the first place. This is the kind of thing he'd hesitate to blurt out to Eddie, never mind a complete stranger, but there had been something so oddly steady and compassionate in the guy's gaze that Buck had felt like he could trust him with anything. It had been so easy to just... talk. And to his credit, the guy had listened to Buck's entire rant—stopping Buck only twice to ask a quiet, clarifying question—without making a face, snorting, rolling his eyes, or getting up and just leaving.

Face warm, Buck shifts in his seat to try and get feeling back into his left ass cheek, then he opens his mouth to apologize for dumping all that on the him instead of at his next session with his fucking therapist.

But the guy just blinks out of his stupor and flags down Jay, who wanders over sedately. He taps the bar counter twice and says, "Yeah, can you just put the rest of his bill on my tab?"

When Buck sits up with an outraged squawk, the world spins a little, and the guy places a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder to steady him. He doesn't take it back right away and Buck doesn't shrug it off. The weight feels good.

"N-No, that wasn't—you can't do that, man," Buck mumbles, face hot. His mouth feels a bit gummy.

"I can and I did," the guy says. "Someone should treat you to dinner for putting up with all that shit for all this time. I don't know your parents from a hole in the ground, but I would happily drop 3,000 pounds of water on their house. Jesus Christ, and I thought my issues with my parents were bad."

"I never should've—"

But the guy shakes his head and tightens his hand on Buck's shoulder. "You absolutely should've, actually. If that had built up any longer, I probably would've seen you literally explode on the 6 o'clock news."

Buck snorts a laugh, rubbing his disbelieving smile against his sleeve. "Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time you saw me on the 6 o'clock news."

The guy gives Buck a curious tilt of his head, so Buck clarifies, "Do you remember a few years back when that kid was mailing bombs to people and he rigged that fire engine to explode? And it fell on that firefighter?" At the guy's slow, wary nod, he continues, "I was the, uh, firefighter."

At that, the guy sits up and his gaze goes so sharp that Buck wants to call Jay over and have him slice up some bratwurst on it. "You're with the 118."

Buck blinks, and then the guy introduces himself... as LAFD firefighter pilot Tommy Kinard, who'd gotten his start at Buck's own damn station. Who knew both Chimney and Hen when they were probies, and who watched Bobby walk in and turn the place into a house Tommy could be proud to be part of. Who had been their air support during the Doheny Park gas leak incident.

"That was you?" Buck glances down at the bar counter to make sure it hadn't cracked when his jaw hit it. "Chimney told us afterwards he'd called in a favor from an old friend."

Tommy grins and jauntily points to himself with his glass. "Except Howie was cashing in on a favor I owed him, which means I only owe him like 973 more now."

Over a round of drinks—another Maximator for Buck and a seltzer with lime for Tommy—Buck tells Tommy about who's at the 118 now and confirms which of "the most batshit insane stories I've heard about you guys" are true. He tells Tommy about the rollercoaster ride that was his recovery from the explosion, and then follows that up with being caught in the tsunami and being struck by lightning. In return, Tommy regales him with army stories, including the time he landed a burning helicopter under enemy fire, and his favorite calls from his time with the 118—the fucking rooster has Buck practically crying laughing into his arms. He also tells Buck about Hen's fearlessness in standing up to their asshole captain who was voted the LAFD's Most Likely To Have Been At The White House On January 6th, and how Chimney saved Tommy's literal life. He tells Buck that without Bobby showing up and making them into a family of sorts, without him being in their corner even when they didn't trust him not to abandon them like all their other captains, Tommy never would've found his way back to the sky.

Then Tommy gleefully drops a pipe bomb into the scant space between them with, "And you never would've joined the 118."

Buck squeezes his eyes shut to try and make his brain stop feeling so swimmy. "W-What? What does that mean?" His tongue is too big for his mouth. His words taste a bit funny, like they're mushy. He hopes Tommy hasn't noticed.

"You said you joined in 2017. That's when I left," Tommy says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm pretty sure you were the one who took my spot."

Buck untucks one of his arms so he can reach up to touch the hills and valleys running down Tommy's cheeks, then realizes that probably would be rude and tries to play it off like he was going to scratch the back of his own head. All he does is knock over one of his empty glasses. It takes a few clumsy tries before he successfully stands it back up.

"We missed each other," Buck mumbles. He thinks of what it might have been like walking into the station that day, seeing Tommy sitting between Hen and Chimney, smiling wide as he dished up more spaghetti. Maybe he would've turned that warm light on Buck as he passed him the tongs. Maybe Tommy would've shown him the ropes, got him through his first shifts, and even stopped him from stealing the engine for a booty call. Maybe they'd have met up for drinks just like this after their shifts were over, or as a way to distract themselves from bad calls the way Tommy's distracted Buck all night. Maybe they'd have been a two-man unit, and then when Eddie showed up they'd be a tri...something. Buck can't remember what it's called, but it means 'three'. Maybe Tommy would've been every bit as important to Buck as Eddie, Hen, and Chim.

He's hit with the realization that if he doesn't tell Tommy this, he might die, so he garbles out, "You're important. W-Wait, no. I mean, you could've... you were important... I—y'get the gist."

And Tommy must, because Tommy's smart and quick witted and a good listener, and he's looking at Buck fondly, like he might've done if he'd stayed at the 118 and they'd come through fire together, but he's also rolling his lips inward and his cheeks are trembling.

Buck whines, aggravated, because, "Y-You're laughing at me."

Tommy ducks his head and does, in fact, start laughing.

"'s so rude. Don't laugh at me, 's not my fault I'm defective." Buck buries his face in his arms in embarrassment. The cradle of it is so warm and comfortable he just stays there.

"You're not defective, Evan." Even though it sounds like Tommy's suddenly on the other side of the room, Buck can hear the matter-of-factness in the words. He says it like he'd said that sucks. "But you are drunk."

He's not. He's just really tired and his arms make for a great pillow. He also feels heavy and tight, which isn't good for a firefighter. What if he's called onto a massive scene? What if City Hall's on fire and he can't pull the mayor out because he's slow and weirdly full? What if his career as a firefighter is over?

"That's just bloat from all the beer and sausage," Tommy says from even farther away than he'd been a second ago. "Jay, can I settle up? I'm so sorry we kept you this late. You're getting a helluva tip, I promise."

His name's not Jay. It's Buck. But he'd introduced himself as Evan and... forgot to tell Tommy he goes by something else. But he likes that Tommy doesn't know that, because when Tommy says 'Evan' it sounds like how 'Buck' feels. He wants Tommy to keep 'Evan' in the warmth of his mouth, like how some alligators carry their young. For them, it's the safest place to be.

Buck wants to tell Tommy about the alligators, because they are super cool and only exist in two places in the whole world. He blinks his eyes open and finds his face pressed to something hard and cool. The bar stool feels a lot softer than it did a second ago. And it's vibrating.

There's a weight on his knee, shaking it gently.

He must've fallen asleep while watching Celebrity Death Match in the TV room again. Mom's going to kill him when she finds out. "Mads, five m're min's."

"Evan, you need to give me a building number."

"Hmmm...?"

"Your apartment building. I've been driving up and down South Spring for ten minutes. You gotta help me out here. What's your building number?"

"Mmm..." Buck rolls his forehead to chase the coolness. It feels so nice against his skin. He could just sink right into it.

"Evan, c'mon. You can do it. Tell me where you live."

"27 P'plar Road," he mumbles. He blinks his eyes open and catches sight of the rush of lights and road ahead, which blend together like they're about to jump into hyperspace. He's not in Hershey. He knows this road. Sighing, he closes his eyes again. "Oh. 's rowing. 409 at th' rowing."

He blinks awake when he suddenly trips over nothing, and he tries to stop himself from falling but there's nothing except the gaping maw of open space. But he doesn't actually go anywhere. Someone's got an arm around his waist. There's a name for that kind of rude awakening. He can't remember it.

"Two more stairs," the person with him mutters in his ear. "I'm begging you, lift up your feet before we both end up in the ER."

That's fine. He has his own bed there.

"Yeah, let's try to get you into the bed you have here first."

Strong hands lower him onto something soft, and he buries his face in sheets that are cool and smell familiar, his entire body smoothing out like the surface of a lake. Something tugs at his foot, and he rolls onto his back and tries to lift his leg to help, but he's comfy and cocooned in the dark. His sneakers get taken off anyway.

"Evan." Tommy's voice hangs in the air, soft and warm and invisible, and his name sounds like it's precious where it sits in Tommy's mouth. He read somewhere that alligators do that. "I'm going to get you some water and then head out. Do you need anything else?"

In the dark, he somehow lost his body, and he can barely see the outline of Tommy, but he can hear him step closer when Buck reaches out for him. When Buck's hand is caught, he's suddenly so aware of himself, of his blood and bones and every nerve trapped under his skin, and arches a little into the feeling with a quiet moan of relief.

Tommy knows about him. He knows Buck's cells are defective and he still bought Buck dinner and spent the night making him feel like he was made correctly from the start.

"D'nt go," he whispers. He's starting to float away, and he tugs on the hand holding his, trying to bring that steadfast presence on top of him, use it to keep him here. "Stay."

"I absolutely can't do that," Tommy murmurs. His thumb strokes over Buck's palm and it feels like he's dragging his tongue along the length of a nerve. Buck gasps. Something pulls tight and sweet between his legs, and he tilts his head back on the pillow, lips parting so he can suck in air desperately. So he's ready.

"Kiss me," he breathes.

He wants it so bad he almost gags. He wants all that weight and strength to hang over him like a bough, keeping him together, feeding his body what it's screaming for. He inhales deeply and the smell of indelible man fills his nose and the back of his throat, along with the faint hint of smoke and something sharp like snow. He wants a mouth on his. He wants strong, sure hands to run over his ribs. He wants to say I'm full of broken cells and I need you to fill me up with something better, but he's breathing too hard and the words keep blowing out of order. His legs slide open and the sound of them moving on the sheets is deafening. He's so hot, and so hungry. He thinks he's hard. He thinks he's dying.

The hand in his squeezes gently, but then it lets go.

Without it, Buck's going to dissolve. He's going to disappear. He squeezes his burning, wet eyes shut and pulls in a breath that is all wheeze, every part of him a live wire, unsteady and shivering and thwarted. So they made one.

"No. No," Buck sobs. "Y're just like them. You don't want me—no one... why. 's not fair."

The bed suddenly dips right next to Buck's thigh, right on the edge, and the hot press of a thumb against his chin stops him from howling his sorrow and disappointment. When it slides up and just barely brushes against his bottom lip, his mouth falls open. Yes. Yes.

"I'll tell you what." It's whispered so closely that Buck thinks he can feel the wash of breath over his tongue. "You remember any of this tomorrow? Call me, and I'll kiss you as much as you want. I'll kiss the idea you're unwanted right out of you."

Buck exhales in utter relief and sinks into the comfort of the bed as the weight next to him lifts away. He's going to do that. He's going to call and then let Tommy kiss him until he forgets he was ever unloved. But persistence pays off, so he tries one more time, even though he's suddenly so tired he can barely get the word out. "Stay."

"Sleep well, Evan."

When Buck wakes up, he immediately wants to crawl into a hole and die. His mouth tastes like there's roadkill in it and there's an egg beater trying to escape his skull by way of his left eye. Whimpering, he tries to bury his face into the pillow but half of it is wet with drool, so he reaches up and throws the stupid thing on the floor. His mattress is comfy. He can just plant his face there and suffocate, no problem.

He has no idea how he got home last night, which is terrifying. Everything after the third Augustiner is a bit hazy. He was talking to some guy who made him laugh, he knows that much. His mind conjures bits and pieces of his mysterious drinking companion: a wide, white grin; large hands; a voice he can hear the cadence and depth of but can't remember a single word it said. After that, he's got nothing.

It takes a few tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and he rolls onto his side to put his back to where the sun is starting to filter through the curtains. The move puts the nightstand right in his line of sight, and when his vision focuses, he pauses.

There's a glass with water on top of it, but it's not the cup he usually chooses. It's one of the textured acrylic ones he picked out when he moved in that he absolutely hates using. Even though they're impossible to break, he feels like he's ten years old when he's forced to drink out of one. All that's missing is a sippy-cup lid.

Although he has to hand it to himself: the acrylic cup was a pretty solid idea, considering he might've knocked a real glass onto the floor sometime in the night and then cut himself when it shattered. Chimney forced Buck to watch Die Hard last year and it was a fun movie, but Buck has no desire to recreate the "shoot the glass" scene.

He slides his face a little closer to the edge of the bed so he can find his phone. It's sitting on the top of the nightstand, plugged in, which is almost as surprising as the acrylic cup. He never remembers to plug his phone in when he's sober, but there it is, charging away. His wallet and keys are also laying next to it. It's such a neat and tidy tableau that, for a second, he thinks he's still asleep and this is one of those dreams where only one or two things is out of place and he spends the entire dream wondering if he's dreaming.

If he were dreaming, though, he wouldn't feel like hard-boiled ass, so someone else had been here and got him squared away. Maybe he called Eddie for a ride home? Buck reaches for his phone and his fingers brush up against the edge of a piece of paper. A receipt? Maybe he took a taxi instead.

Buck squints at it, and he has every intention of grabbing it to look for clues, but he ends up dozing for almost two hours. By the time he wakes up, the sun has invaded every part of the loft, but he doesn't feel so much like he's about to slip this mortal coil. He'll take the wins where he can.

It only takes a minute or two of psyching himself up before he's able to roll into something resembling sitting, and after that he gives himself five minutes to drop his head into his hands and regret his life choices. Once he promises God, the Devil, Zeus, and the purple laser ghost of Prince that he will never drink to such excess again as long as he lives, he finally looks over at the nightstand where his phone is.

It's been set to Do Not Disturb, which is nice. It's not something he ever does, because he's afraid he'll miss something important, and when he turns it off the screen fills with dozens of missed calls and texts from Maddie and Chimney. He takes great pleasure in dismissing all of them. Nothing from his parents, of course. There's also one from Eddie asking if everything's okay because "Chim called me asking if I'd heard from you and he sounds like he's about to start climbing the walls using only his teeth."

It's followed by a text that reads "Bobby says to take your time coming in. What happened?"

He taps open the message to reply when he glances up and sees the receipt on the nightstand. Abandoning his phone in favor of learning just how much he spent on a DD, he learns it wasn't a taxi at all. It's a note written in an unfamiliar hand on a small piece of drafting paper.

Your car is parked at the Red Lion. Jay said it was OK to leave it there because you weren't in any shape to drive.

Underneath that is a phone number, and underneath that is a single line: Remember—as much as you want. But only if you want.

It's signed "TK".

Baffled, Buck brings a fist to his mouth, because he's not sure what else to do, and when his thumbnail presses against his bottom lip, something hot and shivery pops low in his belly. It's how he realizes he's got to pee so bad he's going to wet the bed if he waits any longer.

After he pisses for what feels like an eternity, downs four Advil, showers the sweat and shame off, he stumbles back up the stairs feeling wrung out but definitely more human. Once he's in a pair of clean boxers, he surveys the room.

There was a stranger here last night, but it doesn't look like anything's missing. He checks his wallet, but all his cards and cash are still there. His sneakers were neatly placed against the wall, out of the way where he wouldn't trip on them if he got up during the night. And there's of course his phone, fully charged for once, and the note.

He sits on the edge of his bed and reads the note four more times. Then he looks up the Red Lion's operating hours, but it doesn't open for two more hours.

Which leaves him with the number and As much as you want. But only if you want.

His mind immediately takes a swan dive into the gutter. It's probably not meant to be as sexual as it reads, but... he's not sure how else he's supposed to take it. TK's blocky penmanship reveals nothing.

Maybe after he was done talking to the guy at the bar he met some woman? Maybe she was the one to take him home, although considering how drunk he must've been, it couldn't have been an easy feat. That she didn't help herself to his money and was thoughtful enough to plug his phone in and get him a glass of water really warrants a thank you.

He looks down at the phone number.

He grabs his phone—100%, what an absolutely wild concept—and taps in the number, double checking it like four times while his finger hovers over the CALL button like an anvil.

What the hell. He's got nothing left to lose.

He taps CALL and brings the phone to his ear. It takes two rings before someone picks up.

"Hello?"

Not a woman. Buck sits up so straight they could use his spine as an I-beam level.

"Uh, h-hey," he stutters, looking around his room, trying to divine any lingering atoms this person might've left behind. "Um, I think you—I have a note with this number on it and—"

Thankfully, the mysterious "TK" stops Buck before he gets a good ramble going, his voice friendly as he breaks in with, "Evan! Hey. Glad to hear the Maximator couldn't keep you down for long. How're you feeling this morning?"

Buck's entire body goes warm as it relaxes from its ramrod-straight pose. "I, uh, a little confused. I don't remember getting home, but I guess I have you to thank for that." Buck pauses. "So, thank you."

"Well, you didn't make it easy." TK laughs, and it shivers down the line right into Buck's ear canal. "It took me a lot longer to figure out you were saying 'Rowan' and not 'rowing' than I care to admit, but we got there in the end. Your place is insane. Did you get a signing bonus when you joined the 118 or something?"

Buck blinks. An image of Bobby winning a fight against a rooster comes winging out of the back of his mind. "That—that's right. You're a firefighter. Uh, do you really fly with Harbor One or am I making that up?"

"You made me promise four times to give you lessons," TK says warmly. "I had to stop you from slicing your palm open so we could shake on it."

Ducking his head with a helpless chuckle, Buck nods, even though TK can't see him. "Yeah, that, uh, sounds like something I'd do. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'd love to take you up."

He doesn't know how he got lucky enough that the person he made a fool out of himself in front of was one of the chosen few who are able to handle The Full Buck without too much of a fuss, but he's so grateful for it. They're a rare breed.

"Anytime you want, just tell me when."

Buck's gaze immediately shoots to the piece of paper he's still clutching in his other hand, and for no reason he can think of his heart rate picks up. His cheeks start tingling with blossoming warmth.

He curls a little into himself, cupping the phone closer to his mouth. "I-Is that what you meant in your note?"

There's a little pause on the line, and then when TK's voice comes back, it's softer. "No. That's not what I meant."

Buck swallows a mouthful of saliva and asks, just as softly, "What does 'TK' stand for?"

"Tommy Kinard."

Exhaling a shaky breath, Buck's eyes fall closed. He thinks of cool sheets under him, and feeling heavy and safe in the dark. His belly clenches with something like hunger. He bites his bottom lip and then licks it.

"... Evan? You still there?"

He doesn't know why his body feels like it's being pulled in a million different directions, or why the first thing he thought of when Tommy said "Evan" was baby alligators, but he does know this: on the worst day of Buck's life, Tommy Kinard made it easier to bear. He kept Buck company, kept him distracted, and then kept him safe.

I told you not to go, he thinks out of nowhere.

"Look, Evan, it's completely fine, and I promise I won't be offended if you don't want—"

Evan Buckley was born to fix someone else. He has defective cells and has never once been enough for anyone, and that sucks. But he's still here and this life is his whether it was meant to be or not, and he does want.

Buck opens his eyes.

"Hey, so, what are you doing Saturday?"

#bucktommy #this started out as a bulleted list in the tumblr text editor i have no idea wtf happened but now i'm gonna be LATE for a lunner meetup #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #911 #rc's 911 fics

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